In the End, You Always Kneel
by The Freelancer Collaboration
Summary: The story of the twenty-fourth Avenger Games and its tributes. A collaborative work of twenty-four writers, each taking on a separate tribute, who will compete in a battle to the death until one rises from the ashes as Victor. Heroes and villains will rise and fall, but the odds can't be in everyone's favour...
1. Prologue

**(A/N) Hello all, and welcome to our newest fic, In the End, You Always Kneel! This is a collaborative Hunger Games/Avengers crossover, consisting of twenty-four writers, who will each be taking their tributes from the Reaping to the grave, bar, of course, the one who emerges victorious from the Avenger Games! This fic began a long time ago, when, having been inspired by 24tributes24authors after taking part in "Bring Them to Their Knees", and also reading Lorata's fantastic "Embrace the Fire: The Avenger Games", I began a fic called "When Heroes Fall". However, I quickly realised that this was too big a task for one person alone, and that path has finally led to where we are today.**

**Now we're finally at a point where we can launch this fic, have big hopes for it, and have a group of fantastic writers working away to tell the best story they possibly can. This ****here is just a little taste of what is yet to come.**

**You are not ready for this – you will be broken, and forged anew. Men and women will fall and rise again as villains and heroes, but only one shall survive. This is the story of the twenty-fourth Avenger Games, and its tributes, as they battle for survival against the odds. Alliances will be made and broken, friends and enemies will see each other fall, and nothing will ever be the same again.**

**Read on, and hear their voices.**

* * *

**Prologue**

**Director Nick Fury &amp; Agent Phil Coulson**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

"_Death is lighter than a feather, but Duty is heavier than a mountain." _

― Robert Jordan, _To the Blight_

* * *

The manservant opened the door, beckoning the dark-skinned man forward with a daintily gloved hand. "The President will see you now, Director Fury," he murmured, his eyes not quite meeting the Director's, but instead staring at a point somewhere above his left shoulder.

Fury strode past him, ignoring the pair of Nova Corps officers – the President's elite guard – clad in their usual blue and yellow armour and standing on either side of the threshold, into a huge room bedecked with trophies from past Games. To his left, mounted on the wall, lay the spear used by Odin Borson to kill his last remaining opponent – Laufey – in the very first Games. Next to it lay the helmet gifted to Erik Lensherr by a sponsor, which would wind up saving his life after taking a mace to the head at one point during the second Games. The two-handed katana of District Three's Silver Samurai (who came runner-up in the twentieth Avenger Games), the wingsuit of the Falcon, the mask of the Star-Lord, the staff that had been used by Bobbi Morse (the Mockingbird), the suit of armour that had been forged by Obadiah Stane…everywhere that Fury turned lay a clue pointing to the owner's obsession with the Avenger Games.

Indeed, this was supposedly the largest collection of Avenger Games memorabilia, larger even that that of Taneleer Tivan, the host of the Avenger Games, who had by now established himself as something of a collector. Then again, it wasn't all that surprising that the president would have the lion's share in this regard – who was going to deny it to him?

Fury scarcely gave the room a second glance, having become long accustomed to his employer's obsessions. Indeed, it was an obsession that he shared, or why else would he have accepted this role as the Director of the Avenger Games? There was something about the Games, the sheer, final brutality of it, which drew Fury towards it like a moth to a flame, just as it had drawn his father before him.

Few people in the Capitol understood death and loss like he had, as he had served as a Sentinel for the past thirty years – towards the end of the Dark Days and the years of imposed peace that had followed it. During this time he had lost an eye, seen friends and family die before his eyes, buried a child, and killed and killed until he had lost track of the number of people whose blood lay on his hands. After all, it hadn't only been the districts that had suffered during the rebellion. He had done all of that, and more, for the man that was now standing before him.

President Thanos.

The President stood out on a balcony at the end of the room, a huge blue cloak with yellow trim billowing from his shoulders, staring out onto the city beneath him. His giant frame trembled as he gripped the railings of the balcony, not focusing on anything, not even noticing the man behind him. Fury could just about hear him mumbling to himself, in a voice so low as to be barely audible, but he caught fragments of the president's murmurs.

"...they'll pay...deliver unto...Death...the last generation...boy, you doubt _me_...burn them all...ashes to ashes...what care I...the Earth needs to be punished..."

Director Fury took a moment before coughing gently, standing to attention as the President spun around, glaring at him with eyes red from lack of sleep, contrasting starkly with the his dyed-purple skin (a sacrifice in the name of fashion, which was currently all the rage in the Capitol) before his features softened slightly as he realised who was standing before him.

"Ah, Director Fury," he murmured, in a voice as soft as the silk manufactured in District Eight. "Good of you to be so…punctual."

Fury only inclined his head, his one good eye remaining fixed on Thanos, his mouth fixed into a slight smile. "When the President of all of Marvel demands that you appear before him, only a fool would be late."

"And you are no fool," Thanos finished for him, nodding slowly to himself. He walked over to a huge desk, and sat down in a similarly proportioned armchair, resting his left hand against his temple, the hand that was permanently clad in a solid-gold gauntlet, the so-called 'Infinity Gauntlet', the emblem of the Presidency of Marvel. "I hope that preparations for this year's Games are commencing according to schedule?" he asked gently, the question clearly present in his voice.

Director Fury nodded. "I've hired several new Gamemakers, ridding myself of the deadweight that Adams had acquired during his spell as director. We have already begun development on the site planned for the arena, and our labs are already at work devising some of the most…challenging mutts to date. I feel confident that, this year, our audiences will see a show that will go down as the most successful Avenger Games to date."

Thanos nodded, lowering his gauntlet-encased hand to gently stroke his chin, a thoughtful look settling over his features. "You wouldn't be the first Director to claim this, Nicholas, and I do hate being let down, as your predecessor would tell you."

Fury had to exercise all of his self-restraint in order not to flinch at this statement. Mojo Adams had been a skilled businessman and manipulator, but sadly only a mediocre Director. Regardless, he deserved a better end than what he received, and Fury had no intentions of ending up the same way. "Of course not, sir. However, I must declare my utmost confidence in my team, and the plans we have for this year. We understand that previous years have been too short, too quick, too…merciful. This year's tributes aren't going to know what's hit them. It will be a year unlike anything you've seen before. To be reaped this year, more than ever, is to court death."

President Thanos continued staring at him, ceaselessly stroking his chin absent-mindedly, evidently intruiged. "If anyone can pull this off, it's you Nicholas, of that I have no doubt. But what about the tributes? How can you ensure that they will be up to the…gargantuan task of entertaining our vast audience?"

Director Fury shifted uncomfortably, shrugging slightly. "We have things under control sir, and they'll be up to the challenge, I promise you. I don't want to go too much into trade secrets…but we have ways of making sure that the quality of the pool of tributes remains high, more so than previous years. My assistants have proved quite resourceful in that area."

The other man smiled, showing a row of pristine teeth, standing up and walking over to Fury, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder. "I believe you, Director Fury. I am glad to see that we finally have a director who's up to this task. I know you won't let me down. In your hands, the heavens will run red with blood, and the districts will remember the full cost of challenging my rule. I can ask for no less of you, and I expect no less of you."

Fury nodded carefully, choosing his words with practiced precision. "I trust in your judgement, as ever, sir."

Thanos' grip increased painfully upon his shoulder, and Fury grit his teeth slightly, all too aware of the man's infamous strength. "I do not ask for your _trust_. I demand only your _obedience."_

There was a short pause, as Thanos allowed his words to sink in. He nodded in grim satisfaction, and turned away from Fury, speaking back to the Director over his shoulder.

"Inform the Other to send my daughters in next, Director. I have much to discuss with them."

He walked away, back out onto the balcony, dismissing Fury with a simple wave of his hand. The Director let out a brief sigh of relief, and strode out of the president's office, barging past the affronted doorman without a word, until he remembered the president's final request, and passed on the information to him. The Other was clearly troubled by the request, but left his post to fetch the president's daughters, and Fury continued on his way. He was met with sympathetic gazes by the dozens of men and women who had lined up outside the President's quarters as he left, each waiting on an appointment with Thanos, each dreading the upcoming meeting with a passion outmatched only by the person standing in front of them.

When Nick Fury made it outside, into the cold air of a winter's night in the Capitol, he finally allowed himself to breathe in deeply, dispelling the emotions that were boiling inside of him. Every citizen of Marvel knew that their president was insane, but unfortunately his position of power made him untouchable. At the very least, his paranoia and madness was held at bay during the Avenger Games, a time when every Capitolian could breathe a small sigh of relief, and gain a month or two of respite while their president was occupied with the districts' children's battle to the death.

It had all begun almost thirty years ago, when the districts had stood up and openly challenged the authority of the Capitol. While, in the end, the Capitol had won the war, its president had never quite managed to shake off the conviction that assassins lurked at every corner, that all of his advisors were plotting behind his back.

Mojo Adams hadn't been the first to be executed, and Fury highly doubted that he would be the last. At least for old 'Mojo' it hadn't been for treason, sedition, assassination attempts or plots, theft or attempted blackmail, but instead was simply down to the fact that he was no longer able to keep Thanos interested in the Avenger Games, a crime worse than treason in the eyes of Marvel's president.

But Fury wouldn't be going the same way. He had brought in several protégées of his, most notably Maria Hill and Phil Coulson, both of whom served under him during his time in the Sentinels, installing them in positions of power within S.H.I.E.L.D. They had impressed him with their skills and ability to read characters, and he knew that the Capitol would remember these Games.

It was a delicate balance though, that needed to be held. These Games would need to run longer than normal, as President Thanos had already made his displeasure both heard and felt about the short length of the past few Avenger Games. Yet they would also have to maintain his attention, keep him occupied with the drama unfurling in the Arena.

As a result, he and his fellow Gamemakers had spent months scouting out potential tributes, planning ways to keep these games as interesting and unpredictable as possible. Now that they were moving into the final few weeks of preparations, Nick Fury was of the belief that there was nothing more he could have done in for this year's Games.

He would just have to hope that President Thanos was of the same opinion, and would allow him to keep his head.

A beeping noise suddenly rang out, and Nick Fury cursed, wondering what was important enough that he needed to be contacted this time. He raised a hand to his ear, activating his earpiece. "Miss Hill, I assume you have something to report, and, trust me, this better be important?"

Hill could scarcely fail to notice the tone in her superior's voice and she quickly replied; her voice sounded odd over Fury's connection. **"The arena has been declared fit for use, sir, and we've sent in the construction teams – or rather, the re-construction teams, I guess. However, the science team reported that a small section of the proposed site contained a high level of gamma-radiation, a potential hazard should any tributes wander into it."**

Director Fury paused for a moment to consider the problem. After all, it wouldn't do if their future Victor died soon after winning due to radiation poisoning. _That_ certainly wouldn't go down well with President Thanos.

"Arrange for it to be cordoned off, nothing too heavy, perhaps slap on some warning signs," he finally said, his expression grim. "If any tributes are dumb enough to wander in after that, well, they're probably too goddamn dumb to win in the first place."

**"Of course, Director, I will instruct them to do so immediately,"** she paused then, something that she rarely did, before hesitantly, almost tenderly asking: **"Did your meeting with the President go well, sir?"**

Fury snorted, rolling his eyes. "I don't think that's any of your business, Hill. But, for your information, it went as well as it could have. At the very least, we have a couple months to show our dear President Thanos that we're the only people able to produce a viable Avenger Games. Tell Coulson I'll want to talk to him when I return – I know he's off scouting out recruits, but this can't wait. We need to start finalizing our selection of tributes. I've already informed the president that we have our selection ready."

**"Understood sir,"** she replied, and with a click, was gone.

Fury stood there, at the entrance to the Presidential Palace, his breathe coming out in billowing clouds. He sighed one last time, pulling his trench-coat into a more comfortable position before striding off into the night, soon lost in the thin-layer of mist that lay around this sector of the Capitol, one thought in his head.

No one would be prepared for this year's Games, not the districts, not the Capitol, not even Thanos himself.

_May the odds be ever in your favour, _he intoned to himself, before allowing a wry smile to settle on his face.

As if he'd ever allow them to be any other way.

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

"_Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much." _

― Helen Keller

* * *

"**He wants to talk with you when he returns – he's looking to expand the pool, so you'd better have something for him. Apparently the President is **_**very **_**excited about this year's selection."**

"Got it," Assistant Gamemaker Philip Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., replied, grimacing at the implication in her tone, and glanced over to the door where one of his new recruits was currently holding an interrogation with an unknown factor. Coulson didn't like unknown factors – Director Fury had instilled that in him – but he had hope that this one could end up being of use. "Anything else?"

There was a moment of hesitation on the other side of the line, followed by a barely-audible sigh. **"No, that's it, Coulson. Just wrap up what you're doing and return to the Triskelion ASAP."**

The line went dead, and Coulson regarded the transceiver in his hand dispassionately for a moment, before shrugging and pocketing it, walking over to the nearby door and letting himself in.

He found himself in a small room, empty but for the presence of two women, standing by the glass one-way window that looked out onto the interrogation room, and a few unused chairs. Coulson glanced over at his deputy, Melinda May, who was staring at him, arms crossed, with a wary look on her face. "Hill?" she asked, and Coulson nodded a brief confirmation.

"Fury wants to talk to me when he gets back. Games _are _coming up, after all," he murmured, and walked up to the window, placing his hands gently on the sill. "How's Ward treating our guest?"

The other woman snorted, and ran a hand through her long brown hair, pushing the part of it that was dyed red to the side. "All he's managed to do is alienate her further, as far as I can see," she replied, with a frown. "I granted your request to make use of our facilities her at the Hub, Coulson. I assumed your team would actually know what they were doing."

"Ward's a good man, Agent Hand, but his people skills…well, they need a little bit of work."

As though hearing this, Ward took this moment to slam his palms down flat on the metal table in the interrogation room, causing the detainee to jump.

"_There are two ways we can do this,"_ Ward informed her, his voice transmitted into their observation quarters from the dozens of hidden microphones in the other room.

Despite his tone, and possibly to make up for her earlier fright, the detainee merely smiled and cocked her head. _"Oh, is one of them the _easy _way?"_

"_No," _Ward replied, and her smile slipped from her face.

"_Oh…"_

Coulson shook his head, and turned to May and Hand. "I think it's time I went in there. No point in holding off any longer."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" May asked, as he picked up the jet injector that he had left lying on one of the chairs before receiving Hill's call.

"Well, I always like to think so," he replied, walking out the door. "But sometimes you've just got to play things by ear."

He entered the interrogation room a second later, and nodded at Ward, not making any attempts to hide the jet injector in his hand. He could feel both Ward and the prisoner eyeing it, Ward with obvious smugness, the prisoner with evident fear.

"What's that?" she asked, not managing to hide the quaver in her voice as she did so, and Coulson saw Ward's face light up out of the corner of his eye – a predatory smile, having found a weakness.

"We'll ignore this for now," Coulson informed her, placing the injector carefully down on the table, just out of the prisoner's reach. "I'd prefer to talk about you, first, Skye."

"We know you're an orphan, of unknown Capitol parentage, and that your real name is Mary Sue Poots."

"Skye _is_ my real name," she interjected through gritted teeth, and Coulson nodded understandingly.

"Fine, but it's the name the orphanage gave you at any rate, though I guess I can't blame you for wanting to change it. We'll stick with Skye for the time being. We know you worked in broadcasting up to a few months ago, abandoning your work station shortly after James Rhodes's Victory Tour. We _also _know that you've become involved in the illegal hacker organisation known as the 'Rising Tide', and you've been making use of your former contacts to aid them in their goals. However, we're not all that interested in that."

The prisoner's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Rising Tide - she probably had been hoping that they wouldn't be able to trace her back to that movement, as simply to be associated with it typically meant death, under Thanos' rule - but she remained silent, and allowed Coulson to continue.

"What we are interested in is that you've been tracking down information about Mike Peterson, the District Eleven tribute from a couple of years back. Can I ask why?"

Skye frowned, perturbed by the sudden change in tact, and glanced away, looking troubled. "I came across his name linked to something named Project T.A.H.I.T.I. My work in broadcasting was mainly concerned about the Avenger Games, mostly editing reruns and commentary. I've always had a talent with computers, I got bored and started looking through some files that I didn't _exactly _have access to. Peterson's name started coming up in places where it shouldn't have…there were documents that…that seemed to indicate that he was still alive."

She noticed Ward and Coulson exchange a significant look, and barked out a laugh in disbelief. "But that's impossible, right? I mean, his death was broadcasted all across Marvel! We saw Pyro – John Allerdyce – blow him up, I've seen the reruns dozens of times!"

Coulson sighed, and shook his head. "Skye, you've got to understand our concerns. The files that you somehow gained access to should only have been accessible to high-level S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. We can't have people accessing that kind of information, and if _you _could gain access to it, then there's a chance that those in the districts could too. We've had to curb several attempts from Three already, and we can't afford to let something like this go unpunished."

"So what are you going to do with me?" she asked, nervously, though she did her best to hide it, and Coulson held off on the urge to smile.

Instead, he allowed his face to grow grave, and glanced over to Ward once more. "Well, Skye, it seems we have two choices. The first, and this is the one my colleagues have suggested, is that we kill you."

He allowed that to sink in, and noticed Skye's eyes flickering from his own to the injector on the table, and then back again.

"On the other hand, we certainly could use someone with your skillset and abilities, and the initiative you displayed in attempting to uncover the truth to your little mystery is commendable. S.H.I.E.L.D. could use someone like you, Skye. Every day, we face new challenges, new threats, trying to crack the fragile peace that holds this land together apart."

"Sir, what are you–" Ward broke in, but Coulson continued on, ignoring the protests of his subordinate.

"Agent Ward doesn't think much of this idea. He sees you as a risk, as a liability, and he might be right. If you decide to join my team, you _will _be heavily supervised, but trust me when I assure you that this is a far superior option compared to the alternative. Sure, we're not exactly much of a team, but we're in a position to do some good. You'd be a great help. And you'd be front row centre at the strangest show on earth, which is, after all, what you wanted."

Skye stared at him for a moment, then smiled wryly. "Not really much of a choice, is it? Work for you, or die?"

Coulson dipped his head in acknowledgement, and then sighed. "Yes, your options suck. But mine aren't much better, Skye. The Rising Tide cannot be tolerated, the President has made that abundantly clear. If you're going to become an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., you'll have to put your old loyalties aside, otherwise you _will _die alongside the rest of them. I'd rather see you as an asset than an enemy, but ultimately that decision is yours."

To her credit, she remained silent for a few more moments, before resigning herself to defeat here, sighing. "Fine, I'll join your little death squad. As I said, it's not like I have much of a choice."

Coulson could feel Ward glaring at him from behind his back, but he ignored him and chose to put on a wide smile. "I thought you would. Of course, that brings us back to this," he said, picking up the jet injector and brandishing it nonchalantly. "If you're going to be part of our team, we're going to have to address a few things. No team can function well if its members are keeping secrets from each other."

Skye leant back in her chair, attempting to put as much space as she possibly could between herself and Coulson. "Wha-What's in that?

"This is QNB-T16. It's the top-shelf martini of sodium pentothal derivatives," Coulson informed her, his head tilted slightly to the left. "It's a brand-new and extremely potent truth drug. Don't worry, the effects only last about an hour."

Ward came forward, smiling once more, having found something he could finally agree with. "And you'll have a nice little nap. And we'll have all the answers to our–"

Coulson took the opportunity to inject the serum into Ward's neck, stepping away a second later, the dose administered.

"Hey! What the hell!" Ward yelled, his hand springing up to cover his neck, but Coulson only rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" he asked, evidently patronising the younger man.

"No, you've lost your mind. You should _never_ do that to a member of your team. And yes, it _did_ hurt a little bit, but I try to mask my pain in front of a beautiful woman, it makes me seem more masculine." Ward took a moment to process what he was saying, and his expression turned to a mixture of horror and mortification. "My _GOD_ this stuff works fast!"

Coulson glanced back at Skye, who was watching in bafflement, though she had smiled slightly when Ward had mentioned masking his pain in front of beautiful women. _Two birds, one stone, _he mused to himself, delighted at finally having a chance to bring Ward down a peg, after Hill had thrust the agent into his hands.

"Don't trust us? Ask him whatever you'd like," he told Skye, already turning towards the door.

He hand had just grazed the doorknob when Ward yelled after him in desperation. "Wait a minute. Wait! You can't just–"

Coulson shut the door behind him, and allowed a smile to settle across his features, and Ward's muffled yelling rang out behind him.

"_This is definitely not protocol!"_

He wiped the smile off his face before re-entering the observation room, and shrugged at May and Hand's looks of disbelief. "Looks like I got a result," he replied, and Hand simply shook her head and left the room, her usual frown perhaps just the slightest bit softened.

_I think she's starting to like me, _he thought to himself, smirking.

May didn't say anything, but he knew her well enough to know that she was simply waiting until the right words came to mind, and instead focused on the interrogation Skye was currently putting Agent Ward through.

"_You seem nervous, Agent Ward," _she murmured, smiling at his evident unease, and Coulson made a mental note to increase the level of observation she'd be put under beyond that of normal circumstances. Something told him he'd be a fool not to keep a close eye on her.

"_I'm calling to mind my training. There's no way I'm gonna reveal classified secrets to a girl who's hell-bent on taking us down," _Ward informed her, and Coulson felt May make her way over to his left-hand side.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" May asked, just as Ward began spilling his guts out to Skye's questioning of his career with S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Games are coming up, May," Coulson reminded her, and when he turned to face her he looked unusually grim. "We need people like her, and with the way Fury is working us, wildcards like Skye might be just the thing we need. You know the endgame here – you know what's at stake. T.A.H.I.T.I. has _got_ to be a success, and it's _my _responsibility."

"I know, Coulson," May replied quietly, looking slightly subdued. "I'm just worried about whether or not we can trust her to see the bigger picture. The Games take a toll on everyone, and what you'll be asking her to do…"

She trailed off, and Coulson placed a hand on her right shoulder, in an attempt to reassure her. "Fury wants the pool prepared, and for that we need the best profilers, or else Thanos is going to notice that something's up. Skye's our answer, our best bet here. I'll make sure she's under control – I'm going to make Ward her S.O., so he'll be able to keep a close eye on her. Perhaps they'll learn something from each other."

_After all, _he thought, smiling warmly at May and pushing his own doubts aside, _it's not like we have the room to make mistakes. Fury's put a lot of faith in me, and I can't afford to fail him now. We'll be ready for the Avenger Games, I promised him that, and I haven't let him down yet._

_Bring it on._


	2. Chapter 1: So It Begins

**(A/N) Hey guys, here we are with our very first Reaping chapter! Sorry about the delay, we had our original D1 male writer drop out, then his replacement dropped out too, firmly establishing the curse of the District One male writer for eons to come. However, we have the fantastic Canucklehead Cowgirl taking that curse head on, and the wonderful JGrayzz, whom I had the pleasure of working with on Bring Them to Their Knees by 24tributes24authors, completing the district's pair, and I think you're all going to love what they came up with.**

**Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess – I'm not complaining, at any rate), we received such a huge amount of positive feedback for the prologue that I simply couldn't reply to all the reviews in this post, but I'd just like to thank Amazing TEEN Authoress, HungerG94, .37, Strange Girl 773 and TheMetaReborn for their reviews, along with those made by collab members. Glad that you all enjoyed the opening, and I think you're going to enjoy what's to come even more.**

**We should be updating on a regular schedule every Tuesday and Thursday from now on, barring unexpected delays, so keep an eye out, and enjoy! To reassure people, they won't all be this long, but hopefully they'll be just as good!**

* * *

**Chapter One - ****So It Begins**

**District One Reaping**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl &amp; JGrayzz**

* * *

**Wade Wilson of District One**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

**(Who wished to be known as 'Some Chick Slammin' Whiskey and Maple Syrup who Apparently has a thing for bad ass Canadians', but I had to adhere to reason)**

* * *

_"__THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."_

– _Hunter S. Thompson_

* * *

It had been a little over two years since Wade Wilson had his accident.

It was just another day at the academy, really. He'd already irritated that big albino jerk, T-Ray to the point of tears when he decided to move on to his normal work out. He leisurely made his way to the little area that acted as a swordsmanship practice site. His favourite station.

Every morning new practice dummies were in place for the kids that studied working with blades, but no one ever tried to get there before Wade. He was a bit of a prodigy with a sword. So much so that it was that morning that he'd been upgraded to the revered and highly coveted katana. He was so proud of himself, showing off his achievement as he strutted into the small training room.

He had grinned at the pretty blonde girl that he'd been flirting with for months, giving her his most winning smile as he stretched. Yep. He was convinced it was going to be a great day.

He was warming up, starting to really get into it when one of the trainers began to shout down from the observation deck. Wade either didn't hear him or simply ignored him, too concentrated on his task at hand when the katana's razor edge struck the metal framework of one of the dummies, sparking and lighting the odourless natural gas that had all but filled the smaller training room.

Flames erupted all around him in a flash, burning the clothes off his body. He couldn't even scream as he dropped the sword, falling to his knees as the very air around him ignited.

By the time it was over, he was little more than a smouldering, rasping lump shaking on the mats. Half of the training room had blown outward and a large hole in the wall was pouring smoke out of the room. All of the trainers and on hand medics rushed in, hurrying to attend to the boy.

He couldn't remember a thing about anything after that until much later, after the healers had performed literal medical miracles.

His nurse had realized that there was something different about the boy. She watched him carefully for a moment. Stinking wet bandages soaked in medicine lightly covered his body, treating the burns that covered most of him. He wasn't moaning in pain … the terrigen must have been doing its job well, but his eyes showed signs of cognizance.

"Can you understand me, Mr Wilson?" she asked kindly, squatting down a hair to look him in the eyes.

"Yes."

"There was an accident at the school. Some men were working on the gas lines and the old pipes that ran through the training room sprung a leak. They're not sure how it sparked, but you were in the centre of it. You're very lucky to be alive, young man." she told him gently. She held nothing but pity for him in her eyes. "I'll go get your doctor. I'm sure you have questions."

He just stared up at the ceiling trying to fight back tears. He knew what sparked it. He'd seen the spark that he had made himself as it danced in the air for a second before transforming into a great ball of fire. He took a shuddering breath to try to calm down before the doctor came in. He hurt so badly, everything felt hot and raw and angry.

"Good morning," the short, heavy set man said as he walked in the door, closing it behind him. "I'm pleased to see you awake. My name is Dr Killebrew. The nurse said you might have some questions for me." he said gruffly, his hands in his lab coat as if the last thing he wanted to do was to talk to this boy.

"Just one. Why am I alive?" Wade croaked to the doctor. Everything hurt.

"We had to try, Wilson. Too much money was invested in your training to just let you die from a little burn," Dr Killebrew informed him frankly before adjusting the drip on Wade's arm. "Now, you'll remain here until we finish our work. There's still much we can give you to repair at least some of the damage. Before you know it, you'll be back at the school with a few scars to brag about." With that, the doctor turned and walked out.

It was less than a month later that the miracle drugs given him had done all they were capable of. He had skin now, though it was patchy red, overstretched looking scars that severe burn victims all share, odd tensions pulling in different directions all over his body. Nothing was said about the bizarre textured appearance his skin now held.

Killebrew released him to the escort the school had designated, an old woman that went by Blind Al that somehow kept all the students in line. She didn't look like much, but rumour had it that Al had once been the top trainer for District One before being blinded in one of the attacks that had occurred during an attempted uprising years back. Being the tough old girl she was, she not only carried on – she thrived, practically taking over the disciplinary measures the school had in place.

"Come on, Wade. We gotta get you back before my stories come on. You know how cranky I get when I can't watch my stories," Al told him.

"You can't watch anything, Althea," Wade mumbled back.

"Don't sass me, boy," Al mumbled, continuing on her way.

Killebrew had forbade anyone from letting the boy have a mirror while he was in the hospital, convinced that he'd likely 'over react' when he saw what misfortune fate had handed him. He was right to be concerned.

Halfway to the school, Al was filling him in on all that had happened in his absence. Slowly, Wade realized that people were crossing the street as he approached and staring at him. It took him a few incidents before he pulled it together and finally turned to see his reflection on one of the large shop windows that lined the streets of One's main shopping district. He froze, his hand drifting up to touch the pebbled flesh of his cheek, a look of abject horror lighting his features at what he found.

"Oh my God," he whispered before frantically searching for something to hide his distorted face with.

He settled on snatching a red scarf from a woman stepping out of a shop. She screamed, calling for a Sentinel until she saw that he was wrapping it around his head while apologizing. She nearly dropped her shopping bags backing away from him, muttering for him to keep it.

"What the _hell_ are you doing now, Wade? Scaring women? Come on. We got work to do," Al barked out, snapping her fingers for him to return to her side and act as a good little seeing eye Wade.

In a rush to get off the street, he quickly complied, pushing Al to move just a little faster, his head bent down and his shoulders hunched.

It took him another three days before he had fashioned a make-shift mask to wear from an old training t-shirt. It cut his vision down substantially, but at least he didn't have to endure the looks from the morbidly curious. It was shortly after that he truly perfected his obnoxious sense of humour using it as a defence mechanism whenever he drew too much attention, good or bad.

T-Ray had a field day when he saw Wade's mask for the first time. He simply couldn't leave his biggest rival alone to heal peaceably. The first day Wade returned to training, T-Ray made a point to slip up behind Wade and snatch off the mask.

He was expecting Wade to fight him as he always did when the two disagreed about something minor. Instead, he all but crumpled to the floor, desperately covering his face, shielding himself from everyone's shocked stares until Nathan Summers, the Golden Boy of District One, intervened, snatching it from T-Ray and handing it back to Wade.

"You alright, Wilson?" Summers asked, honestly trying to help the young man. He was met with Wade snarling at him to back off as he yanked the mask down over his face, only then barking at the crowd at large to get a damned hobby, offering to take all of them on.

Summers shook his head as he turned to walk away, realizing that the Wade they had before was no longer there. The boy in the mask was quick to fight, argumentative and reactive. Something was severely wrong with him.

Mental health was not an issue that drew much attention in One. It simply wasn't something they needed to deal with. Until now. The young man that had been burned and healed when he should have died had already shown signs of mental distress, and then not long after – total psychosis.

It couldn't be ignored any more. Specialists were called in and all they could truly determine was that he likely had already been suffering from a mild mental disorder before the accident that would have eventually grown progressively worse. The accident simply expedited the process.

Wade had been jumpy when he first found himself scarred irreparably. It just got worse with time until it seemed the boy was having conversations with himself. Before six months had passed, even T-Ray was looking for excuses to keep some distance from him.

When Wade realized that his crass wit and sharp tongue was finally keeping people at bay, he threw himself back into his training as a means to distract himself from the conversations taking place in his head. He added hours to his training day. One year post accident and he was surpassing even his own high standards and moving on to a level of swordsmanship that his trainers could only stand back and admire. He practiced in private whenever possible, his whole focus now on becoming the very best that he could be so he could win his spot in the Avenger games. He believed it was the only way out of the mess his head was.

To supplement his training, Wade took to sneaking out at night and taking on mercenary work when his strict regimen no longer held back some of his more … unbalanced urges. There was always a buck or a reputation to be made with some of the more questionable residents of the district. It didn't take long for him to earn both.

* * *

Two weeks before the twenty fourth games, the competition finally began. It took little time for everyone to realize that although candidates were plentiful, the real competition boiled down to a small field of T-Ray, Wade, and the always too-cool-for-school Nathan Summers.

The boys were not allowed to fight each other, but they were allowed to watch their competition.

Summers was up first, and no one there could deny his skill. Based on that alone, if anyone there deserved to go it was him. He had a rather impressive performance, finishing the freestyle and the obstacle course with two minutes left on the clock. No one dared to do anything but clap at the end of his performance.

T-Ray was up next, wielding an unnecessarily large single edged sword. He swung it around with some fine amount of control, but his overall movements were clunky and slow.

He didn't even finish the course in the allotted time frame. A chuckle echoed the vast room as the buzzer went off with T-Ray still left with a third of the course ahead of him. There was no way he would ever be allowed to represent One after a display like that.

Two other students came next - the last of the 18 year olds showing off their skills with knives and a bow, respectively.

Finally it was Wade's turn. Half of the students there simply left. It was exceedingly unusual to have a seventeen year old be anything worth watching next to those with another year of training on them. In their minds, it was already decided. Nathan Summers would be their tribute. T-Ray started shouting obscenities as Wade began to work, a single katana singing through the air as he went through part of his freestyle section.

"Real pretty, Wilson – you got any moves that'll actually do any damage or do you just plan on takin' that stinkin' mask off? Ya hopin' the other tributes kill themselves rather than look at your ugly mug?" T-Ray shouted out.

Wade started laughing maniacally as he returned to the weapons rack, wiping away a fictional tear as he reached for the swords again, removing a second, perfectly balanced brother to the one he already held. There were a few laughs across the room as the seventeen year old readjusted his grip on the twin blades. No one had ever tried to compete with two.

Continuing to chuckle, he sprung into action, first attacking both rows of practice dummies, beheading or removing a limb from every one as he bounced through the course. When he came to the second bank – the agility portion of the run, he simply began spinning the blades to deflect whatever projectiles he triggered along his way.

The twin katanas made an eerie whistling sound as they sliced the air, deflecting or destroying all that he was supposed to dodge.

When he was done, not one target was left unscathed. There was nothing there for the boy that was to follow him. He had effectively swept the room. All was silent as he returned his beloved blades to their proper spot.

It came as a shock to no one that the judges unanimously agreed – Wade was to be the volunteer this year.

* * *

_"It's reaping daaaay!"_

_**Rise and shine, buttercup.**_

Wade smiled before nearly leaping out of bed, startling his roommate as he bellowed out a loud

"GOOOOOD MORNING MARVEL!" strutting his way to the window to observe the already growing crowds below.

"Would you mind putting on some pants, Wade? Please? Some of us would like to keep our eyesight." his roommate, Jack 'Weasel' Hammer complained, covering his eyes and groaning as Wade turned to face him.

"What's wrong, Weas? Do I make you uncomfortable?" Wade asked, grinning under the red and black mask he was never seen without. "Do I bring forward feelings you can't quite explain?"

"Yeah. It's called nausea. PANTS. PLEASE."

"Oh, Weasel. You'd miss me if I don't come back, wouldn't you?"

_That's a stupid thing to ask him._

"WHY? He would miss us." Wade said to no one as Weasel paused with a sigh. His roommate's talking to himself had gotten much worse in the past few months.

Sadly, it didn't' seem as though there was much the doctors could do for him. None of the drugs available did anything.

"Of course, Wade. How would I ever survive without you?" Weasel replied.

The two boys got dressed in relative silence, save of course, for Wade laughing intermittently and blurting out odd words. They made their way down stairs from their dorm-style room, grabbing a quick school approved breakfast.

_You really think oatmeal is the breakfast of champions? Shouldn't there be something that had to die for our tasting pleasure?_

It was traditional for the other students to pay homage to the winning tributes and they did so –at least to the young woman. It seemed that Wade had alienated himself pretty thoroughly. Only the staff and Summers came his way to wish him luck and shake his hand.

It really was a great day, full of pomp and circumstance.

_And Babes. Don't forget the babes._

_**Ah, yes, the droves of adoring women just waiting to get a look at their new hero.**_

Oh. Wait. Maybe that part wasn't so great. In a moment of self-consciousness, Wade re-adjusted his mask, feeling to make sure that it had remained perfectly in place.

"Let's go, Weas," Wade muttered solemnly. The two of them leisurely made their way toward the square, taking in the crowd and all the chaos building around them. Weasel hated reaping day. He was more brainy than brawny and his talents were simply overlooked in One.

The stage was already set when they got to the square. Massive projection screens were broadcasting a loop of a Capitol flag waving in tandem with a District One flag, a blue cloudless sky in the background.

The stage crew was making their final adjustments on the sound system as the students of the school all filed in quickly, good little soldiers they were. Wade was a little nervous as he took his place with the boys – near to the aisle so he wouldn't have to push past the others on his way out. He elbowed Weasel as they stood there, waiting for time to pass.

"Not a bad turn out, eh, Weas?" Wade asked, his friend looking back at him unsurely.

"I don't know, Wade. Seems a lot more … loud than last year." Weasel replied.

_What's he talking about? Doesn't he know this is all about us?_

_**Of course he knows.**_

"Ah, relax. It's just because this year is going to be so _awesome!"_ Wade told him. "Because _we're_in it." Weasel looked more uneasy. He had been openly referring to himself as 'we' more and more often. And now in public. This didn't bode well. Then he decided maybe this was the best thing for his friend.

If he was really going that crazy, maybe going to the Capitol would get him some real help.

When the escort for the district made his way onstage, followed closely by the mentors, a roar erupted in the simmering crowd that ended up turning into white noise quickly. He grinned under his mask as his adrenaline began to surge. He was in the middle of it now.

_This party's about to LIGHT UP – cue the naked dancing girls!_

_**I'm not so sure the Capitol will provide naked dancing girls.**_

Over the rumble of the crowd, Wilson Fisk's booming voice echoed the square, enthusiastically announcing the start of the games, his words hard to make out in the centre of the crowd. The noise level ticked up a moment as he pandered for the cameras, their flashing looking like chain lightning as they flickered all around the square.

The crowd finally began to settle as Fisk grinned like a Cheshire cat, both hands before him, palms down as he gained control of their volume.

"Gentleman first!" he said as he made his way across the stage, looking out in the crowd, searching for the kid whose name was already known.

_Now or never, pal. Do it. Do it. Do it._

_**We have to wait for the cue.**_

It was nearly torture, but finally on his cue, Wade raised his hand and stepped to the aisle, offering himself up as tribute as was tradition, and his right that he'd fought hard for.

On seeing a young man step out, arm raised, the crowd woke up again, cheering blindly for their first representative. He trotted up to the stage, smiling maniacally, his heart pounding hard and fast. The adrenaline rush was amazing. As he made his way up the steps, Fisk narrowed his eyes at the boy, obviously, no one had mentioned the mask to him.

_Look at that fat bastard._

_**He's even bigger up close. That's got to defy some kind of sciency law.**_

"What's your name, son?" Fisk asked with a fake grin, his arm resting on Wade's shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion.

"Wade W. Wilson."

"Everyone give it up for Wade, this year's first volunteer!" The crowd politely obliged, though not as enthusiastically as before.

_What's wrong with these people? They should be fainting in the aisles._

_**Or at least the**_** women**_** should be.**_

Wade chuckled to himself and puffed his chest out, flexing the muscles in his arms as he looked through the crowd.

"Time for the ladies." Fisk waggled his eyebrows as he began to step away from Wade, walking toward the bowl of names that was rarely touched. Strangely, this year, no one stepped forward until after he had to go so far as to draw a name.

"Jean Grey," Fisk announced into his microphone, looking over the crowd. Wade saw a little red haired girl in the centre of the girls side shrink in on herself as if she hoped to disappear. Before she could move a muscle beyond that though, a high, almost snooty sounding voice echoed over the crowd.

Tall, blonde and stacked was all Wade could think as the girl covered in white stepped forward.

_I think I'm in love,_ he thought to himself, eagerly waiting to get a little one on one time with his new partner. _Rowr._

"And it seems we have another volunteer," Fisk said, almost irritated as he watched the girl climb the steps. "What's your name, sweetheart?" She smiled up at him as she took her place. She knew she was going to volunteer. She was from the school. Why drag it out like that?

"Emma. Emma Frost." The crowd went wild for her as she played it up for them.

Then things got weird. Well, weirder. A commotion broke out near the steps of the stage between a guard and a … prisoner? What the hell?

_Looks like someone can't wait to meet us._

_**Too bad she looks like hell.**_

The din of the crowd began to grow as the man shouted at her, shoving her toward the stairs. Fisk moved his mic, but it still managed to pick up some of what transpired.

"Uh, sir, we already _have_ a volunt-" Shouting took place as the guard manhandled the girl partway up the stairs.

_Somebody pissed in_his_oatmeal this morning._

_**Crabby pants.**_

Wade chuckled to himself as the chaos broke loose.

Fisk looked put out as he tried to find a way to make a smooth transition to the new girl. Wade was just laughing like a loon to himself when he recognized her from a job gone bad. This was HILARIOUS.

He tried to make small talk with her, failing miserably. It seemed his reputation preceded him.

The rest of the ceremony seemed to be as standard as it had been in recent years, the two of them posing for pictures with Fisk on the stage, and individually off stage, the bright blue sky and waving flags acting like a backdrop for what was sure to be their highly revered victor's portrait after one of them won.

_Whadda ya mean, one of em? We know who the bad ass is around here. No question._

With the pictures done, Wade was ushered to an old office in the justice building. Everything in it was modern and sleek. All glass and polished metal. He didn't have long to wait. Every tribute from the school got a visit from Al.

"Alright kid, you got in there. No idea who that other chick was though. Shoulda let our Emma in, if you ask me." Al said as she made a beeline for the desk. Wade had forgotten how many times Al had gone through this. She likely could pick her favourite book off the shelf.

_Look at her. SO proud of us._

"So … We have a little time, Wade. Just remember your training out there. Get a sword – that's what you do best. Once you do, just take your time and tear those dogs up. No one better than you, it'll be like takin' lambs to slaughter." Al told him, leaning back in the plush chair behind the desk.

"Is that all, Althea? No hug for your little Wadey-poo? You don't have to hide it, I know I'm your favourite anyhow." Al shook her white capped head.

"Wade. You and that mouth are so much trouble. I've never seen a cockier kid than you. You know what? Forget the swords. You'll just talk those poor kids to death – or drive them to the point of wanting to kill themselves just so they don't have to listen to you," Al said harshly.

_Tell us how you really feel._

_**She's just concerned, that's all. Like the doc said before … they put a lot of money into us. We should win just to drive them nuts too.**_

"You know, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said, Al. I'm gonna miss you too."

"You're supposed to win and come back – and first things first – kill that little punk that took Emma out of the running. It doesn't look good to have some little jerk go around the school." she told him as the sentinel knocked on the door. "You got family? Did I miss something?" Al asked. She was sure that Wade's parents were dead.

"Nah," he replied before rushing over and giving her a crushing hug. "That'll be Weasel." Her eyebrows raised and she nodded.

"Alright then. Good luck, kid."

As Weasel walked in, Wade threw his arms out wide.

"Come on, Weas! Bring it on in! You know you want to!" Wade shouted, waving him in and refusing to change position until Weasel did as he asked. As soon as he was close enough, Wade grabbed him and kissed his cheek dramatically. "I knew you couldn't resist. Just think. You're going to have to go a whole week anyhow without seein' my naked ass every morning. It's going to be hard, I know."

_You said _hard.

"But you can do it."

_**Give him the present.**_

"I got something special for you, Weasel … you know, on the off chance that I don't come back." Weasel looked touched as Wade reached into his back pocket. Had he actually done something nice? He handed him the palm sized box and put his hands on his hips.

"Wade .."

"Don't thank me yet. In fact, don't open it until I get on the train. I don't want you doing your wailing widow impression," Wade told him cheerfully. Weasel was lost. His poor sick friend was truly more delusional than he'd originally thought.

"Well, alright. Seriously, Wade. Be careful. We joke around, but I really don't want you dead," Weasel muttered, eyes lowered, his tone serious.

_Walk away now. He's going to cry if you don't._

_**Hurry. He's right. He's going to cry.**_

"Alright, well - I'm going to hand myself over to their custody now. Cross your fingers I can get a pair of katanas. I'll have this sucker in the bag on the first day."

Weasel watched him leave with the sentinels, and before he left the office, he just had to open the little box and see what Wade had gifted him as a parting shot.

Nervously, he opened it and inside, under delicate layers of tissue paper was a laminated photo of Wade's naked ass in all its pock marked burned up full colour glory, Wade looking over his shoulder and blowing a kiss. He shook his head with a laugh. It was about as good a photo as one could ever hope for from the lunatic.

* * *

**Elektra Natchios of District One**

**Written by****JGrayzz**

* * *

_"It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe._

_To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I'd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration."_

\- Albert Camus, _The Stranger_

_Tuesday, July 24th_

_09:17 PM_

_District One_

_Crossmore Penitentiary_

It was another one of those nights.

The kind of nights where it's dead silent save the ticking of the rusted clock, or the distant low chuckling of some unhinged soul in Crossmore's darkest recesses.

On any other given night, the quiet wouldn't have been so deafening. On any other night, Frank would have had his work cut out for him. It's one of the misconceptions about working the graveyard shift at Crossmore Penitentiary. It's never quiet. Nobody ever wants to sleep. They want to smoke, jerk-off, or play cards.

There's only one night that the 107 inmates of Crossmore like to shut up for.

"Come on, Castle, can't ya' just let this one slide for tonight? Give a guy a break, huh?"

Well, _almost_ everyone.

Frank Castle regarded the young man with nothing short of disdain while his fellow guard Carter patted the punk down, "You kidding me, Rusty? I've already warned you about it twice in the past month. You know I can smell that shit from all the way down in the office, right?" Rusty didn't get a chance to retort before Carter slammed the wiry man belly-first against the cement wall for another pat-down.

Stanley Carter grumbled to himself as he ran his palms down Rusty's jumpsuit several times, finding nothing but lint and a paperclip . And still, Rusty just kept running his damn mouth. "I'm tellin' ya guys, I don't have nothin' on me! You're just tryin' to give me a hard time, like you alw-"

"Shut the hell up, Rusty. Keep talking and I'm gonna do a strip search out here. You don't want that again, do you?"

Rusty's mouth clamped shut.

Castle absolutely detested the job, but it was the only thing going for him after his return from active service with the S.H.I.E.L.D. several years ago. It was either working here at the Detention Centre, or doing janitorial work at the Academy. Anything else, he decided, would have been beneath him.

He sought to transfer to Four so he could get closer to his brother, but his protests have went unheard at the Justice building for the past year. His attempts to make an appointment with the mayor have so far gone unsuccessful due to the recent surge of crime going on in the streets.

Carter sighed and turned Rusty around, shoving the prisoner against the cement wall, "Hey, hey, go easy on me, will ya'? You know I've got heart issues." Carter gave him another shove.

"I've checked him thoroughly, Frank. I don't feel a goddamn thing." Carter sighed again to himself and left the cell with his hands on his hips, keys jingling loudly on his waist.

Frank knew Carter wanted to leave as soon as possible—he was working overtime just to sort this mess out with Rusty. Frank, however, checking in about an hour ago, was just getting started. He wouldn't let this one slide so easily. But did he ever? He was known as The Punisher for a reason, after all.

Rusty smirked, "See? What I tell ya? Nothin' on me, Castle! You must be dr-"

"Check him again, Carter," he yawned. Frank knew how much of a pain in the ass he was to these inmates, but like he said from the beginning, if he was going to be working here, he wasn't going to bullshit anybody. These are the most dangerous people in Marvel, and Frank knew exactly from the start that these inmates aren't _just_ people—they're animals. And Frank needed to treat them as such, no matter what they did to get locked up.

Rusty groaned, "You kiddin' me, Castle? I told you, man! You probably smelled somethin' from the guy next door. I'm tellin' you, I've been smellin' it too-"

"Shut up, boy!" Carter again threw the man against the wall hard, and went back to another brisking.

Frank could tell from the way Carter was going about it that he was getting quite annoyed, "Seriously, Frank. I'm really not feeling anything on this guy," Carter muttered, "You sure it wasn't another guy?"

Rusty nodded his head quickly, "Listen to this guy, Castle! It's the other guy! Uh, what's his name? Diablo or somethin'?"

"Rusty! This is the last time I'm gonna tell you!" Frank walked into the dark, cramped cell and took over, "I got it from here, Carter."

Carter scratched his head, perplexed as Frank shoved Rusty against the mattress and began taking off the prisoner's shoes, "Hey man, what the fu-"

Frank shoved Rusty back against the bed and continued searching diligently, "Uh...Frank?" Carter didn't know what to think about the scene. Carter didn't bother trying to pick the guy's brain – he knew long ago there was no point in trying with the man.

Frank whistled aloud, "_Bingo_," he grinned, pulling out a small paper-like object from underneath the left sole.

Rusty had a surprised look etched onto his heavily scarred face, "Hey, hey, it's not what ya' think! I-"

Frank kneed Rusty in the stomach, "Didn't have anything, huh? Then what the hell is _this?_" Frank snarled, holding the object from the shoe in the air.

Frank walked over and held the contraband under Carter's nose, "Smell that?"

Carter sniffed and he shrunk back, more wrinkles forming on his face, "That's definitely a joint alright."

Frank glanced at Carter in disbelief, laughing to himself as he examined the joint closely.

Rusty, meanwhile, tried to sputter out a string of excuses, hoping maybe he wouldn't get that severe of a beat-down if he could come up with something convincing enough.

"I—I don't even know how dat' got in there, Castle! I'm tellin' ya', I didn't even know it was in there! You know what? It was probably one of those gangster pricks from the _Chaste_—I don't know, they must have slipped it in while I was showerin'!"

Frank knew enough about Rusty at this point that most if not every word from that poor bastard's mouth was a lie. Russell was busted a year ago for drug pedalling near a playground. Apparently, the guy never even finished eighth grade and started selling at the age of twelve. Rumour is, he had his tattoo sleeves finished even before that.

The guy was a mess, and even behind bars he couldn't stop using. He's been remarkably..._creative_, to say the least, in the ways he's managed to keep the supply running from his cell.

Carter stared at the scene incredulously, looking incredibly tired and stressed out all at once. Frank felt sorry for the old guy. "Listen, Frank. I've gotta...get going, you know—wife and kids and all..."

Frank nodded, "I hear ya', Stanley. Don't let me stop you, go home. Get some rest—it's gonna be a rough day tomorrow."

Carter glanced at Rusty, who was still reeling from the blow in the gut Frank gave him, "Hey uh, Frank, you sure you got this?"

Frank chuckled, "What? _Rusty?_ This bastard's not a problem at all—it's my shift anyway. Trust me, I've got him."

Carter gave a grateful smile before shuffling down the walkway, "Appreciate it, Frank." Carter turned around, "Just make sure to give the guy a good ass-whooping for me, alright? We have to really clean this place up, you know? Drugs are worse in here than on the streets," he chuckled.

Frank waved, "Will do, Carter! Will do..."

Frank waited for the man to exit the prison unit before glaring at Rusty—barely concealed anger claiming his features. Frank stormed over to the mattress where Rusty sat in defeat, staring nervously at Frank's approach.

Frank threw the joint at Rusty and grabbed him by the throat, "Are you out of your fucking _mind?!_ Smoking the _product?_ Are you kidding me?"

Rusty put his cuffed hands up in defence. "Listen—listen! The shipment looked like it had enough-"

Frank punched him in the nose, sending him tumbling to the cement floor, "That's our product you dumb-shit! _Ours._ How do you think this is going to work if you keep fucking this up for me? You think anybody else is gonna make an effort to supply to this shit-hole? _I'm_ the one keeping this operation going. _I'm_ the one who brings it in. _You_ hand it out. Is that so hard to understand?"

Rusty's nose was leaking like a faucet—surely broken. Rusty deserved it, quite frankly. "Alright—alright! My mistake, boss! My mistake. I'm fuckin' sorry, alright? We're still runnin' smoothly!"

"Oh, is that so?" Frank spat, pacing back and forth in the cell.

"Yeah! I still get like, ten buyers a day in here...I swear!"

Frank still wasn't pleased, and continued pacing across the room like a mad-man—he didn't care. This was serious.

Rusty tucked his head between his knees, spitting out blood from his mouth, "Could ya' not do that, boss? It's kinda' makin' me nervous, alright?"

Frank picked up the cigarette-like object again, shoving it in Rusty's face once more, "Tell me, Rusty! What the fuck is this?"

Rusty didn't even have to look at it, "It ain't' a joint."

"No, it's not, is it? So, indulge me," Frank growled.

Rusty sighed, "It's _rapture_," he admitted under his breath.

Frank nodded, "That's right. It's rapture! And where can you find this..._rapture,_ Rusty?"

Rusty glared at Frank, "Really, boss?"

Frank kicked Rusty hard in the shin, "Yeah, jack-ass! Really, tell me! Tell me, Rusty, where the fuck can you find it?"

"Nowhere! Alright? Nowhere else!" Rusty shouted as he curled himself up near the mattress.

Frank huffed, "That's right. I'm the only guy in this goddamned district who has access to rapture—and the sooner we get everybody hooked, the sooner I can get your ass out of here and we can relocate," Frank grabbed the joint off the floor containing the highly addictive rapture substance, preparing to leave the cell, "Think about _that_ next time you try to get high off our _fucking merchandise_."

Frank slammed Rusty's cell shut, locking it tight and leaving his 20 year old associate in the darkness. Frank quickly shoved the joint in his pocket, looking around suspiciously at all the other cells in the large unit. Some of them, he knew, were empty.

Crossmore was the only maximum security prison to be found in One, and being a five level facility, it was also one of the largest in Marvel.

There was no gender separation, unlike the prison in Two—mostly because the mayor didn't feel like going through all the trouble of implementing the system. Inmates, boy or girl, young or old, are placed mostly alphabetically or numerically. The only other unit is isolation—and that's usually where the serial rapists or the criminally insane go, which makes up only about two percent of all the inmates here.

Frank shut down the lights in the main unit and gasped in relief as he entered the comfortably cool confines of his office - AC unit blasting away - thankful to be away from the silence and darkness. He's also the only one here for tonight until morning, when the Reapings begin. The guards always like to get a night's rest before the head count, normally leaving Frank the only one depended on to be on duty.

This allows him to not only take a nap without protest, but also gives him the opportunity to take care of some business with certain...associates.

Frank was a pivotal part of the drug trade within the criminal world of One, and perhaps some might label him corrupt. Ever since The Hand up and left, it's been a lot slower these days.

In Frank's eyes, it was merely a way for him to establish power in the underworld. His connections to both the Hand and the Chaste, as well as his friendships with multiple powerful crime bosses really left him no choice _but_ to work with them in order to keep himself protected. And to get some more cash, of course.

Frank was corrupt, indeed. Far too gone, perhaps. Justice used to mean something to him—but now, he was in a good enough position that he felt the need to reap the benefits while he could.

Frank leaned back in his wooden chair, setting his feet on the desk and watching the seconds tick by on the clock. It was all he could do now.

Frank took out his favourite zippo lighter from a drawer, and reached into his pocket for the rapture. He didn't create the drug, but he was an early investor from its very conception. He had close ties with the producer of the highly addictive psychedelic in the military, and promised to expand its reaches throughout Marvel after he came back.

Just so happens prison was the perfect place to do it. And rapture, he discovered, was a _big hit._

Frank lit the joint, and allowed himself several hours of rest, before the chaos began.

"Alright, alright, everyone calm the fuck down! I'm going to get a clean count today, understand?" Frank yelled, despite the fact they probably couldn't hear him with all the other noise going on.

It was now twelve in the afternoon, and Reaping day had just about begun. But more importantly, the annual "Sweep" had begun. There were two traditionally, one in the summer and the other in winter. It was a stress-filled day where the entire battalion of Crossmore guards were obligated by law to get a head count on the current inmate population. But in terms of which one was taken more seriously, it was the one in the summer that got everyone riled up. The one head count that directly coincided with the Reapings.

Roughly ten hours had passed since Frank's sweep through the cell blocks, and the inmates of Crossmore were fully awake now than they've ever been. They usually are on the morning of July 25th.

Luckily, Frank didn't have it totally cut out for him today. There were about thirty guards who had checked in with him to start the head count. He was assigned the juveniles, as usual. This put Frank in a very unique position compared to the rest of the guard. Not only was he responsible for a count, he also had to make sure the kids got to the Reapings in time and in one piece. He also wasn't allowed to use brute force, in case one of the bastards decided to volunteer—which has never happened before. Apparently they need to look presentable even though they're wearing jumpsuits. Frank never really understood why it was such a big deal. They were prisoners, what did people really expect?

Frank could barely hear himself think as he walked the dirty floor of the cell block, bypassing numerous empty cells with a clipboard in hand. Numerous shouts and yells echoed through the expanse of the prison above him—it was giving him a migraine already.

He muttered incoherently to himself as he went down the list. Last year, there were only about five people under eighteen in Crossmore. Two were released a few months ago, leaving just three left among the denizens of empty cells.

Frank sighed as he approached the first cell on the list, "Uh –_ Archibald Dyker?_ Did I say that right?" He peeked through the bars and spotted a young man shadowboxing in the corner of his cell.

"It's Archie, douche-bag," the large boy spat.

Frank shrugged and checked the name, "Whatever, kid." He motioned for a guard nearby to unlock the cell and cuff the boy. "Make sure when you get to the square, _Archie_ here gets his finger pricked. I don't want a repeat of last year, understand?"

Frank moved on to the next name, which belonged to a Mr. Carl Creel – Cell 21.

The cell was empty when he approached, however. Frank peered inside the dark confines, but saw nobody. "Hey, when did Creel get out?"

"Bout' a week ago. He was put under house arrest by the Mayor," a guard responded.

Frank's features grew confused, "What the hell for? We got more than enough room here," he sighed and erased Creel's name and info from the list, leaving only one juvenile left at Crossmore to attend the Reapings.

Frank strolled toward Cell 27 – near the end of the entire block. This side of the prison received almost no sunlight, which made him feel a bit sorry for the poor little bastards who had to stay here.

Frank approached the cell with another guard, and allowed the man to unlock the cell while he continued flipping through some papers on the clipboard in an aloof, almost careless manner.

Frank looked up at the prisoner as he read off the name, almost having forgotten who it was after so long, "_Elektra Natchios...?_"

A rather tall and athletic girl with long, dark hair rubbed her eyes with a fist as the guard escorted her out the dark cell, "Uh-huh," she mumbled in confirmation.

Frank hadn't seen or heard much of the girl after she was thrown in here nearly two years ago at only fourteen years old for _first-degree murder_. When Frank first heard of it, he almost thought it was some sort of a joke by his co-workers. Then the weekly tribune came in and there she was, right on the front page; Elektra Natchios, fourteen years old of District One, imprisoned for the brutal stabbing of a twenty-four year old man. Apparently, she had slit the guy's throat and dragged his body straight into the middle of the city for all the Sentinels to see. She was tried as an adult and sentenced to forty-five years without parole.

Not only had she been one of the few females to have ever been incarcerated at Crossmore, and she had also made the headlines for being one of only seven prisoners here who had committed homicide.

Just standing in front of the girl made Frank a bit leery, "Make sure those cuffs are tight, alright?" The guard nodded and shoved the girl against the wall with a lot more force than Frank would have expected, although she didn't appear to flinch or struggle.

Frank still thought it was strange to see such a young girl in a maximum security prison. He almost couldn't wrap his head around it. What interested Frank the most, was not so much the murder, but her history with violence. Frank often saw the Natchios girl outside in the rec-yard during his noon shifts. She fit in quite well with the other prisoners, and she seemed to establish a friendship with one of the older inmates here; 'Stick', as everyone liked to call him. She wasn't playing basketball or hanging around, though. This girl was training extensively in martial arts for _hours_ straight.

Stick rarely trained anyone unless they're worthy in his eyes, the guy's so old he'd become some sort of wise prophet here over the years. The inmates developed this system where he taught certain people how to fight. Frank wasn't sure how it worked, but somehow the Elektra girl found a way to do it. And she was pretty damn good at it too.

Frank scribbled through the rest of the report quickly, trying to finish it up before the chief went off on his ass again for an "incomplete assessment". The slamming of cells and the yelling of guards were things he was able to tune out, as well as the exclamations of prisoners and the occasional whistle down at him. Those were things he was used to—part of the job. Sometimes, he wished he could tune out everything.

"Castle?"

Frank glanced up slowly from his clipboard, the wad of gum in his mouth paused in chewing as his eyes wavered, "Who's callin' me?"

"Right here," Frank turned around and saw the Elektra girl, looking at him underneath a veil of tangled, dark hair with deep, unwavering amber eyes that were quite honestly rather intimidating. They resembled the pitch black eyes of a shark or something.

The guard shrugged at him, "She don't wanna move, sir."

Frank tucked the clipboard underneath his arm and regarded the kid carefully, "You got something to say? Make it quick, kid."

The girl nodded, "I want _you_ to escort me to the Reapings. That's all I ask."

Frank didn't exactly know how to respond to that—it's not something he's usually approached with. He rubbed his forehead and winced, "Hey, uh, I got this, alright?" He motioned for the guard, who gave him and Elektra a quizzical look, before saying something into his radio and shuffling away.

Frank continued chewing his gum loudly as he tried to figure the kid out, "So, why you want me, kid?"

She shrugged and stood up straight, looking directly into his squinted eyes, "I just do."

_She just does._ That didn't exactly tell him much.

Frank felt the slightest urge to radio in and call for back-up...it's what he would usually do in these situations. Or he would take the violent approach and lay one on whichever asshole tried to give him a rough time. This time was different, though. First of all, it was a young girl. Second of all, he really needed some fresh air. This was a good enough excuse, right?

Frank pretended to mull it over, but in reality he had already made up his mind. He could tell the kid was genuine, despite how fucked up she was, which kind of freaked him out. But still, this was a girl, who in many ways, probably had a hard life leading up to the murder. He didn't look up her case file, because it's not something he cared to get into. But he could tell the kid was broken, and it bothered him. Perhaps, deep down, it gave him a purpose.

He sighed nevertheless, "Alright, kid. Soon as I take this to my superiors, I'll get you there, okay?" he said sternly.

She smirked a little, which made him slightly uneasy, almost as if she were taking advantage of him. He never liked getting too comfortable with the people of Crossmore.

Frank shoved her a little, grabbing her by the collar of the jumpsuit and nudging her along as he trekked back to the office, "What are you smiling for, kid? Keep fuckin' walking, I ain't gonna be easy on you."

Frank couldn't tell if she actually stopped smiling or not.

* * *

Elektra Natchios committed her first murder the day she was born.

Doctors say her mother's immune system was weaker than usual in the days leading up to the birth, that she had developed mysterious fever-like symptoms, and had been complaining about muscle fatigue. But Elektra knew, deep down, that no matter what they wanted to shift the blame on, it would always be_ her_ fault. Maybe if she hadn't been born six weeks early, her mother might have had a fighting chance.

Christina Natchios would still be here, most likely holding down a steady career, with plenty of friends to gossip with, and plenty of money to spend on fancy clothes. Probably would have found a way to move to the Capitol with her daughter in tow. Little Elektra would have gone to a nice private school, and would have stayed up late to watch re-runs of the Avenger Games with her friends and gossip about all the Career boys. She would have played with dolls, wore nice dresses, married prince charming, and Elektra Natchios would have become the daughter every mother wished for.

But unfortunately, she was born.

There was no stopping it. No denying it. Elektra, for some reason even doctors cannot comprehend, wanted to come out early, even if it killed them both.

Christina was alive long enough to name her daughter. She thought the Greek name stood out amongst the rubbish and superficiality within District One. She wanted her to be different.

Elektra Natchios always loved her father.

Quite appropriately, her first word was _'papa'_.

Growing up without a mother figure was not something Elektra cared about. Hugo never talked about Christina if he couldn't help it, and if Elektra were to ask about 'mommy' she would either get a lashing or sometimes something worse.

By five she had already been conditioned to never utter the word mama in the Natchios household.

Though, Hugo Natchios was unquestionably the light of Elektra's life. Hugo managed to fill both roles of mother and father, all while he maintained the position of being a high profile lawyer within the wealthiest area of District One.

Every night, after school, Hugo would come home and the first thing he did was help Elektra with her homework. Elektra remembers how he wouldn't even bother to take off his suit or anything. He would never talk about work with her—her problems always came first and foremost.

Hugo, in many ways, was the best father she could have ever asked for. He made it an effort to do _everything_ with her. Sometimes he would even take her out to work with him, even if she thought it was boring.

He was insistent on Elektra doing something active as a young girl, so she could become bigger and stronger than all the other girls. And so after watching gymnastics on television, Elektra had found her first love. From five years old until she was ten, gymnastics became one of her passions. She was good, but for Hugo, good wasn't enough. He always wanted more from her, in everything she did.

Failure literally wasn't in her vocabulary. Hugo made sure of that early on. If she slipped on the beam, Hugo would hound her all night about it. If she misjudged a flip, Hugo would be there again to yell.

Elektra wanted to love her father, but there were times she wondered if it was the right thing to feel. Elektra never saw Hugo with another woman in her young life. There was never any evidence to say he had even taken an interest into other women. For Hugo, the only girl he cared about, was his daughter. It was normal for a father.

But Elektra knew Hugo wasn't all normal. Not entirely. There were things Hugo did to her sometimes that Elektra learned to forget. Things that Elektra knew, even at a young age, weren't normal for a father to be doing with his daughter.

At the time, Elektra didn't understand the scope of what her father was making her do. It seemed normal, at the time. After all, she never had any friends to ask.

Elektra was isolated for many years by Hugo. When he had his friends over, he ordered her to pretend like she didn't exist. He said it was for her protection.

Elektra was brighter than most other children—almost too bright for her age. Hugo knew this, and had prepared for it. Elektra would not go outside, she would not have friends. She would learn a new language. She would read out of Hugo's law books. She would do whatever he told her to do. But she would not have friends. They would slow her down.

People were bad. Papa was good.

Of course people at school wanted to know her, wanted to be her friend. But she had to be mean, like Papa had instructed her. She had to be cold. She couldn't be weak. By the time she had gotten to fifth grade, everyone hated her.

And she hated them.

Elektra was Papa's play-thing. His vision. The only remnant of Christina. Sometimes Elektra wondered if he hated her deep down for killing mama. And that the reason he made her do those things with him was as a sort of punishment.

She wondered.

So did Elektra love her father? She thought she knew the answer.

Sometime in that dark period of her life, Elektra and her class took a field trip to the newly built District One Academy and Recreational Center. It was a large building, filled with hundreds of strange machines and weapons. Towering, muscular men were fighting with each other on mats, sometimes with swords or knives. Elektra fondly remembers asking her teacher what exactly the building was for, and the teacher responded, almost hesitantly, that the people who came to the Centre were preparing for something bigger. At the time, the teacher would not say specifically what for.

Elektra was fascinated.

Sometimes, Elektra asked herself what may have caused her fascination with hurting things.

People would often say, "Why get into fighting, little girl?"

The only thing Elektra can say for sure is that it was like an addiction. She was never good at anything else. So when she picked up on martial arts, and found she was actually good at it, it kept her going. She wanted to learn more. She wanted more. But deep down, she just wanted an excuse to use it.

Why stop when it felt so _good?_

It was a release for her. It was a reason to leave home for a bit. With gymnastics, Papa was always there...watching and yelling at her. With martial arts, it was her. Just her, and no-one else in the world.

Elektra could have kept going. Her martial arts teacher said she was a prodigy. That she was the best he had ever seen for someone her age. She could have gotten a black-belt early.

But then, one night, on a night like any other, her father was taken from her.

Hugo had made some enemies over the years, it was a given in his profession. But Hugo never thought it would happen like it did.

Elektra remembered it was the night her father was teaching her how to play the piano. She had never seen her father use the old thing, but for some reason he decided to play that night. It was also the only time Hugo had ever mentioned Christina. He told Elektra that her mother would always play it, and that if anything was worth remembering about her, it was her music.

She had been learning how to play a song by the name of "Moonlight Sonata" before a crash in the window interrupted her.

Two men broke into their house, one carrying a knife, another holding a gun. Hugo tried to hold them off as best he could, but he was outnumbered. Hugo was shot once in the shoulder after managing to stab one of the men in the stomach—and during the scuffle, Elektra managed to run, even though she never wanted to leave him.

After the Sentinels came, the men had left. They didn't know this. Hugo was barely alive, and after coming to his feet, Sentinels must have confused him for one of the men. He had still been carrying the dagger. He was shot twice in the chest by one of the startled Sentinels—died instantly.

Elektra bared witness to the brutality of it all, and when the Sentinels apologized for the tragedy, she knew her life was over. Papa wouldn't be there to protect her anymore. It was just her...like she always wanted.

In a funny way then, she had killed both her parents.

"Hey, kid? You home? Let's go, I gotta un-cuff you, this lady wants your fingerprint."

Elektra had been zoning out again, she did it often these days. It was something she'd gotten used to after being sentenced to forty years behind bars.

Frank unclasped her numbed hands from behind and turned her around to face the Sentinel. The woman didn't even give her a chance to get some life back into her hands before her finger was grabbed, pricked, and forcefully placed on an important looking form. "Next!" The Sentinel waved them along into another giant crowd of people. It was literally a mess.

Before she could protest, she was cuffed once again. "Alright, stay here for a minute, let me just...figure this shit out," Frank mumbled to himself, rubbing his thick beard and scanning the horizon of people.

Elektra was disgusted by the chaos. She could hardly breathe there were so many people trying to get through. It resembled a media event of some sort. She had seen about ten reporters run through with cameramen, trying to get the best shot of the Reapings for a five second spot on the morning news.

As she uncomfortably stood near a roped off line, Elektra noticed a boy her age wearing a red winter hat, glancing at her through the thick crowd. He looked unfamiliar, but once she spotted him, the boy quickly looked away. Something didn't feel right about him.

Elektra was broken from her stupor after she felt someone bump into her shoulder—which pissed her off considerably, although she couldn't do much with the handcuffs.

A group of athletic looking kids laughed as they brushed past her, "Hey watch it, Emma! You just bumped that chick over there," one of them snorted.

A short, petite blonde girl gave her a regretful glance, "Sorry, person!"

Elektra smirked at them, "Fuck off," she murmured.

One of the boys in the group gave her a look and stormed over until he was right in front of her, "What did you just say to her?"

Elektra stared right through him, carelessly and without missing a beat, "What? _Fuck off?_"

The boy's face grew red despite his friends' protests to just let it go, "Why you little-"

Castle wasn't having any of it, "Hey! You little shits!" Frank lurched forward and shoved the boy back before he could do any damage, "Get the hell outta here!" The boy gave Elektra the middle finger before he was taken away by one of his buddies. The short blonde girl, Emma, noticed Elektra's handcuffs and a look of guilt crossed her features before she jogged away into the throngs of people.

Frank, naturally being a head taller than nearly everyone in the crowd, usually didn't have to get violent for people to listen to him. The fact he was carrying a weapon, also helped.

Frank raised his hands up in the air as he approached, "What the hell did you say to that guy?"

Elektra shrugged, "Doesn't matter."

Frank gave her a look of frustration, "Listen to me, you can't be doing this shit right now. Not today. Just let me do my job, alright? Now follow me."

Elektra's tongue rolled in her mouth and she continued on despite everyone giving her looks of shame or disapproval. They may have recognized her face from the papers – or they could have known her father. It didn't matter. She didn't care what anyone thought of her, if she did then she wouldn't have gone to prison.

Elektra knew what she needed to do. She knew why she was here, and all that mattered was getting it done. This was her best chance yet, and she wasn't going to wait another year in that cell. This was her time, and no-one was going to fuck it up. Especially not some punk kids.

Elektra hated how she couldn't push back her hair – it was covering up her entire face, making it hard to see anything. She wasn't going to ask Castle to do it for her, that would just be weird.

What she could see, for the most part, was the stage that had been set up for the Reapings. A lone microphone with two large, golden baskets sat upon tables near the right. Down the steps near the side-stage, a very large man wearing a white suit was getting makeup applied to his face by several more women than necessary.

Castle seemed to be leading her into a different area of the crowd than the other girls. While they were strategically placed in roped up sections by age group, she was placed near the far side of them by the adults. It didn't matter, though. It only meant she needed to prepare in advance.

"Alright, stand over here. This is where that guy said we'll be until this thing ends. I'll take you back once the two kids have been chosen, alright?" Frank spit out his gum and lit a cigarette as he rocked from side to side on his feet.

She didn't respond.

Frank hesitated the second time he looked at her—she stood still, completely silent, dazed off like he's noticed she's been the entire time, "_Alright?_" he repeated, louder this time.

Frank shrugged and rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath again.

Frank noted to himself that he was never doing this again. He knew the Reapings were crazy, but not _this_ crazy. The kids from One were the most zealous bunch he's ever seen. When he was stationed in Six as a Sentinel several years back, not a single soul uttered a sound in the audience at the Reapings. It was depressing, to say the least. It was better than this, though.

Mothers dragged their children behind them as they screamed or cried at the top of their lungs for candy or food, groups of rowdy men who were obviously drunk were shouting obscenities at random people, cameramen were filming groups of teenage girls for who knows what...it was pure _chaos_.

"_Fuckin'_ people, man," Frank grumbled, hoping to incite a peep from his prisoner in tow. He was unsuccessful.

Suddenly, the audience quieted and the sound of the microphone blared to life as Wilson Fisk took the stage.

Wilson Fisk had been One's escort for years now. He was a very intimidating man compared to the escorts of opposing districts. He was so large of a man, in fact, that they had to custom make every outfit for him, and he rides in a super-sized car to accommodate for his frame.

Nice guy, from what Frank heard. _Has a penchant for living the glamorous life, sure, but who wouldn't?_ Frank sure desired it.

There have been whispers, though, about his rumoured involvement in the underworld as a former pimp and drug lord before he became an escort. Fisk claimed it's all nonsense, but Frank wondered. _Nowadays, he's harmless, though he's a frequent drinker, and a heavy gambler,_ he mused to himself, going through what he knew about the capitalian. _It's a wonder he's helped lead people to victory four years in a row._

The mentors began lining the stage – The Fantastic Four of District One. Fisk, for some reason, felt the need to go down the line and ask how each of them were feeling. And of course, they all felt _great_.

"Great my ass. Can you believe this crap?" Frank mumbled, blowing a puff of smoke into the air, trying to keep himself entertained. He wanted to leave early but he couldn't with Elektra here weighing him down.

"Castle, I need to tell you something," she murmured.

Oh, now she wants to talk?

Frank peered down at the girl with an annoyed face, "What now?"

"I'm going to volunteer," she admitted. He almost didn't even hear her through the sound of the mayor's drawl. Didn't help she sounded all nonchalant about it. She might as well have told him she needed to take a piss.

Frank brought what remained of the cigarette up to his lips, and exhaled slowly, "You're fuckin' kidding me, right?" He dropped the cigarette and swivelled his boot on the ash, cracking a smirk at the girl, "No, seriously. You're fucking with me? You're joking?"

Elektra looked up at the man through her black hair with a frigid expression. "I'm not," she answered quietly.

She was doing it. She had decided the second she left her cell this morning.

Frank snorted and looked away, "Nah. No, you can't do that. You can't just..._No_. You can't, and that's the end of it."

"Watch me," she said, looking at Frank with a ferocity he's never seen before in a girl's eyes, much less the eyes of a child. And he thought his _ex-wife_ was bad.

Frank began contemplating dragging the kid back to the prison himself if he had to. Sure, it would cause a scene, but she'd be back where she belonged. He had a feeling this kid would be trouble. He should have never even escorted her here.

He could have been back at the office, having a smoke in peace, or better yet, resolving the situation with Rusty about the product. He could have, but he was an idiot and he didn't. What the fuck compelled him to say yes to this stupid kid?

"Un-cuff me, please," Elektra demanded, holding out her wrists.

So she _was_ serious. Frank pulled out another cigarette and lit it up, ignoring the obnoxious brat.

A beat passed.

"I know who you are, Frank. I've _seen_ you. I talk with Rusty, you know. He tells me _things_," she couldn't help but smile a little as she told him this.

Frank froze, the sound of the girl's low venomous voice the only thing that mattered. Frank's cigarette almost fell right out of his mouth, "You fuckin' bitch..."

Elektra thrust her wrists further into Frank's face, "Un-cuff me, or I'll tell your superiors everything about your little production line. I will not hesitate."

A surge of rage and humility washed through Frank's veins, his face heating up to the point he was almost sweating under his uniform. Frank looked down at the girl underneath the veil of her mangled hair, and saw absolutely nothing shone in her dark eyes. He remembered why this girl was sent to prison in the first place. _This isn't just your typical boy-obsessed, angst-ridden sixteen year old, it's a goddamned _murderer_. A predatory animal in the guise of a semi-attractive teenage girl._

It sickened him how such a person could actually exist, "Listen here, you little twat," he hissed, poking his finger at her chest, "You think they're gonna fuckin believe a little teenage murderer like you? Not a _goddamn_ chance."

Elektra raised an eyebrow, "No? Then what's that joint of _rapture_ doing in my left pocket?"

Frank panicked for a moment, looked around and noticed the projection screen was currently showing the history of Marvel – nobody would be paying attention to them. Frank cursed under his breath as he dug into the girl's jumpsuit pocket and pulled out a small joint, resembling the one he found in Rusty's shoe yesterday night. It smelled of spice and a hint of something exotic. Rapture, no doubt.

Frank immediately pocketed the joint and came _this_ close to laying one right on Elektra Natchios. He had never lost his temper with a prisoner all the way before—sometimes it got out of hand with Rusty, but never with anyone else. He was usually calm. But today, with this brat, he had come so close. So damned close.

Frank didn't even have time to confront the girl about the joint and where she obtained it. He assumed immediately it was Rusty who put her up to this. He never saw them talking, but where else could she have gotten it from? Rapture was _his_ product.

Then the clapping and the music began. It was so loud and so out of the blue that he had to plug his ears.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is the moment you have_ all_ been waiting for! It is time for me to choose the man and woman who will be representing each and every one of you in the twenty-fourth annual _AVENGER GAMES!_"

The cheers and the snapping of cameras lit up the evening sky like fireworks.

Wilson Fisk was more enthusiastic than usual this year. It's partly due to District One making sure to up the ante of the festivities during the Reapings almost ten-fold. President Thanos really wanted to promote the idea of the Avenger Games being something to look forward to, from now on. Apparently, last year's viewership count had suspiciously sloped down some. This didn't make Thanos particularly happy, she could assume.

"Gentlemen first!" Wilson Fisk began his heavy-footed gait across the wooden stage.

Elektra practically shoved her handcuffed wrists into Frank's chest, "There's no time. _Please_, do this for me?"

The last thing Frank wanted to do was help this manipulative brat, but if he didn't, he knew this girl wasn't bluffing. Even if he took the joint away, what's to stop her from getting more? Who knows what else this kid has planned? She's dangerous, either way he puts it.

Frank cursed and brought out the key from under his jacket, and unlocked the chains from around her pale wrists. Elektra rubbed her hands together as he took off the handcuffs. "If this is some sort of trick, I swear to Galactus, kid...I will hunt your ass down. Got that?"

Elektra didn't even hear who had been called, but there was a volunteer already on the stage; she couldn't catch the boy's first name, "...Wilson," was all she managed to hear. He was a tall and sinewy kid, not nearly as tall as Wilson Fisk, but he reached his chin, and that's not many people in general.

With her hands finally free, Elektra was able to brush back her tangled hair just enough that it was free from her eyes. She recognized the bizarre mask he wore immediately.

_Wade Wilson._

Her mouth upturned into a sour grimace just thinking about him. Back when she was involved with notorious street-gang, The Hand, she would often hear stories of a boy in Dead-pool who wore a mask to conceal his scarred features.

She met him once when she was thirteen in a drug deal gone awry at a dingy apartment on the outskirts of One. Long story short, someone ratted them out, and the Sentinels came after them with dogs, full force. Back then, she didn't take too kindly to his smart remarks. They almost got into it, but the Sentinels gave chase and put an end to that story.

He _may_ have helped her escape. Maybe it was the other way around. The details were foggy.

"Everyone give it up for Wade, this year's _first_ volunteer!" Fisk clapped his meaty palms together approvingly.

"Time for the..._ladies_," he grinned. It almost made her sick to her stomach.

That's not to say she wasn't already. She literally felt knots turning inside. It was a terrible and nauseating feeling. It was the same feeling she had before she killed Bullseye two years ago. The adrenaline flowed through her body like electricity. Her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird. Nothing else mattered in the world.

She had been prepared for this moment – she knew what to expect. She'd seen it on television before. But nothing could really compare to the silence before the storm.

Wilson Fiske said a name...didn't he? He had to have read _something_. His mouth moved, and up ahead the crowd of girls began to shift. There was a name on that slip of paper, but she didn't hear it. She didn't hear anything.

She ran from the sidelines before Frank Castle even had a chance to stop her. He had good reach – but he was far too slow, like everyone else. He probably ran after her, but she didn't have time to look back.

Elektra ran through the audience like a bullet. She weaved through bodies seamlessly like she had practiced it dozens of times. People cursed at her, one even threw a drink at her.

A girl of about maybe five or six was dancing to the beat of some music that was playing from the speakers. She had dark hair, tan skin – she was almost an exact replica of Elektra from when she was younger. She was probably a sweet kid, and she didn't mean to be in the way. But she was, and unfortunately, she paid the price.

Elektra's knee careened into the young girl as she ran, knocking her at least a foot away. Elektra could have sworn she killed her. Wouldn't be the first time. She heard the piercing cry of a woman, presumably her mother, echo behind her.

Elektra paused mid-step, breath hitching, beads of sweat cascading down her temples. A girl wearing a track-suit was speeding down the aisle, while another wearing a bedazzled dress held her high-heels between her fingers, opting to run barefoot to the stage out of desperation.

Elektra glanced behind her—she didn't know what exactly caused her to do so. Maybe guilt, or at least the little she possessed. Several adults were caring to the young girl she had toppled over—one man glared at her with utter hatred.

She had a decision to make. It was an easy one, no doubt. Why the hell was she faltering? If she went back, she'd probably be hung. If she moved forward, she still had a chance to outrun the couple girls. She had only seen three.

A man wearing a thick jacket pointed his finger at her, and started shouting obscenities. She had no choice. She would go forward.

She ran, but it had already been too late.

"And it seems we have yet _another_ volunteer! What's your name, sweetheart?"

Elektra fell to her knees in the aisle.

She had failed. Because of a _stupid_ little girl.

She wanted to scream. To go up the stage and yank the bitch who beat her down the steps and unleash her fury. She wanted to do so many horrible things. But was it really worth it now?

"Emma! Emma Frost," it was the pretty blonde girl from earlier. The one that shoved her by accident. The one with all the friends.

Elektra's head sunk lower until it fell in between her knees. She didn't care who looked. She didn't care about anything.

Several hundred feet away, Frank stood frozen in place in the sidelines. He was _pissed_. Actually, pissed wasn't exactly the right word to describe how he felt. More like _fucking enraged_.

"So this kid thinks she can put me through all this shit for _nothing?_" Frank shoved through everybody in his path like a steamroller. Heads turned at the strange, grumbling bearded man walking through the crowd. People sought to tell him off, but once they saw the gun and uniform, they thought better of it.

Frank bypassed a crowd of people surrounding a little girl who had been knocked unconscious during the rush of volunteers. He shook his head and cursed.

He came upon the deflated form of Elektra, huddled down near the edge of the aisle like a goddamned turtle.

Frank wondered why the hell she didn't volunteer if it was something so precious to her. Then he noticed a blonde girl on the stage, out of breath, smiling, and posing with Wilson Fisk for a picture.

This was the last straw.

Frank kicked Elektra with his boot, "Hey, get up kid. Get up!"

The girl peeked up from beneath the black veil of her tangled hair, "What are you doing?"

Frank Castle was many terrible things, but he wasn't an asshole. Sure, the kid pissed him off today. But he couldn't hate her. He couldn't just let her get away with everything she did to him. Maybe because today, of all days, he wouldn't be _that_ guy.

He reached down, and with every ounce of rage bubbling inside him, grabbed Elektra by the collar of her jumpsuit, "You wanna volunteer, right? Then get your ass up there!"

She attempted to fight it, but he wasn't having it. Elektra was getting in these Games, whether anyone liked it or not. Wilson Fisk began to panic, "Uh, sir, I believe we already have a volunte-"

"I don't give a shit! She's the volunteer, now. Got that? Orders from the _mayor._" Frank practically shoved the girl onto the stage.

Wilson Fisk was perplexed, certainly. Everyone was. Technically, Emma_ hadn't_ signed the release...so she _hadn't_ volunteered yet.

Frank sarcastically waved to the blonde girl, who was infuriated beyond belief. But he didn't care. It just wasn't her year, "Sorry, kid. Better luck next time, eh?" Frank stuck his hands in his pockets, turned around, and never looked back.

Frank was proud of himself – he could be fired for this...probably imprisoned. He just embarrassed the entire nation on live television. And quite honestly, he couldn't give a damn. He was tired of kissing the chief's ass, anyway. If he's fired, then he's fired, right? Either way, this place was fucked. It always was, always will be. Least he won't be here when the ground opens up.

He didn't know where he'd end up for sure. Probably somewhere else after today. It'd be better to start packing as soon as possible. He'd hide out with his brother for a while in Four, maybe. It's been awhile since he's had sushi.

"Erm...what is your...name, girl?" Wilson Fisk was trying to wrap his head around what exactly he had just seen, but he'd been instructed not to dwell on it through his earpiece. **"Just roll with it,"** a deep voice stated through the headset. Wilson Fisk nodded. It was what it was, and what a Reaping _this_ had been.

Elektra looked just as perplexed as anyone else. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her eyes deep in thought. But she couldn't falter—not again. She was given a second chance. And she wasn't going to have it slip through her fingers.

"Elektra Natchios," she tried to smile a bit, but it looked like a grimace. She just went with that. There was no need to pretend.

The mayor looked like he was going to have a heart attack as he tried to sort through the rule book on the side. Officials scrambled to regain their bearings as they argued in hushed voices amongst themselves, and people in the audience looked completely misled.

Wilson Fisk sported a cheesy grin through the chaos, and handed the girl a scroll with an ink pen, although when Elektra tried to sign it, she found the pen didn't even work. "The pen doesn't work," she muttered, not exactly sure if anyone would hear her.

Wilson Fisk laughed nervously to the audience, "The pen doesn't work! Okay!" Fisk leaned over toward her ear, a sheen of sweat coated his face, causing it to shine, "Just pretend, kid, alright? _Alriiiiight,_" he smiled and waved to what seemed like no-one in particular. It was all just semantics for the cameras.

Wade approached Elektra as Fisk began to recite some sort of final monologue. The masked boy leaned against one of the wooden beam supports, "You know we're supposed to shake, right?"

She only ignored him.

Wade whistled, "Well_ someone's_ pissed," he joked.

Wade tilted his head at her, presumably to try to get a better read, then his head faltered downwards, "What's with the ugly suit?"

Wade hesitated for a moment, "Oh! Wait a minute, you're that chick from the papers, right? You know, the serial killer?" He gasped, pointing his finger at her as he talked, "You are, aren't you?" he laughed, "So, can I get an autograph?"

Elektra continued ignoring him—though secretly he was already starting to annoy her, she couldn't help but snap, "You're not funny, you know that, right?" She turned to him, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

Wade put his hands in the air, "Whoa, hey, calm down, officer! Sheesh..." Wade fondled with his mask a little and turned away, despite his intrigue.

After Wilson Fisk finished, he stepped over and awkwardly raised her arm, his giant palm engulfing her entire hand, "Everyone give it up for _Wade Wilson_ and uh..._Elektrick Natchios_! Your tributes for District One!" He held both tribute's arms in each hand and raised them for the camera—the microphone tumbling to the ground in the process, eliciting a sharp, high-pitched noise.

That was however, the least of Elektra's concerns, "It's _Elektra_. He got my fucking name wrong," she growled, but no-one could listen above the raucous applause from the audience.

Elektra couldn't tell if Wade was smiling underneath the cloth mask he wore, but given his enthusiasm, she wouldn't doubt it. Fisk was smiling...well, because he had to. Elektra's face, however, was devoid of expression. If she were to smile, it would be an act. Truthfully, she wasn't happy about the way her volunteering went down, with Frank and all. But it wouldn't have happened otherwise.

If it wasn't for Frank, she'd be back at Crossmore, probably placed in solitary for injuring a child and being an overall endangerment to society. She couldn't help it—everywhere she went, someone ended up getting hurt...badly. Most of the time it wasn't her fault.

Everything felt like slow motion. The sounds became muffled again and she felt completely out of place. Numerous faces stuck out to her in the audience. The first was the petite blonde girl, Emma, who had been the original volunteer before Frank stepped in. Her face mirrored Elektra's. That girl wasn't happy, but she didn't look furious either. There was inherent understanding between them, although her day had been ruined. There would always be _next year_.

The second was the strange boy with the red winter hat on his head. The one she'd seen in the crowd earlier. The one who kept staring at her.

But out of all the faces she recognized, she never did see Frank.

* * *

"Need some help there, Miss?"

Elektra was coming down the side-stairs after a photo-op with some of the reporters. She refused at first, but Fisk insisted it would help get her early sponsors. It helped her to remember that Wilson Fisk was the same man who managed to get four victors in a row. She wasn't going to argue with that.

"No, I'm fine," Elektra stepped down, but Fisk continued staring with his hand outstretched, "Really, I'm fine."

Fisk grinned a toothy grin at her, "I know, girl. I'm just testing you," the large man in white walked alongside her with a cane.

"...For?" Elektra brushed back her thick hair, irritated.

Fisk smiled devilishly, like he knew something about her that she didn't, "Trying to see what mentor would best suit you. If you were a boy I would have given you Ben—you both would do well together," he reached into his front pocket, pulling out a large cigar and sticking it into his mouth.

"What's it matter, anyway?" Elektra kicked a loose rock across the pavement, her eyes mesmerized with the movement.

"It doesn't, really. But_ Johnny_ likes coaching the _girls_," Fisk admitted with a chuckle.

Fisk stopped near the entrance to the Justice Building, "Follow this man, Miss. He'll take you to your room-"

"Not necessary," Elektra continued kicking the rock in an aloof manner.

"You sure? You don't want to talk to your family, friends...anybody?" Fisk puffed on his giant cigar.

"Nope. Everyone hates me," Elektra could sense a twang of annoyance in Fiske's tone. She could tell he was starting to hate her too. She has that effect on people.

Fisk squinted his eyes, "And your family? What about them?"

"Dead," she answered simply.

Fisk glanced at his golden watch and sighed, "Well...alright then. I suppose we'll head to the station. We'll be a bit early though. Train doesn't leave until three."

"That's fine," Elektra kicked the rock hard enough that it landed across the street, near the black gate to the entrance of the Victors Village. _It's most likely the closest I'll ever come to it,_ she thought glumly.

She caught a glimpse of Wade's mask as he was escorted into the Justice Building. Funny, she never took Wade Wilson for the family type.

Elektra was the only one on the train when Fisk brought her on. The entire cabin was luxuriously designed, with all the seats a maroon satin. It reminded her of the house she lived in when she was younger. This place had a different stench though, like a thick blend of perfume and wine.

Fisk had to duck his head to even fit into the car, but even that barely helped. "Help yourself to some elegant wine, or cigars if you're into that thing. Food's over there in the corner...and bathrooms are through that door on the right. We've just about got it all, Miss." Fisk looked almost proud of himself.

Elektra nodded and collapsed onto one of the seats near a window, waiting for the minutes to pass. Her head fell into her arms on the table, exhaustion catching up with her.

Wilson was about to turn and leave, but he gasped in surprise, fumbling for something on the inside of his suit pockets, "I almost forgot...uh...kid wanted me to give you this, Miss. Some _boy..._"

Her head popped up. Wilson threw her a soft, red winter beanie. It was the exact same one the boy in the audience had been wearing when she spotted him. The texture was silky soft, and it looked knitted.

"Some sort of hat, is it?" Fisk asked, rubbing his chin curiously.

"Yeah...something like that." _But it isn't hers._

She couldn't stop looking at it. If felt like she didn't deserve it...like it didn't belong to her. "Did the boy give you a name?"

Fisk shook his head, "Just said to give it to the girl who volunteered."

"Huh," Elektra didn't want to wear it. Not yet. But it looked comfortable, and it was very warm to the touch.

Fisk gave another long drag of his cigar, "Hold onto it. _That_ right there will be your token. And don't wear it till' we get to the Capitol. We'll probably fit it into your design or something." The escort left the car, but poked his head back in, "Don't get too cozy – I'll be back with Wade in fifteen...and uh, clean yourself up a little bit, will you? You look like a criminal or something," he added before the train doors shut.

In the silence that filled the empty train car, Elektra tried to ponder the meaning behind the red hat, but came up with nothing. It frustrated her, and she threw the hat across the table and leaned back, taking all of today in with a deep breath.

_Frank._

_Wade._

_The red hat._

_There were too_ many unanswered questions. Too many complexities at play here. Quite frankly, it disturbed her.

All she could do was hope she had it in her to change after this was all over. To redeem herself. To wipe the slate. Everything in her life leading up to this very day had become irrelevant. All the blood-shed, all the violence, all the sin...

She was never going to change her ways in prison had she stayed. _Never._

But today—volunteering for the Avenger Games, she knew was a promising start. Whatever she did before didn't matter. From this very second to the second she dies, her path to redemption had begun.

Her eyes flickered to the red hat lying on the table, and a tear welled up as she begin to consider; realizing full well in her futile quest, that she may not be alive to give the hat back.


	3. Chapter 2: Trained Killers

**(A/N) Hey all, time for another update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we look to the Reaping of our District Two tributes! The response had been fantastic, and I hope you'll all be pleased with what we have in store for you all as we go through all of our writers and character. This time we're featuring the works of the sensational GeekyChic123 and the magnificent DeadWoman, and they did not let down! **

**Gonna thank both KJAX89 and TheMetaReborn for their reviews, it really means a lot to us. Regarding the Punisher and Elektra, we'll be featuring just as many character that people with only a passing familiarity with Marvel will be aware of, but the important thing is that they stand alone from their sources. Knowing who they are in the comics or films just helps increase the enjoyment. The Punisher's a great character, but hasn't received a lot of love filmwise yet, though with the Defenders Netflix series coming out, it's only a matter of time! Elektra is a Daredevil villain, and was played by Jennifer Garner in the Daredevil film, and actually got a spin-off of her own. Unfortunately, both were…well, they weren't great. **

**Anywho, time to leave you all to this Reaping! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Two – Trained Killers**

**District Two Reaping**

**Written by GeekyChic123 &amp; DeadWoman**

* * *

**Natasha Romanoff of District One**

**Written by GeekyChic123**

* * *

_"I have said that she had no face; but that meant she had a thousand faces"_

― C.S. Lewis, _Till We Have Faces_

* * *

She had been waiting for this day, training for it, hoping it would happen ever since she was recruited by the Red Room. Watching each year pass ever since she turned twelve, hoping this would be the year that the Room would finally ask her to volunteer. Wondering if they would ever think she was good enough to compete in the Avenger Games. For years she had watched her comrades volunteer, wishing she could be in their place. Natasha had envied them as they stepped forward, and been disgusted when they failed. Every year she watched the games, imagining what she would do if she was one of the tributes, preparing herself for the day she would be asked to volunteer. Telling herself that day would certainly come, someday.

Natasha Romanoff was seventeen years old, and part of an underground organization in District Two that went by the name of The Red Room. A group run by people who made a living off of raising children to fight, volunteering them for the Avenger Games, and then collecting the winnings of any Tributes that won. That was the theory anyway. The group had only been around for a little over a decade, and none of their recruits had actually _won_ yet – though a couple of years ago the girl who'd helped train Natasha had come close to winning. Of course, _close_ wasn't good enough. Coming close wasn't the same thing as surviving.

Natasha had been with the Room for as long as she could remember – the only thing she knew about her family was that they had been struggling with poverty, and had given her up to a recruiter from the Red Room for a tidy sum of money.

The Room was her family now.

From day one they had taught her skills that would keep her alive once she participated in the games. Natasha knew how to throw a knife, take down someone twice her size in hand to hand combat, build a fire out of almost anything, cook a meal out of nothing. The Room taught its recruits how to survive. And Natasha was one of their top students.

She had trained hard, learned quickly, and always been at the top of every class she was placed in. Still, every year the Games rolled around, and every year Natasha watched as other recruits were asked to volunteer by those who ran the Red Room. She _knew_ she was better than those who were chosen, and had asked again and again if she could volunteer. Natasha had insisted she was ready, eager to give back to the Red Room, to make them proud. Even if that meant giving up her life in the games. Still year after year others had been chosen in her place.

Until now, the year of the twenty-fourth Avenger Games. The year Natasha had finally been asked to volunteer. The year she was sure a recruit from the Red Room was finally going to win.

* * *

It was the morning of the Reaping, and Natasha could not believe this was finally happening. On the outside she looked calm and collected, she was cleaning out her cramped room, knowing that no matter what the outcome of her participation in the Avenger Games, she would never return to this place again.

Natasha knew she would not be able to bring anything with her to the arena – well, nothing other than her token. She wasn't going to miss any of the things or people that she was leaving behind today. She was ready to finally move on with her life. Ok, she had to be honest, she was probably going to miss her knives.

_Too bad you can't bring your own weapons into the arena._

Oh well, she would get plenty of new toys to play with in the training room, and later on, the Arena.

Suddenly the sound of brisk knocking filled Natasha's room, and she barely had time to turn and face her door before it opened. It was one of the other recruits, old enough to have been trained for a few years, but too young to be eligible for the Reaping yet. The girl looked nervous, and avoided Natasha's eye's as she spoke.

"Comrade Romanoff, Commander Petrovich would like to speak to you, before we have to leave for the reaping. You have been ordered to report immediately." Natasha instantly dropped the shirt she had been folding, and nodding curtly at the nervous girl, left the room and began walking to her commander's office.

The Red Room was in a warehouse on the edge of the District Two. It had once been used to hold supplies for the Sentinels, but now housed children who were trained to become weapons. Natasha walked briskly past the rooms where young recruits were kept, through one of the training rooms, empty for once as everyone was getting ready to go to the reaping. She soon arrived at the office of the man who had founded the Red Room – someone she had only met a handful of times in her life. First when she was brought here as a four year old, and told this was her home now. Then, when she was eight, and learned she was a potential candidate to volunteer for the games one day. When she learned that she had passed the tests, and instead of being tossed back out on the streets would continue her training. The only other time Natasha had been in this room, was last week. When she was told it was finally _her_ turn, _her_ time, to volunteer to fight in the twenty fourth annual Avenger Games.

Natasha knocked on the door quickly and waited nervously for an answer from the other side – no, she couldn't seem nervous or unsure, not now, not ever. She had wanted this for as long as she could remember, if she showed any signs of weakness or uncertainty, Commander Petrovich could easily switch her out for another recruit at the last minute. It wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened.

"Come in!" the harsh voice called out. Smoothing down her outfit and tucking a wayward stray of red hair behind her ear, Natasha entered the room. "Hello sir, Comrade Romanoff reporting to speak with you as requested." Natasha swung her hand up in a crisp salute until a nod from her superior said she could simply stand at attention.

"Natasha Romanoff, welcome! Well, well, well, this is indeed a special day. I imagine you must be very excited."

Natasha nodded, "Yes sir. I have been waiting for this since I was recruited."

Ivan Petrovich nodded, a slim smile on his face. "Indeed, you have been waiting for a long time. As you are aware we could have put you forward several years ago, but we thought it was in everyone's best interest to wait until you were more than ready to participate in, and win the Avenger Games."

Ivan's cold eyes roamed over Natasha's body, he nodded approvingly. "You are one of the best recruits we've ever had – possibly one of the best we ever will have. We have high expectations for you Romanoff, very high. As you know we have never had one of our recruits win – not yet. But I have a very, very good feeling about you. Yes, I am quite sure that you are not going to disappoint us."

Natasha simply nodded her head, murmuring, "Thank you sir."

Inside she was thrilled - all that she wanted was to give back to the Red Room, and win the Games for the people who had raised her, turned her into who she was today. And now, the man who had founded the entire group had told her he was confident she would win. How could she not, now?

* * *

It was time for the Reaping, and for the first time that day Natasha felt a tremor of pure fear in the pit of her stomach. It was probably because of the thick layer of tension hanging over the heads of the crowd that had gathered for the Reaping of the twenty-fourth Avenger Games. Natasha made her way through an anxious swarm of younger children registering for their first reaping, and over to the roped in ring where the girls of District Two had gathered.

Natasha stood at the edge of the ring close to the stage, preparing herself for what she was about to do. She listened to the hundreds of conversations whirling around her, and lost herself in the voices. People were reassuring each other, joking about volunteering, talking about what they wanted to cook for dinner, wondering what kind of outfit the District Six escort would wear this year, making bets on who was going to get reaped.

Natasha should have felt excited right now – she had waited for this her entire life. Instead as she listened to the friends and families around her, she couldn't help but feel…lonely. She was the only girl in this year's Red Room class, she had no friends there. And most of the people she saw outside of The Room were vague acquaintances at best. Natasha wanted to volunteer in the games, it was the focal point of her entire life. But what if instead she was actually reaped? Would anyone care? Volunteer in her place? Natasha angrily tossed her hair back away from her face, and told herself to stop thinking such idiotic thoughts. She didn't want anyone to volunteer in her place. And she didn't need friends. She would have plenty of time for those once she won the Games. And who cares if no one in this massive crowd cared about her, her teachers and trainers from the Room did.

That was more than enough.

Wasn't it?

The keening feedback of a microphone interrupted Natasha's thoughts. Edwin Jarvis, the man who had been the District Two escort for many, many years now was making his way onto the stage. A beaming smile was on his face, and he was waving brightly at the crowd of people in front of him, who were waiting to learn if a child in their life was going to join a fight to the death on TV. He was wearing a tuxedo that looked far too warm for this sweltering weather, and the garish orange and bright blue colours of the suit made Natasha's eyes ache if she looked at it for too long.

"Welcome, to the Reaping of the twenty-fourth annual Avengers Games!" Jarvis crowed, in his unusually thick Capitol accent. "I am so very pleased to see each of you here today, and beyond excited to meet two wonderful new tributes, from my favourite district!" The crowd clapped politely, and Jarvis waved to the large screen behind him.

"And now, to kick off the Reaping, let's watch a film the Capitol has so kindly provided for us!"

The movie that was shown before the reaping every year was played on the screen, Natasha practically had it memorized. How many years had she stood here, watching this film, wishing it was the day she was going to step forward and volunteer? Well that day was finally here. So why was she so nervous? She was just having last minute jitters. Once she got on that stage she would surly feel nothing but joy.

The film ended, and now Jarvis was rambling about something, but Natasha wasn't listening. This was her moment. As soon as she stepped forward to volunteer, the entire land of Marvel was going to know her name. And she was going to make sure they never forgot it.

Jarvis had moved towards the large glass bowls, over flowing with slips of paper. "Now then, ladies first. Just let me pick one of these slips – unless we have someone who would like to volunteer." Jarvis chuckled as he said this, laughing at his own joke. Natasha had leapt forward raising her hand before he even finished laughing.

"I would like to volunteer as tribute!" she cried out, as the children around her pulled away, most of them gasping. Volunteers were common in District Two, but someone volunteering before a name had even been called was an oddity – not considered exactly polite, really, but if Natasha didn't do this now she was going to burst. Jarvis froze for a second, eyes darting to the cameras, fingers dancing over the slips of paper beneath his hand. "Oh, well, okay then! It seems that we have this year's female tribute. What an extremely pleasant surprise! Why don't you just step right up here then, young lady."

It felt like she was in a dream as the people around Natasha moved out of her way, and a Sentinel took her hand and helped her up the stairs of the stage. The only sound Natasha could hear was the hushed rustling of the crowd that was staring at the young girl who they all felt had just volunteered to be killed. Jarvis did his signature bow, and then shook Natasha's hand. It was colder than she thought it would be. And a bit sweaty.

"Congratulations young lady, welcome to the Avenger Games! I am sure that the audience is looking forward to getting to know you better. I know that I certainly am!" Natasha plastered a practiced shy smile on her face, and giggled like the type of girl she despised. She shot a coy look at the nearest camera, and then pretending to be overcome with shyness quickly looked away. "Oh Jarvis, it is such a pleasure to meet you, and I certainly can't wait to get to know you better, along with as many of the Capitol citizens that I get the honour of meeting. I've always loved the Capitol, and the games, I can't believe this is happening!" Another giggle. "Excuse me for babbling, I'm just so excited!"

Jarvis looked thoroughly delighted, and finally stopped shaking Natasha's hand. "Why of course you are. Now, let's hurry up and finish the Reaping so we can all meet our other tribute, and get you to the Capitol!"

Ok, Natasha could do this. She had been practicing this persona for months. She could play the idiotic, Capitol-loving bimbo, who volunteered because she wanted to see the city she loved so much, and soak up a bit of fame. With some luck, (and carefully cultivated acting skills) instead of seeing her as a threat the others would look at her as a shy stupid Marvel-loving girl, who volunteered for something she wasn't ready for. They would target her instantly.

And then?

Natasha would be ready to destroy them.

Now she bounced out of the way, smiling giddily as Jarvis reached into the second glass bowl. He fumbled with the names, with the lives and fates of a thousand different children. He finally came up with a scrap of paper, and slowly opened it. "And, the male tribute is….." Jarvis paused, probably on purpose, to make the moment more dramatic, filled with more tension. It worked. Finally Jarvis said the name. "Matt Liebowicz!"

Before Natasha could process the name, feel relief she didn't recognize it as that of a recruit from another organization, she heard a hushed silence descend upon the crowd. A young boy was walking down the path now, and Natasha's first thought was that certainly this would be an easy target for her in the games. But then, before she could even begin to hate herself for thinking that, she heard someone shout from the crowd. "I volunteer!" The crowd gasped, and when Natasha saw who was striding up towards the stage, she felt like gasping too.

_Clint Barton._

Their paths had crossed a handful of times before, she'd almost broke his arm in a fight exercise once. He was a skilled fighter, and more than competent with a bow. He would be anything but an easy target. She had once thought that he might become her friend. She swallowed hard, and smiled wider as she fought off the few memories she had of Barton. When they were the last two fighting, and after she knocked him down he just laughed and claimed it was a fair fight. He always smiled at her when their paths crossed, he seemed so nice. Natasha found herself filled with even more dread now because she knew it would be difficult to take down Barton. It _wasn't_ because Clint was one of the few people who had been at all nice to her…someone who had the potential to be a friend. Someone she was probably going to have to kill now.

Clint was on stage now, he and Jarvis were saying something, but Natasha wasn't listening, until she heard the words "Shake hands!" Jarvis was grinning, he looked insane. Natasha grinned, and giggled as she shook Clint's hand, But inside, all she felt was a grim sort of dread. Clint was a survivor, he wasn't going to go down easily. Natasha didn't see Clint as a friend – more like a potential friend, someone who might understand her after the Games ended. After she won. And now, shaking his hand, she couldn't look him in the eyes. Because all she could think about was killing him, watching the life leave his eyes, looking down and seeing his blood on her hands. Her hand squeezed slightly around his, she couldn't help it. She wasn't sure if it was an apology for what she was going to have to do, or a goodbye to what might have been.

Jarvis grabbed the hands of the two tributes, and held them up above their heads. "Ladies and gentlemen! I GIVE YOU THE DISTRICT Two TRIBUTES OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH AVENGER GAMES!"

Natasha smiled joyfully, waved at the crowd, and told herself that she was happy. That all of her dreams were coming true. That she would be able to kill Clint, without question.

* * *

Natasha continued pretending as she was escorted back to the waiting rooms, waving to the indifferent crowd behind her, and acting as if she was the happiest girl in the entire country. It wasn't until the door closed behind her that the mask she had been hiding behind dropped from Natasha's face.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, stomach churning with nerves. Was this _really_ happening? Yes, of course it was. She, Natasha Romanoff had volunteered for, was finally going to fight in, the Avenger Games. She was going to fight Barton, and defeat anyone who crossed her path. This was happening. She had spent her entire life preparing for this, but right now all she could do was wait to be escorted onto the train to the Capitol.

So, for the next hour Natasha sat in the waiting room. Alone. Wondering if anyone might come say farewell to her, knowing that no one would. No one from the Red Room would come visit her at least – she knew that much. Anyone who came to see her now would have their names put on record, so they could be interviewed if the tribute they visited was lucky enough to make it long enough in the Avenger Games, to the point where tributes family or friends were brought onto the show. If all went well and Natasha made it through the games, anyone who visited her now could be brought up for an interview at some point. And it wasn't like they could interview her personal trainer, or the man who had taught her how to kill someone with nothing but her bare hands and a fork. If that happened the entire Red Room would probably go under an investigation, and be shut down.

Natasha told herself she didn't care as each moment ticked by, and still no one came. She had expected this, but didn't think it would hurt as much as it did now. She'd mastered the art of going unnoticed in a crowd, the subtlety of getting the most out of any situation when giving the least. Red Room trainees didn't have time for friends, so Natasha had not made any. But as far as everyone knew, she was almost definitely headed off to her death. And not one person wanted to come say goodbye? Didn't _anyone_ care if Natasha Romanoff lived or died?

Natasha tried to think of a single person who might actually want to see her one last time, but could not think of anyone who was not a trainer from the Red Room, or in a couple cases, already dead from previous Games. No, wait, come to think of it, Barton probably would have come to visit her – If he wasn't in the next room, waiting to get on the same train as her.

There was nothing to do in here, and the only window in the room was facing the wall of the nearest building. Not much of a view. So, Natasha spent the next hour thinking over how she was going to have to act for the next few days, and tracing her fingers over the token she was going to bring into the arena – the tattoo that was embedded into the skin on the back of her neck. The tattoo of a Black Widow spider. It was her code name, on all the documents the Room had on her, and the one used in all of the mock battle exercise she had participated in. It would remind her of who she truly was, and what she was capable of doing. Everyone was going to think that she was just another pretty face, the Capitol-loving fool who wanted nothing more than to see the pretty city, and experience a bit of luxury. But the tattoo was going to remind her of who she truly was. A conniving, capable, highly trained killer.

Who _was_ going to survive this.

The hour was almost up, it was now official – No one cared enough to say goodbye to Natasha Romanoff before she went to her death. That was fine. She didn't care. Everyone would love her after the Games. She would show all of them. No one cared about her now, but give it a month and Natasha would be the darling of the Capitol. Forget about District Two, she didn't care about anyone here anyway.

This is what Natasha told herself as a Sentinel opened the door to the waiting room, and announced it was time to board the train.

* * *

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

_"In the end that was the choice you made, and it doesn't matter how hard it was to make it. It matters that you did."_

― Cassandra Clare, _City of Glass_

* * *

Clint woke up, a smile lingering on his face from the dream he'd just been having. He could only remember flashes of red hair, a figure running through trees and the light melody of a song his mother used to sing to him, but it had been the happiest dream he had had in a while. His sleep was often filled with twisted nightmare lands. Memories and fears often combined to give him the worse night sleep possible.

He reached out for his hearing aid and placed it in his ear with a heavy sigh. The morning sounds he had become accustomed to hearing came suddenly flooding in his ear; the hissing of the coffee machine downstairs, the heating system starting up, a groaning and creaking in the walls and then the sound of grunting as fists hit the punching bag in Buck's office. Judging by the heavy blows, Clint guessed that Buck wasn't in a great mood that morning. He never was on reaping day.

_"Always losing my best fighters to the damn Games,"_ he had told him once, and Clint had just nodded. He had lost friends, good fighters, to the Games because they had been too bold, thinking that they were the best at fighting when they were just the tip of the iceberg. Last year, the victor of the twenty-third Games, James Rhodes, had personally killed a new boy from S.A.F.E.

S.A.F.E. stood for Secret Armed Fighting Enterprise; which was an underground criminal organisation in District Two. If you wanted a safe home and shelter, you joined up. If you wanted money or power, you joined. Ultimately, it was a fighting ring run by Buck Chisholm and funded by the most influential people in the District. Clint had joined a few years back when his mother died and he was left with no other choice, bar starving. He had been told that she was murdered, but not how or who had murdered her. He had instantly become a sort of success in the fighting ring with several wins and, of course, his extraordinary talent with a bow and arrow. That was just the start. Buck and various other trainers that usually prepped people for the Games had trained him into a killing machine. Of course, he hadn't killed anyone in the ring yet; that was rare – a yearly treat if the people who funded it could make a reasonable excuse about why they died. S.A.F.E. wasn't exactly a secret from the Sentinels or the mayor and the district's political parties, and certainly not from the Capitol, but generally a blind eye was turned to their activities. However, for ordinary citizens, it was a myth.

Clint got out of bed, thinking that dwelling on the past wouldn't change the future, and slipped into his jacket. He always went to bed wearing his clothes. He had learnt the lesson the hard way years back after being forced to do a group training exercise at half two in the morning in his pyjamas with the gorgeous female trainees from the Red Room. It had been humiliating. Although dating wasn't high on his list of purposeful and important things to do, he had to admit that one of the trainees, Natasha...Romanoff, seemed different from the rest.

She was just as vicious, violent and cold as the others but even from their brief meetings, throughout the stony silences, he had felt that she was different, somehow, from the rest of the Red Room recruits.

"Barton!" There was a knock at his bedroom door and he hesitated before opening it. Buck stood there, still wearing boxing gloves, the leather cracked with age, despite the fact that he could afford new ones. Buck's eyes, dull and as blank as always, bore into Clint's own and Clint stepped back, biting his lip. The pain as his teeth tore his delicate lip distracted him from the anger radiating from his instructor. "Get into the training room now," he snapped.

Bile rose in Clint's throat and he balled his hand into a fist as he stepped back again, wanting the distance between him and Buck to be more than a metre. He wanted it to be miles, he wanted Buck to be cold and buried in a rotting cemetery. "It's Reaping Day," he reminded the older man. He was trying to disguise the panic in his voice but obviously not well enough.

"So? You'll still be on time to see your name not get picked, Barton."

"I thought..." Clint stopped when he realised his fist was rising, preparing to hit Buck, hurt him anyway possible. Reaping Day was a time to be quiet, to get ready, look good, go to the reaping, talk over whoever had been picked and go home. There wasn't any training on Reaping Day. His hand repetitively traced the scar on his arm, made by an arrow nicking his arm as Buck used him as target practice. How long ago was that? Two, three years?

When he was alone, he would strip down to the essentials and stare at himself in the mirror, telling himself the stories of every bruise, every cut and every scar. The burn mark on his ankles from when he ran across a path of fire as his initiation to S.A.F.E. was the most prominent; brown-purple and it still throbbed sometimes when the weather got too cold.

Buck was speaking, his mouth opening and closing, but Clint's hearing aid was buzzing in his ear, obviously broken. Not surprising, really, given how lucky he was to have even gotten one in the first place. In one of the Outlier districts, he wouldn't have had a hope in hell. Clint pressed down on the scar as the buzz got louder and Buck's face got angrier. _Two more minutes of ranting,_ he guessed, _then he'll hit me and I can get out of here._ The Avengers Games; obviously his way out of this damn district and out of S.A.F.E. He had to volunteer. He didn't want to, but he had little other choice. If he won, he could ask to move to another district, he thought, somewhat irrationally, and maybe track down his father, and if he lost, at least he didn't have to come back.

* * *

The sun was too hot on the back of his neck as he walked around District Two, marvelling at how he had never noticed how beautiful his district could be sometimes. He supposed that you never really noticed the good parts until you were leaving. The nostalgic part of him – a very small part peppered with memories from his childhood before S.A.F.E. – was flashing memories of him laughing and playing with his friends. He once had _friends_. What happened to them? He couldn't remember. He had just stopped talking to them, stopped bothering to acknowledge them in the streets and at school. Maybe they were dead. Maybe some had been tributes.

His walk brought him to the square just as the clock chimed twelve. The square was almost filled and with the camera crews already filming, the whole place had a solemn mood.

Clint's hands shook as he nodded at some other recruits who were gathered in the crowds of people. The bitter taste of blood still lingered in his mouth from the cuts on his lips and he was still shaking. After a beating, he usually only spent five minutes wallowing in self-pity, at the same time storing the memory away in his mind. One day he knew the dam was going to burst if he didn't deal with all the ache and pain, but he couldn't afford to mend himself up, psychologically, after every tormenting experience.

Now, however, images of hands, belts, and blood kept flashing in front of his eyes, making him feel sick and sweaty.

"You okay?"

Someone grabbed his arm as the world spun. Clint nodded absently and walked into the section roped off for his age group and neighbourhood. The stifling groups of people crowding him and the conversations of everyone in the square allowed him to go unnoticed. He wiped his eyes and dabbed at his bloody lips with his sleeve in the moments of anonymity he had left before every camera at the reaping would be on him. The thought that the whole world of Marvel would be watching him soon, that he would be interviewed, made him nervous. He wasn't great at crowds because he was used to being alone, and in the quiet of his own thoughts.

He tuned back into his surroundings. The people around him were discussing trivial things, who would be chosen, and more importantly, who would volunteer in their place, one girl was worrying about her brother who was eligible for Reaping for the first time this year. Clint recognised her from the rare times he had bothered to attend school, so he tried to give her a reassuring smile. She just stared at him and he remembered that he wasn't supposed to be social. He had been taught that friends – allies, even – were weaknesses that he couldn't afford. Buck always said that the other boys weren't anything special. Clint was special. He had never, in his life, missed what he was aiming for.

Except once. When Buck was sleeping, Clint had walked into his room, a gun in his hand. The cold metal had a comforting solidity. It was a weapon for death and Clint had held it to Buck's head.

He hadn't pulled the trigger.

Of course he hadn't. He was a coward. Cowards want the easy way out and the easy way out was volunteering.

The film that they showed every year had just finished and Clint tuned back into reality. Edwin Jarvis, District Two's never-changing escort, was beaming like twenty-three children weren't going to be murdered. It always shocked him how the Capitol citizens didn't seem to process that the Games were murder. They forced tributes to kill each other over and over, thinking it was for the good of Marvel. It never had done Clint any good, and he still couldn't quite understand how almost the entirety of District Two could enjoy watching the Avenger Games. Sure, people liked volunteering for the pride and honour of winning or going down fighting, he could understand that…but _watching_ them do it?

_I guess it just doesn't seem real to them either,_ he reflected, knowing that most of them, unlike him, had never known what it meant to fight for your life.

"Ladies first," Jarvis announced and Clint watched as he chuckled and added, "Unless we have someone who would like to volunteer."

Of course, barely a second had passed before someone took him up on that offer. "I would like to volunteer as tribute!"

All he saw was a figure jumping forward, her voice loud and desperate like she was scared no-one would hear her. Natasha Romanoff, from the Red Room, walked up onto the stage. The rest of the world seemed to fall silent as she smiled and giggled and gushed. He knew it was all an act. A power play. People would think she was an easy target and then she would strike. Anyone else might have been fooled by her act, but he wasn't. He had acted enough himself to know when others were. It was a curse more than a blessing.

Finally, after spending a moment congratulating her and smiling for the camera, Jarvis walked to the other ball. He fumbled around the slips of paper before drawing out one with a smile. "And the male tribute is..." There was a tense moment, Clint half-expecting himself to volunteer as she had done. "Matt Liebowicz!"

The name meant nothing to Clint hush that descended upon the crowd as a twelve year old boy started walking made him spring into action. "I volunteer!" he yelled out. The boy stopped and stared, hope dawning on his face.

"I volunteer," he repeated. Maybe he could find hope in the arena. Unlikely, but he could always dream.

Once he was up on the stage, Jarvis turned to him, a wry smile on his face. Then he nodded. It was a sombre gesture and for a moment he didn't look like a Capitol citizen. Then it was gone and Jarvis was beaming again. Clint just scanned the crowd. Buck's disbelieving face was almost hidden by masses of people but it was there. That almost made him smile. He couldn't be hurt anymore. Not by Buck at least. If he was far away from his problems, maybe his problems couldn't hurt him.

"Shake hands," Jarvis instructed with a grin almost as ridiculous as his garish suit.

Clint turned to Natasha. Her eyes searched his as she giggled. No matter how much she fooled the audience, he could see the grimness in her eyes. She remembered him.

_Another fighter like her. _

_Someone who had to survive._

His hand gripped hers and they shook. For a second, and Clint thought he had imagined this, he was sure that he felt her squeeze his hand gently. But he had to let go and stuffed his hand into his pocket. It was just his imagination of course. But...she was avoiding his eyes.

Maybe volunteering wasn't the easy way out after all.

* * *

Clint waited in the room, thinking of the other tributes. During his wait for visitors, he had time to scare himself and regret his decision then remember that he had to do this now.

_Till death do us part,_ he thought with a smirk. _Quite literally._ He could either die in the arena or die, knowing that he had seen people, possibly his allies, be killed and that he's watched kids being killed for years and years.

The heavy doors creaked open and he glanced up. It was a woman he had seen moving forward when the younger boy had been called out – his mother, no doubt. A flash of disappointment struck him then he wondered who he thought it was. It couldn't be _her_ because tributes weren't allowed to visit each other. "Thank you," she whispered, "for volunteering."

"I didn't-" he stopped. He could use his heroics to an advantage in the arena. It was cunning and he felt slightly sick about doing this but the woman owed it to him. It was a tactic he had to use. He ensured her son's survival. "You're welcome. I do expect you to help sponsor me, however."

The woman nodded enthusiastically. "Of course, of course," she said quickly. "Thank you. Thank you."

She left. Clint wondered who she was, how relieved she must be that her son had been saved, how much she owed him. He wasn't a hero but part of him, a small part, was pleased that he had volunteered for the boy. The sick feeling the mother must have gotten, he could almost relate to it. All those years of S.A.F.E. fighters volunteering and getting reaped...people he knew had been killed. That was the usual thing in the Red Room training but he wasn't part of the Red Room. He was a fighter, not a spy. He was built for the arena. As long as he had archery equipment, he could win easily. Hide away in a tree somewhere with food, picking off people as they walked past. It was sickening how easy those thoughts were. He looked out of the window and saw that the streets were as busy as usual. The excitement from the reaping had disappeared and everyone was going home. No families would be mourning this year; a comforting thought but not so comforting for him.

Fed up of pacing, Clint sat down on a velvet chair and watched the clock. A long half an hour passed before the doors opened again. Buck. Clint stood up and backed away. Despite the acidic feeling churning in his stomach, he knew that he couldn't be hurt anymore. The Sentinels were outside the doors and the doors were open.

"You _volunteered?_" Buck spat out. Clint wrapped his arms around himself as he felt himself shake. The blurred vision he was now associating with cold and dark fear came back and he grabbed the chair back to steady himself. "You're leaving me, Barton, and I don't think that you'll be coming back. If you do win, don't come crawling back to me. People realise how beneficial my training is in the arena. You'll be thanking me and owing me your life _if_ you survive."

_Heavy if_, Clint thought.

"I don't owe you anything and I never will. But if I come back, you'll be my protector again, right? You'll forgive me because I'm famous and rich. Every boy will want a place in S.A.F.E. They'll think they have a chance of winning the Games too." Clint shook his head in disgust. He thought of his heart being covered in steel and let go of the chair. He was strong. He could stand by himself. He could face his fears. "I'm not afraid of you anymore. And I _never_ will be afraid again."

Buck snorted. "Good luck, kid. I mean it. At least if you win, you'll bring me good business, just like you said. And if you die, I couldn't care less." With that, he walked out, leaving him alone again.

He thought of Romanoff. Sat in the next room, possibly as alone as he was. He had no real connections to anyone. The tributes in other districts all had families they wanted to protect, friends and girlfriends. The closest he had to a friend was Romanoff. He could easily list her skill sets from the numerous training sessions the Red Room and S.A.F.E. had done together. Maybe she was with someone now.

The thought of the woman who has visited him made him feel sick. She thought him a hero. He was nothing but a killer. A killer with no sense of purpose other than to save his own skin. But the Games could change him. If he saved someone, if he sacrificed his own life for someone else...then he would be a true hero.

For a while, he let tears run down his face before wiping them away. He then sat in silence with his sour thoughts until a Sentinel came and told him it was time to go.

The walk to the train station was excruciatingly slow. People were staring and then calling out things. "Good luck" and "Congratulations" were the majority of the calls, but some people were praying, no doubt hoping for a District Two victor this year. Clint had never been one for religion but the idea comforted him. However, the thought of people praying for him unnerved him. Being prayed for meant that something was going to happen to him. Something that meant he needed everyone's prayers.

And maybe, just maybe, he did.


	4. Chapter 3: A Hidden Grudge

**(A/N) Time now for the next update in In the End, You Always Kneel, introducing two fantastic new writers (the smashing Talia-tai and the smoshing - smashing but in a posher accent - XxBrendaMichelexX) and characters, that I'll only keep you from for a moment more. A big thanks to HungerG94, Lola A, KJAX86 and TheMetaReborn for reviewing since our last update - we're so glad you guys are all enjoying this fic, because we're having a blast writing it. Hopefully that'll continue on both of our parts in the future - who am I kidding, of course it will.**

**Welcome to the District Three Reaping, all. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three – A Hidden Grudge**

**District Three Reaping**

**Written by ****Taila-tai &amp; XxBrendaMichelexX**

* * *

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

**(Talia-tai's Note) I'm part of collaboration...Oh golly gosh. I can't believe it... am honoured right now. I hope you guys like this, worked really hard with my beautiful District partner Brenda!**

* * *

_"You were given this life because you were strong enough to live it."_ – Unknown

* * *

The heat was oppressive, bearing down with an impossible weight on the young body cowering under a pile of blankets. Resisting the urge to kick off his comforter, Tony spun over, staring out the window longingly. The sun was beginning to rise, bringing a beautiful hint of purple and red to the otherwise dark sky. Even with the beauty, Tony felt his stomach tighten in knots the longer he watched the orb of fire get higher.

Today was the day.

_The Reaping._

Letting out a groan, Tony rolled onto his back, now being met with the plain white of his ceiling. "Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety nine bottles of beer..." he trailed off with a sigh, sitting up and letting the blanket pool at his waist like some ethereal mist. "Take one down, pass it around..."

Snorting, he kicked the blankets off childishly, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. "Pass it around?" he questioned, pushing himself to his feet. "Doubtful."

Bare feet padded gently against the polished oaken floor as the teen wandered over to his closet, now against the idea of feigning sleep. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep, why his stomach was housing what felt like a swarm of wasps...Sighing he pulled a clean black shirt on, yawning into the soft material.

He'd never had to worry about the stupid Reaping before... He was rich—well as rich as one could be in this district—and his father held the same, if not more, influence than President Thanos in this world. He'd _never_ be chosen...

Shaking off the fear, Tony rummaged around for some clean underwear and pants. Slipping the material over his lower half, he stumbled over to his bedroom door clumsily, keeping his ears open. His father was probably up by now, either working or drinking himself into oblivion.

Shaking his head, Tony turned, almost tripping over a chunk of frayed wires and marred metal. He cursed under his breath, glaring down at the offending object with malice; his father had told him plenty of times to move his damn 'inventions' since they were 'cluttering up the house'. Snorting down at it, he continued on his way, refusing to give up his intelligence for the sake of the house cleaning.

With that thought he wandered out of his room, hoping there was something decent in the kitchen, wincing when his father looked up sharply at the intrusion. "Hey dad..." he managed weakly, lifting a hand in a poor imitation of a wave.

"Tony." His father nodded once before looking down, back to the endless mound of paper before him. The man did more work that any person on earth, at least in his son's eyes. "You're up early."

Jumping when his father continued the conversation, Tony shrugged, hoping his father didn't catch the moment of weakness before moving towards the kitchen. "Uh, I guess I couldn't sleep?" he offered, cocking his head before pulling out some bread and studying it. "Uh... same question back at you."

"Work," he said simply, brown eyes locking on the bread in his son's hand. "Make me some as well would you?"

Blinking, Tony hid his frown. Since when did his father continued a conversation... Or ask him for something as domestic as toasted bread. Smothering the concern under the weight of his mind he continued idly puttering around, heating up the small gas cook stove.

"Uh... what... How many pieces you want?" he stammered, mentally slapping himself for the stupid question. "And uh, what on it?" He shot a smile over his shoulder, hoping to keep Howard in a good mood while they were in the same room together.

He pulled out some jam, opening it before smelling the substance carefully. Grimacing at how sweet it was, he shrugged, pushing at the contents when his father answered in a prim voice. "Jam and butter," he said simply, cocking his brow when he saw Tony hesitantly prod at the set gelatine with a knife.

"You _want_ this stuff?" Tony blurted before he could stop himself. He couldn't remember the last time Howard had cracked a smile, and teased his only child..._No wait, he_... Blinking, Tony remembered the last time he had had a conversation with the man that was longer than five seconds.

Last year... same day.

Mentally cursing his stupidity, Tony threw the man a false smile while the elder answered. "I do, yes," Howard said tersely.

"God knows why..." Tony muttered, sighing and rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes. Now, of all times, he was beginning to feel exhaustion tug at the corners of his mind. Tossing and turning for hours the night before wasn't helping his case and with _Daddy_ playing mind games...All in all Tony was about to drop onto the polished floor beneath his feet.

Shaking it off, he felt something pull at him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Turning he was meet with his father's gaze. "Uh, dad?"

"Why did..." Anger was slowly taking over his father's features as the man heaved out a loud sigh. "Imagine my surprise Tony, when I'm told that your name had been entered over twenty times in the past few weeks." Scowling Howard stood. "What the hell did you want so bad that you would endanger yourself like that?"

"Name...?" Tony moved back from his father, blinking in confusion. "I haven't been going for the Sentinels for anything?" he said, knowing he was telling the truth. He had everything he wanted here, in this elegant wooden and stone house he shared with his father. "I... I don't _need_ anything," he reminded his father.

"Then why have the Sentinels put your name in?" Howard roared. "Do you know the risk you've taken? You could get _chosen_ today, Tony!"

By now the young man was shaking. "I don't...Come on, I haven't put my name in. I haven't traded, or bartered for anything," he argued, anger flaring. "For God sakes, why would I?" His voice broke but he ignored it, biting his lip to keep more words from spilling out.

"I don't know why you do half the things you do!" his father yelled back. Running a trembling hand through greying hair he continued. "I never have, and neither did your mother!" he snapped.

Tony jerked back as if he had been slapped. His father's words stung and he blinked back tears, feeling something tighten in his chest with the words. _Mum..._

"You're not wearing that to the Reaping," Howard sighed. "Go put on something decent. Colour won't kill you." That was all he said before he stormed from the room, anger still permeating the air he left behind.

Watching his father move away from the house through the window, he huffed. "How would you know?" he said aloud before stalking towards his bedroom. The fight with his father left him with a sense of hollowness, like he was empty. But then again, they always did.

Fights were everyday occurrences. Something he could never seem to avoid no matter how many smiles and compliments he threw in the man's direction. He never got through the bitterness Howard had surrounding him protectively like a wall or a shield, and after a few years he honestly just gave up trying. If the man didn't want to see his son, there wasn't much said son could do. Of course, it hadn't been too bad a few years ago, he had Pepper then to take care of him and love him...

But ever since the accident...

Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Tony shook his head sharply. He wouldn't think along those lines, memories served him no purpose and neither did sentiment. He didn't have time for it anyway.

Yanking the black shirt over his head, he threw it to the side of the large room. It landed with a muffled _thud_ but he ignored it for the chance to go through his clothing again. He didn't really have a lot of coloured clothing, he preferred black in all honesty but he had the rare blue or green...maybe a few chocolaty browns if his father was lucky.

Rooting through the spacious closet brought him the choice of a gentle yellow shirt - button up, of course, or a dark blue one.

"Oh geez..." he murmured. "Now I may be amazing at everything but Pep was always the one who chose my clothes!" he whined to his reflection. The Tony he saw staring back only blinked owlishly, lips curling into a frown. "Well, fine, if you're going to be like that," he muttered, yanking hard on the blue shirt; the closest to the curled fist.

It fell from the hanger easily, leaving it to be crumpled in the frustrated teen's hands. Quickly smoothing it out, Tony threw it over his shoulders, making sure to slide his hands through the arms. It sat nicely, the colour bringing out his features and chocolate brown eyes.

Sighing he stared at his reflection for a few seconds, questions running through his mind quicker than he could keep up with. "What have you done to get your name put in?" he asked quietly. The reflection didn't answer him; it just continued to stare back. "You're seventeen...come on; this is your _second-last_ Reaping," he snarled. "You won't get called, why waste such genius huh?"

With that he turned on his heel, storming back out to the kitchen. He was still hungry, even after the fight with Howard and the brief trip down memory lane. Once he reached the kitchen and the smell of gas hit his nose he realised that he had left the oven on... "Shit!" he cursed, moving forward to flick the gas off.

Toast was now out of the question because if he even _lit_ a match in here he would kill himself and blow up the house. _Again_.

"Dad was angry enough the first time," he reminded himself with a smile. Yanking on the bread, he forgoed slicing it, instead just shoving chunks into his mouth with a humble smile. He didn't care for the crumbs now decorating his sparse facial hair or his clean shirt, just brushing them off half-heartedly when the need arose.

It would be time to head to the centre soon, to watch two poor sods get chosen to participate in a bloodbath. A bloodbath that it was highly unlikely either would escape from. Tony shuddered, feeling bile rise in his throat stubbornly. His father loved the Games, watching a tribute become a murderer...a tribute becoming a victim.

Tony, on the other hand, despised it. He would normally just lock himself away in his room when his father was watching on the small, but top of the line, television in their home. But no matter how many pillows he shoved over his head, the sound of the cannons still broke through.

"Stupid Games..." he muttered, stomping over to the front door and forcing it open with a hard shove. The sun hit his eyes and he hissed under his breath, blinking back the initial burn before moving forward. His tanned skin shone under the bright beams of light and chocolate coloured strands of hair seemed to glow.

Running a hand through said strands he moved forward, hoping to get out of the residential part of the district and into the markets. Boredom carried him further than he wanted; now he was walking through the less visited part of the market, to the families who had less than those living above them.

Walking through the area, careful not to touch anything that could stain his shirt, he studied the separate stalls, surprised he'd never wandered into this area in his seventeen years. Most of them sold plain clothing at a cheap price, maybe some cotton or a needle and thread. Hearing the crowds outside grow louder he decided it was time to leave; nothing was catching his interest anyway. He turned sharply on his heel, only to be interrupted when he crashed into another body.

"My apologies," he said immediately, smiling as charmingly as he could to the woman. Sunken eyes light up at the smoothly spoken words, studying Tony like a hawk looking for prey.

"Sorry, young man, my eyes are not what they use to be," she said sincerely, nodding once as she backed away, hiding behind a beaten looking stall. Tony moved to face her, still offering the same smile as apology as he subtly looked her over.

She can't have been any older than his father, with slightly greying auburn hair and mint coloured eyes. The colour looked like it had, at a time, been bright but now, with wear and tear seemed dull. Like fabric left in the sun too long, or the faded material of a well-worn shirt.

Her back was slightly hunched, legs seeming to bend under her frail weight. With a wince, Tony realised she was one of the less fortunate; most likely with a husband who had died in the line of work, and was now left to fend for herself. His heart went out to her even as the light teal eyes went wide and round like saucers.

"My, my, do these old eyes deceive me? You... why, you're Howard's boy aren't you?"

Tony looked up at the question, shock in his eyes before he slowly nodded, watching her eyes widen all the more. He quickly dropped her gaze looking down to the wares she sold, sick of being known only as his father's son. He had just as much, if not more, intelligence than his father.

He felt her gaze on his face as he studied the array of buttons and knick-knacks she had available. As the stare become too much, he was ready to say his goodbyes when something caught his eye. Frowning he reached out to scoop it up in a well worked and calloused hand.

It was simple. A button — no, a badge — the size of a nickel or dime, but it wasn't that that had caught his attention; it was the design and colour. He couldn't explain how the light blue almost seemed to glow, like energy was feeding it from the inside or why he adored the simple triangle with lights surrounding it, but adore it he did.

Looking up quickly, he fished around in his pockets. "How much for this?" Tony asked gently, running a thumb over the smooth surface and wiping a small speck of dust off the otherwise pristine lining.

"Oh that thing... I... well..." With her stammering words, pity coursed through him and he smiled, finally managing to look away from the elegant button long enough to practically thrust the money at her.

"Here, that should do," he decided, watching her jaw gape as she cradled the amount in her hand. It would be enough to feed her for the next few upcoming weeks, maybe give some strength back to her frail body. "Thank you." He finally forced out before wandering away, completely missing her shout of thanks.

The small badge was alluring and with a proud smile he pinned it above his heart. Looking down and admiring it for a second almost caused him to be run over in the crowd, but he quickly found his feet, following the now bustling mass of people. They moved like clockwork, all heading towards the same place as he...the centre of the district.

God, he always _hated_ the Reaping.

* * *

It seemed like a cult gathering or something, Tony noticed with a stifled chuckle. The lines, the children divided from their families. While the Capitol called it "peace keeping" and a way to "end the suffering," all he saw was a sick, twisted way of getting their kicks.

And he thought _he_ had weird fetishes.

As boredom made him lose interest in his surroundings, he gaze went across the courtyard. Some of the younger girls were either crying or close to it, scared of their first year in the Reaping. He didn't blame them; he had been a mess before his father had berated him for his fear and informed him that the son of the lead manufacturer wouldn't get called up. He took the Reapings more like a sermon after that; something he had to attend from obligation, even though he saw no reason to be there.

Looking towards the older children, closer to his age, he felt his breath hitch. Strawberry blonde hair was glaring in the sun, contrasting perfectly with a green dress gracing a slim figure.

_Miss Pepper Potts._

He shifted on his feet, nervously tugging on the ends of his shirt before he saw her move. Her head was moving, eyes scoping out the area almost if she knew she was being watched. Quickly, to avoid her notice, he stared ahead, pretending his attention was grabbed by the man walking to the front of the stage.

He recognized the man, with his pale but lavish features, as Happy Hogan. The escort. He was dressed in an impeccable suit, surprisingly not too strange for someone from the Capitol... Tony's mind went back a few years, back to their previous escort, with her eccentric wigs and multi-coloured skirts...

Letting out a shudder he quickly put himself upright, scoping the area out to make sure he was in the right place. After straightening his posture a little—his father would kill him if the camera caught him slouching—he turned his attention back to the stage.

"Welcome and Happy Avenger Games to you all," Happy began, the same bland expression on his features. "Before we begin the drawing, would you please turn your attention to the screens. We have a film for you, all the way from the Capitol!" he finished, ignoring the one person who began to clap in the audience.

His eyes were roaming, not seeming to land on a single person as they fell over the audience. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

With that the film started and Tony lost all interest. _It was boring the first time you forced me to watch it,_ he thought idly, eyes roaming again. He tried to find Pepper, but the strawberry blonde seemed to have evaded him; how, he wasn't entirely sure. Pouting slightly, he turned around, digging through the people herded to try and find his father.

Of course the stupid mini-movie ended long before he had managed to catch sight of the man, and he was forced to face the front again, albeit with a scowl. Some spare words were ringing in his ears:

_**This is how we safeguard our future...They rose up against those who fed them, protected them...**_

Shaking his head somewhat violently, he jumped when Hogan began to talk. "Gets duller every year, am I right?" Happy joked tiredly before he spared the two bowls on either side a weak look. "Now is the time we chose one brave young man, and one beautiful young woman to have the honour of competing in the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!"

He took one step, then another to the bowl on his left. "And since I was raised with impeccable manners, ladies first." His hand dove into the bowl, digging roughly before he clamped down on a piece of paper, quickly pulling it out as if the bowl had burnt him.

Clearing his throat, he opened the paper gingerly. "Justine Hammer."

His voice echoed the sound of a sob, both ringing out in the silence. Tony turned to face the source of the noise, eyes almost closing when he saw the young, red headed girl sporting a shell shocked expression. _Her first year,_ he noted with sad eyes, watching as she slowly turned to begin the walk to her death.

She hadn't taken more than three steps before a voice rang out, louder than he had expected. "I volunteer."

Now, everyone spun to find the owner of the strong voice. Eyes looked every way before locking on the petite blonde as she calmly walked to the aisle in a shimmering green dress.

"Pepper?" Tony whispered, almost pushing the boy at his side away. "No..."

It was almost as if she had heard him, her strong eyes meeting his in a fiery gaze. He almost recognized the determination but it had been the better part of a year since he had seen such a look. She wasn't dropping his gaze as she walked, but in one last ditch attempt, Tony shook his head weakly. "Don't..."

With one hand held out he watched her walk towards the stage, head held high. "Well, a volunteer," Happy observed, sounding like he was _forcing_ the surprise into his voice. "Come up on stage please."

When Pepper finally joined his side, eyes sweeping over the rest of us on the ground, he pushed the microphone towards her. "And your name is?"

Pepper seemed to glare at the man before leaning forward. "Pepper Potts," she announced, eyes blinking lazily even as she was broadcast on every screen in sight, her thin features stoic.

"Ah, well then I wish you luck, young Pepper," Happy offered, gently leading her to the side of the stage. "Well, we must continue," he decided, heading towards the only bowl he hadn't touched. "Men, I believe it's your turn."

Judging by the way everyone around Tony stiffened, the man didn't need to announce it. They were well aware that today, in the next few seconds, a loved one could be taken away, that _you_ could be chosen to enter the games and, most likely, never return.

Almost with a bored gaze, Tony watched the man plunge his hand into the bowl, repeating the same actions as last time. "And the male contestant is..." Frowning as he read the name, Happy looked up for a split second before cocking his head. "T-Tony Stark?" The words were more of a question, than an actual statement and with a pounding heart Tony realised what had been said.

_His_ name.

_Tony Stark._

Blinking in shock, his legs carried him forwards, heart beginning to pound erratically in his chest. Something wasn't right, he decided, even as he got closer and closer. Howard said that he'd never be chosen, that the Capitol— that _Thanos_ —wouldn't risk losing the heir to the best technological providers they had and one of the brightest minds of the generations.

If he had said that...then why was Tony climbing the stairs to his doom?

"Ah, nice to finally meet the youngest Stark in person, yeah?" Happy joked, smiling to the crowd. Tony continued to stare at the ground beneath his feet, shock taking over his emotions as the impact finally set in. "Well here we have it then, our two tributes for the twenty-fourth Avenger Games!"

No applause echoed his statement as he pushed the two together, muttering under his breath that they had to shake hands. With a heavy heart, Tony lifted his hand to the woman in front of him, smiling weakly when he met her eye. She only seemed to glare back, a light of victory in her eyes that he didn't understand.

Right before she dropped his hand, she smiled, a tiny bit of the old Pepper leaking through. "May the odds be ever in your favour," she echoed, squeezing once before she dropped it.

Tony let his hand hang limply at his side, the skin burning, even as he felt himself be led away.

"Happy Avenger Games!"

* * *

"Oh it's your second-last Reaping, you won't get called," Ripping on his hair in frustration, Tony lashed out, kicking at the ornate chair resting peacefully to his side. The wood shattered, but the crimson red cushion stayed intact as he panted in exhaustion. "You're a goddamned _idiot_, Tony Stark."

He blinked back the tears wanting to form in his eyes as he slumped against the wall behind him. He was waiting, in some fancy room for his family...for the final goodbyes. Swollen eyes peeked through clenched fists, catching the still closed door in the chocolate glare.

He'd been in here for ten minutes already and Howard had yet to walk through the door. Normally that wouldn't bother him, but for some reason Tony was craving comfort. It wasn't really the fact that he was about to go to his death that was bothering him, it was his partner in crime.

_Pepper Potts._

Wincing when his mind supplied the cold look she had given him, Tony ran a hand through his hair. His hand still tingled from where it had touched her skin, both shaking hands in a sign of companionship. But... the cool and icy look he had received from her once vibrant eyes was enough to make him shiver.

Why was she so..._angry_ with him? An image of fire flashed through his mind and with a pained grunt he forced it back. "We don't think about that Tony," he reminded himself, biting his lip against the pain in his chest. It was a subtle ache. Like a hole, but it was there all the same, even if he had learned to ignore it over the past year.

By the gods, he missed her so much. Her laugh was enough to make him forget about Howard and the abusive words that often slipped from his drunken lips. And the sense of... of family she always gave him made him feel like he finally belonged somewhere.

_Maybe we can be like that again...It was all my fault, the reason we drifted apart. Maybe this is what we need to be pulled together again._ He didn't think about how his hopeful thoughts were a shot in the dark, he just focused on _her_, because that was all he needed.

When the door opened with a loud slam, rebounding off the wall behind it, Tony let out a high pitched yelp, jumping to his feet. Howard Stark stood before him in all his pissed off glory, anger rolling off him in waves.

"What did I say?" His voice was the deadly calm before a storm, and Tony felt himself freeze when they reached his ears. Silently he prayed his father wasn't expecting an answer. "What did I say! I knew this would happen! I just knew it!" Tony let his father rant, the harsh words just slipping over him like water over glass.

"Dad?"

"—What happens next is your own doing, you know that? You're the _idiot_ who traded with the Sentinels—"

"Dad, please..."

"—Goddamn it, you're going to _die!_—"

"Dad!"

The coarse yell broke the older man, and finally he cracked. Staring down his only child, he surged forward, wrapping him up in an uncharacteristic hug. Hearing the man's breathing hitch, Tony hesitantly lifted his arms up as well.

"I'm sorry, son, I'm so sorry." Howard pulled away, seeming to have enough of the sentiment. Brown eyes similar to Tony's only in colour were wide and glassy, but in shock or fear the teen wasn't sure. "This is my fault."

Tony startled back, a frown making its way onto his lips. "What... How? How the hell is this your fault?" he demanded, straightening up as his father seemed to deflate.

"I promised your mother I would protect you...I couldn't even manage to do that." he said forlornly, sending his son a weak smile. He clapped Tony on the shoulder, cupping his neck in a rare show of affection. "You... you can win this, you know?"

Tony blinked, head dropping in defeat. "Yeah..."

The warm hand left his skin and then his father was gone. Back out the door without a sound, his son letting out a torn sob when he heard the lock click in place.

* * *

**Pepper Potts of District Three**

**Written by XxBrendaMichelexX**

* * *

_"No goal was ever met without a little sweat."_ \- Unknown

_Pepper watched from the other side of the room as the stove burst into flames. She stood motionless. Everything had happened so quickly she couldn't think to do anything. All she could see were the flames, growing larger by the minute. Her mother was screaming as the fire enveloped her completely. Pepper couldn't breathe. The world was spinning around her as she saw her mother's flesh and hair burn in the spontaneous fire._

_"Clara!" screamed Pepper's father, as he leaped into the flames to rescue his wife. He pushed her in front of him, and Pepper came to her senses quick enough to drag her mother away from the stove._

_"Dad, come on!" yelled Pepper desperately. The flames were growing bigger and bigger, slowly swallowing the entire house. Pepper could not see her father. "Dad! Where are you?"_

_She didn't have time to wait for them. Pepper looked down at her mother, who was burned so badly there was almost no skin left on her body. She was unconscious. Pepper kneeled down and lifted her up the best she could. She ran out of the house as fast as her legs would carry her, looking back and praying for her father to follow. When they were a safe distance away, Pepper watched the flames as her house exploded, demolishing everything inside of it. Her father was dead._

_She didn't realize her best friend Tony was standing next to her until that moment, with a look of horror on his face. Tony, her best friend who was very talented with technology. Tony, the one who had worked on their stove before her mother used it. Tony, the one who had caused the accident. The one who killed her father and injured her mother. Pepper looked at him, tears streaming down her face._

_"Get out," she said angrily. "GET OUT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!"_

* * *

Pepper woke up that morning in a cold sweat. She jerked up, taking a moment to realize that it was only a nightmare that had worried her a moment before. She exhaled in relief and wiped her eyes of sleep. She had suffered the same vivid nightmare every night for a year. Waking up this way was nothing new to her, but she had no time to dwell on her dream and the emotions it evoked. Today was the day of the Reaping, and Pepper had to get ready.

She emerged from her bed and made her way to the bathroom, where she washed her face with cold water and brushed her hair. She decided she would leave it down; she wanted to look extra nice. As she fastened the buttons on her favourite green dress, Pepper looked at herself in the mirror. The purple circles around her eyes indicated her lack of a good night's sleep. She widened her eyes and blinked excessively, trying to drive them away.

When she was ready, she entered her mother's room with a tray of hot cereal and a glass of milk.

"Good morning Mom," said Pepper, setting the tray on her mother's bedside table. Clara stirred, and Pepper helped her sit up, leaning her back on the headboard. "I brought you breakfast."

"Thank you honey," said Clara in her barely audible, raspy voice. "You take such good care of me."

Pepper's mother had barely survived the fire that had occurred in their house one year ago. The accident had cost her her sight, her mobility, her beauty, and her comfort. Now the poor woman was always in pain, and she would never see again.

"Today is the Reaping," Clara murmured, as Pepper helped her spoon her hot cereal into her mouth.

"Yep," Pepper replied, swallowing a lump in her throat. She had not yet told her mother what she planned to do. "Which reminds me Mom, um…you might not see me for a while after today."

"Why not?" asked her mother.

"I…I'm going to volunteer as tribute this year," Pepper choked out.

Clara spit out her cereal.

"_What_? Why would you do that? Pepper, no!" Hot tears began streaming down Clara's blank, swollen eyes and she started shaking.

"Mom, calm down okay? I'll be fine."

"You _can't_ volunteer Pepper, I won't allow it! I can't lose you! Not after losing your father, I—"

"—You _won't_ lose me," Pepper replied, sounding more confident than she felt. "I'm going to try to win."

"But why? Why would you ever want to volunteer? What reason could you _possibly_ have?"

"I just…I just feel like I need to do it. Mom, if I win, we could use the money for your doctor and get us a better house."

"Pepper, I don't care about any of that! What I want is you here, safe! Why would you sacrifice your life for that; that doesn't sound like you!" Clara was shaking all over, and she tightly grasped Pepper's hand.

"I know Mom. But I'm going to do this; for _both_ of us."

"But there is no reason! I can't—I can't survive this, Pepper, you are not leaving me! I forbid you to do this!" Clara's face was red with anxiety and fear, and Pepper was on the verge of tears herself. She hadn't prepared herself for Clara's reaction. However, Pepper had lied to her mother. Money was not the reason she was volunteering, or at least, not the sole reason. She was volunteering to feed the rage built inside of her ever since her father died, to get her revenge on the show-off technician that thought he could do anything, to put her nightmares to rest.

She wanted to kill Tony Stark.

She had executed the first part of her plan beautifully.

* * *

_Pepper went into her basement and dug out her father's old clothes. She washed them and pressed them, to make sure they looked like the clothes of a very privileged man. She trimmed them so they would fit her, and she pulled out one of her mother's wigs from her closet. Clara's hair had been burned off in the fire, so she resorted to wearing wigs for a while. She had only two: a curly brunette and a wavy blonde. Clara did not wear her wigs anymore though; her pain had gotten so bad that it hurt to put anything but a soft headwrap on her head._

_Pepper cut the brown hair on the wig until it looked like a man's hair. It wasn't perfect in the slightest (Pepper was no barber) but she simply hid it under a black fedora, big enough to also shadow the girlish features of her face. And lastly, Pepper had drawn a goatee on her chin. She worked very hard at it, using a thin dark brown marker to carefully dot her face so it looked as if she hadn't shaved in a day or two._

_The most difficult part of her plan—but also the most essential—was stealing Tony Stark's identity. The goal in Pepper's mind for doing all this was to make certain that Tony Stark would be chosen as the male tribute for District Three in the Reaping. She would go to the Sentinels at least once a week for several months, dressing as Tony every time. But in order for her cover to be believable, she would need proof of identity._

_Luckily, Pepper knew the ins and outs of the Stark residence, since she and Tony had been friends once before. It sickened her to think of those times now, but at least she had the knowledge that she needed. Her plan was simple: to sneak into Tony's house, find his ID card, and get out before she was caught. Tony had fashioned an alarm system for his house, so Pepper had to find an alternative way to get in the house instead of the door. She entered the way she always did when she came to see Tony unexpectedly in the years past: through his bedroom window that he always left open._

_Pepper looked around, concealing herself in the bushes below the window just in case Tony was present. She saw him sprawled out on his bed, face down on his pillow, sleeping. She would have to be very quiet. How could he sleep so soundly with her father's blood on his hands? Pepper despised him. He lived his life day by day without a care in the world, and Pepper had to suffer and watch her mother suffer as well. She should kill him right now._

No,_ Pepper thought, _I'm going to kill him in the Games, when everyone is watching.

_She slowly ducked into the window's opening, trying hard not to make a sound. Her feet touched the floor quietly, and she looked all around her to make sure she wasn't being watched. A crime like this, stealing from the Stark house, would be punishable by a public beating for sure, and on top of that it would ruin Pepper's plans._

Alright,_ Pepper thought to herself, _if I know Tony, his wallet is probably in the last pair of pants he wore._ She looked around the room, and saw a pair of khakis strewn on a desk chair. Tiptoeing to the chair, Pepper quietly slipped her hands into the pockets and felt nothing. She looked around some more, and after searching three pairs of pants, she concluded that the wallet must be somewhere else._

_She pilfered around the room, looking over at Tony to make sure he was still sleeping. Suddenly, she saw it. The wallet was sitting on his bedside table; the very bedside table that his arm was lying over. Pepper took a deep breath. She slowly approached Tony's bedside, and got down on her knees so she could duck if he opened his eyes. Lifting her hand, she kept a close watch on Tony as she lightly pulled the wallet out from under his arm. Unfortunately, it caused his arm to hit the surface of the table and he stirred. Pepper ducked._

_She opened the wallet and upon seeing Tony's I.D., snatched it out and put it in her pocket. She would not take the entire wallet, because then Tony might know it was stolen. Hopefully this way, he wouldn't even notice his I.D. was missing until it was too late. Pepper quickly set the wallet back on the table as Tony rubbed his eyes. She made a dash for the window and leaped out, unseen._

_After that ordeal, she made her visits to the Sentinels. Equipped with her disguise and Tony's I.D., Pepper was still a bit worried that she wouldn't be able to pull it off, but she would do her best._

* * *

Her first visit had been the hardest.

* * *

_"Tony Stark?" asked the Sentinel, looking over Tony's I.D. Pepper nodded. "But why would you need to be here?"_

_"My mindless father is trying to teach me humility," she said in her best male voice. Luckily, the Sentinel she was talking to was an old man, hard of hearing and less susceptible to noticing Pepper's façade. "But I don't see how it is any of your business." The man looked back down at the ID card and handed it back to Pepper._

_"My apologies Mr. Stark," said the man. Another lucky thing: no one wanted to be on the bad side of the Stark family, as they were the wealthiest people in District Three. The man had bought it. Now if everything went as she hoped it would today, she would volunteer as tribute first, and watch as Tony Stark's name was called. The look of shock that would form on his face, and the stagger as he walked up to the stage, thinking, _Oh my God I can't believe what's happening.

_Pepper smiled to herself as she thought about it._

_Then, once they were in the Games, Pepper would be sure to form an alliance with Tony, and at the end of the Games when she had gotten all the protection she could out of him, she would kill him. And her glorious moment of revenge would be on camera for all to see. So everyone would see what a monster he was, and what he did to her family._

_Sure…it was an accident, but he didn't even apologize. He didn't look like he felt any remorse. He was supposed to be her friend. Pepper had never felt so betrayed and hurt in her life. Tony had thought he could improve their stove instead of only fixing it, and he had put some special wiring in it that Pepper didn't understand. And Pepper's poor parents had to pay for his showing off. Now it was his turn to pay._

* * *

"I don't understand! We don't need money! That cannot be the reason!" Clara was screaming now.

"Mom, just…calm down." Pepper said. She didn't know what to say; she couldn't tell her the truth. If Clara knew her daughter's heart had been corrupted with revenge, hers would break. Clara was a very peaceful person. Pepper's plan would appall her.

"It is almost time to go," said Pepper. "I'm having Mr Beaumont from next door take care of you when I am gone, okay?"

Mr. Beaumont was the faithful neighbour of Pepper and Clara. He was about the same age as Clara, and he was the most loyal person on the planet, or at least he was in Pepper's mind. He had helped Pepper and her family with anything they needed for so long, Pepper couldn't remember a time when he wasn't there for them. He was the only person Pepper had told about her true reason for volunteering for the Avenger Games. Although he agreed to take care of Clara in Pepper's absence, he did not approve of her goal at all.

* * *

_"Pepper, I understand your anger over all of this, but is that really enough reason to go through with this drastic plan? Killing Tony Stark won't bring your father back."_

_"I know that," Pepper replied. "But I can't sleep knowing that he goes to bed at night the same time as me with no regrets or grievances in his heart, while I have nightmares." Mr Beaumont knew Pepper well enough to know that nothing he could say would change her mind._

_"I hope you know the consequences of this, Pepper," he had said to her, sorrowfully._

* * *

"No! Pepper, what if you don't make it? What if I never see you again?" Clara said, squeezing her daughter's hands with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Pepper had tried not to think of that. It was possible that she would die during the Games; very possible. She wasn't very strong, nor skilled in battle. She was riding on the hope that Tony Stark's name would be called at the Reaping, they would form an alliance, and Pepper would have some form of protection. Although she had a grudge against him, she had to admit he was smart.

He could survive, until she killed him when he was least expecting it.

Pepper felt like her father had never been served justice. He had sacrificed himself for Clara, and no one had acknowledged it. No one except Pepper.

But, on the slight chance that Tony's name would not be called, Pepper would try her best to win, and then she _would_ be in it for the money. Because there was no backing out of the Avenger Games.

When it was time to go to the Reaping, Pepper wrapped her arms around her mother.

"You be strong, okay? I love you."

"Pepper…" Clara cried. "I beg you not to do this." Pepper only squeezed her mother tighter, and kissed her cheek.

"I'll get to see you one more time after this before I go to the Games, okay? So I'll see you again." Clara shook her head.

"No, Pepper _please!_ Don't leave me here!"

Pepper stood up and turned back to her mother before she left the room.

"Be strong for me," she said, a few tears running down her face. She quickly wiped them off.

Pepper left her house in her green dress and made her way to the heart of the town, where the people of District Three were gathering for the Reaping. A line was forming at the check-in table, and Pepper took her place behind a small brunette girl. When it was her turn, the woman at the table pricked Pepper's finger and pressed the blood onto a piece of paper. It always hurt because she pressed it too hard, but Pepper made no sound.

She looked around to find her place amongst the other seventeen-year-old girls. She turned to her right and made her way toward her age group. She stood near the back, hoping she would be loud enough to volunteer when it was time.

Suddenly, she felt a strong surge of fear rush through her entire body. This was real. This was happening. She had planned to volunteer for months, but now that she was actually about to do it she became afraid. What if she didn't survive? What if Tony didn't even get picked?

Was this even worth it?

Well there was no going back now. She _had_ to do it.

When everyone had taken their places, they turned their attention to the stage, where the Peacekeepers were coming out and standing at the side, followed by the escort for District Three, Happy Hogan. He was dressed in a nicely pressed white suit, the only garment one would wear to an occasion like this when they were from the Capitol. Pepper felt a lump in her throat and tried to swallow it, nausea creeping into her as time went on.

Happy approached the microphone and tapped it lightly before speaking:

"Welcome and happy Avenger Games to you all," he said, unenthusiastically. It was rather ironic to Pepper that his name was Happy, but the only expression she had ever seen on his face was that of indifference and slight boredom. "Before we begin the drawing, would you please turn your attention to the screens. We have a film for you, all the way from the Capitol." Someone started clapping in the audience, and quickly stopped. Happy ignored them. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

Pepper sighed and looked down at the ground. She could not watch the film. All it contained was a speech from President Thanos about how the districts rebelled at one time and to keep the so-called "peace," they have to participate in the Avenger Games. He made it sound very positive, as if it was _fun_. _Not to mention that twenty-three children get slaughtered,_ thought Pepper. As the film played, Pepper looked around at all the people present at the Reaping. She noticed the looks of terror on the twelve-year-olds' faces and felt pity for them. As her eyes roamed to the boys' side of the gathering, she noticed someone looking around the crowd, as if he was searching for someone.

There he was. _Tony Stark._

_Of course he isn't paying attention,_ Pepper thought. He had grown a slight goatee since she had last seen him, and he looked older now, although it had only been a year since they were best friends. He was wearing a blue shirt; not his best colour, in Pepper's opinion. She used to pick out his clothes for him, because although he could do almost everything, that boy couldn't put an outfit together if his life depended on it.

But that was long ago. Now he had to pay the price for what he had done to her family.

When the film had ended, Pepper turned her attention back to Happy Hogan on the stage.

"Gets duller every year, am I right?" he joked dryly, in a failed attempt at humour. He quickly looked at the two bowls filled with little slips of paper on either side of him and addressed the audience. "Now it's time we chose one brave young man, and one beautiful young woman to have the honour of competing in the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!" That was the first time he had actually sounded somewhat enthusiastic. He took a couple of steps toward the bowl on the left, which contained the girls' names.

"And since I was raised with impeccable manners," he said, "ladies first." He quickly pulled out a piece of paper and read the name. "Justine Hammer."

This was it. This was what Pepper had planned to do for so long. This was her moment to volunteer. But for some reason, no words would come out of her mouth and she couldn't move. She watched the girl that had been called, her face stricken with fear as she took a terrified step out of her place.

_Hurry!_ Pepper yelled to herself in her mind. _Do it now!_

Pepper closed her eyes tightly and said, "I volunteer."

It came out louder than she thought it would, and when she opened her eyes, everyone's glance was fixated on her, including a very relieved Justine Hammer. Pepper cleared her throat. She slowly began walking to the middle of the isle, trying hard not to pass out or throw up. Now she had done it. She had either executed the first phase of her revenge, or confirmed her death sentence. The only thing left to do was accept either one.

She took a deep breath and held her chin up, as a force Pepper could not explain prompted her to look in Tony's direction, meeting his eyes for a moment. He looked perplexed; perhaps even shocked. Pepper held his gaze sternly while she walked toward the stage, all eyes still on her, as if she was telling him, _'There. Now you're dead.'_ She did not want to appear weak to anyone, especially not to the one she volunteered to kill.

"Well, a volunteer," said Happy, gesturing to Pepper. She slowed as she came closer to the stage, hesitating to step up. "Come up on stage please." She obeyed and stood beside him, trying to look confident in front of everyone down below. Happy pushed the microphone in front of her.

"And your name is?" he asked. Pepper put on the straightest, most determined face she could manage.

"Pepper Potts," she said clearly into the microphone.

"Ah, well then I wish you luck, young Pepper," Happy replied. He led her to the side of the stage and bid her stay there while he drew for the boys. Pepper put her hands behind her back and crossed every two fingers she had. Happy approached the bowl on the right, full of the boy's names.

"Well, we must continue," Happy said. "Men, I believe it's your turn."

_Please please please,_ Pepper prayed. _Please don't let this be for nothing._ She watched the boys as they all seemed to shrink a little, knowing one of them would be chosen. Pepper looked at Tony, who was wearing an unconcerned expression. _Of course he doesn't think he'll get picked,_ she thought. _He's a rich bastard with no care in the world._

"And the male contestant is…" Happy began. As he read the name on the paper, his face almost looked surprised. "T-Tony Stark?"

_Thank God!_ Pepper wanted to jump and yell in glee, but she controlled herself and tried to hide the smile she felt. All those trips to the Sentinels had paid off. Now her revenge was really in motion. She loved the look on Tony's face. He was utterly shocked. Nevertheless, he played it cool and began walking to the stage. He took his place beside Happy.

"Ah, nice to finally meet the youngest Stark in person, yeah?" Happy said, attempting another joke that received no laughter.

Happy motioned Pepper to come forward and told the both of them to shake hands. Tony lifted his hand and Pepper shook it, glaring at him with a smirk she hoped he didn't notice.

"May the odds be ever in your favour," she said, knowing he did not catch her sarcasm.

With one last wave to the audience, Happy led Pepper and Tony backstage, to begin their descent into survival or death.

"Happy Avenger Games!"

* * *

Pepper sat in the red velvet chair, waiting. She had asked Mr Beaumont to bring her mother to see her right before she left for the Games. She wanted to make sure her mother knew that she loved her, just in case she did not return.

But after the Reaping had ended, Pepper became filled with a sort of confidence. Everything was going according to plan so far. She just had to execute the rest herself, and everything would be okay then. Tony had bulked up a little since Pepper last saw him, so he looked even better for an ally than she had thought he would be.

_Just go with the flow now, Pepper,_ she told herself.

Within a few more moments, the door to the sitting room opened and Mr Beaumont entered, wheeling Pepper's mother into the room in her wheelchair. The Sentinels slammed the door behind him.

"Thanks so much Mr. Beaumont," Pepper said, embracing him. The older man smiled at her. Pepper turned to her mother.

"Mom…" she said, finding herself at a loss for words. She noticed tears in her mother's blank eyes and she grabbed Pepper's hand tenderly.

"You have to win for me sweetheart," she said. "Please. You have to. You're all I have left." Clara's chin quivered. "Please."

"I will Mom," Pepper promised. "I _will_. I'll come home alive, and with money." Her mother shook her head and looked down, her tears falling onto her lap.

"Why..." she cried. Pepper gave her mother a long hug, thinking that this might be the last time she would ever hug her.

"I love you," Pepper said. "Don't cry."

Suddenly, the Sentinels stormed back into the room and ordered Pepper's mother and Mr Beaumont out of the room. Pepper hugged Mr Beaumont quickly.

"Take care of her, Mr Beaumont," she said. "Please. Make sure she's safe."

He nodded. "I believe in you, Pepper," he murmured. "You win for us, okay?" Pepper nodded, tears uncontrollably spilling from her eyes. The door was shut abruptly and Mr Beaumont and Pepper's mother were out of sight.

She turned around and walked back to her chair, waiting now for whatever was to come next. She let her forehead hit the wall and she closed her eyes, trying not to think of the future.


	5. Chapter 4: Promises

**(A/N) Here now with our Thursday update for ITEYAK, this time coming from you from the heart of District Four, on Reaping Day. Introducing two fantastic writers to our little team in WargishBoromirFan (those familiar with some of our other works will no doubt recognise her name, and with good reason), and a great new writer in kittehkatkakes. Going to keep this short and sweet, so let's get to those reviews!**

**Morrigahn- Dark Herald: Thank you so much for taking the time review, and we're delighted that you're enjoying the fic! We did indeed have a bit of an editing goof on my part last update (I have learned to stop with the post-midnight editing) but we've fixed the issue now, and hopefully there won't be any more in the future!**

**TheMetaReborn: Oh, we'll see, we'll see. *Rubs hands together and cackles manically* To paraphrase Ben Kingsley's Mandarin, you will never see what we have planned coming!**

**Now, it's time to leave you guys to it! Happy reading!**

* * *

**Chapter Four – Promises**

**District Four Reaping**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan &amp; kittehkatkakes**

* * *

**Brunhilde**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

_"Physical force seems to be the only thing in which women have not demonstrated their equality to men, and whilst we are waiting for the evolution which is slowly taking place and bringing about that equality, we might just as well take time by the forelock and use ju-jitsu."_

\- Edith Garrud, _Badass of the Week_

* * *

The heavyset redhead feinted, seemingly tripping over the haft of his own weapon, and Brunhilde threw her spear before closing in with her sword. With more speed and agility than his frame suggested, her opponent dodged her weighted spearhead and shoved her back out of range before she could do more than swipe the air in front of him.

"Were that a real blade, you'd be dead," Volstagg remarked.

"Wrong end," Brunhilde insisted through the sudden lack of air. Volstagg had managed a clean hit, but it was with the butt of his axe, and now she had a grip on it. Now she could yank it sideways and force him to closing distance.

He came at her with a headbutt that left her skull ringing, but she refused to blink, bringing her blade up even as she went down. "You're not going to yield, are you?" Volstagg asked, reflexively swinging the proper end of the padded axe at her, forcing her to circle her sword sideways in a parry.

"Never." She could reach her spear. Even lacking its proper head, Geirr could be deadly with the correct applied force, and she could swing it into Volstagg's legs one-handed, causing his legs to buckle in truth.

"Alright, then _I_ will yield." The redhead didn't go down, but set aside his axe and hauled her to her feet, directing Brunhilde to the refreshments and a bench where they could catch their breaths and take in the rest of the trainees. "There's going to be an Avenger Games party at the Norns' tomorrow night," Volstagg told her conversationally.

That could mean a number of things. The three sisters lived under the shadow of the largest tree in the district, Yggdrasil, an ancient living tangle large enough to swallow a world or nine in its limbs, and their parents left them in care of the eldest for extended deep-sea fishing excursions for longer and longer periods, especially as the second daughter approached her majority with far more grace than the firstborn. Verthandi was blooming into a genteel lady, whereas her older sister Urd...threw the sort of parties that Volstagg would be interested in. She wasn't sure how they could be so blind, but Brunhilde, for one, was fairly certain that the Norns' patriarch and matriarch had no concept of what leaving Urd in command of the household truly meant.

"Who is hosting this party?" Brunhilde asked. There was the remote possibility that the redhead could be interested in a charity ball, in which the wealthier members of the district pooled their reserves so that they might better sponsor their Tributes, but Volstagg and Hogun were but a year removed from the Tribute pool themselves, and too busy flaunting their freedom to stand with the adults this coming Reaping for either of them to truly show concern for those brought to the stage this year.

"Skuld," Volstagg returned the words with the same speed as his axe-hilt during an all-out duel. "Inviting only your youngest cousin so that they might plot more of those metal monstrosities. Hogun, Fandral, and I decided to invite ourselves, since that last mechanical giant proved such an interesting challenge. What did they call it? The Destroyer? I hope to see a boar this time." The big man laughed. "Of course Verthandi is inviting such illustrious folk as your mother and uncle for the ball, and Urd is inviting _us_ to the real party above their house. Surely you are not too delicate to climb trees with us anymore?"

"I shall have to put in an appearance with my mother. I pray you do not intend to seduce my younger sisters into your den of iniquity," the blonde dodged her sparring partner's unsubtle swing at her pride.

Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral had first won her cousin Thor's respect for their refusal to go easy on a Victor's son during their sparring matches. They'd won hers when the three warriors refused to go easy on anything else they set their minds to, whether that be mastering pole-axe, longbow, and rapier, or winning smiles from the gravest, most determined of their younger fellow students. Volstagg had two more years of training with polearms than she, and Fandral an extra year and an innate talent with fencing blades that impressed even Uncle Odin, the first Victor, the All-Father of the Avengers Games. Brunhilde could never reasonably hope to outshine either of them, much less equal Hogun's accuracy with a bow, but it pleased her to meet their attacks, whether in the salle or in debate. She knew they held nothing back, and sometimes, she might parry her way to victory.

Volstagg brought a hand to his ample chest as if she'd managed a hit. "Rest assured, Waltrude's honor shall not be besmirched, and neither shall any of the younger sisters'. Hogun and I have even been debating on whether or not to invite Sif." Brunhilde worried less about her sisters getting into trouble without any help. The second eldest, Waltrude, was four years her younger and perfectly content to follow obediently after Brunhilde and their mother. Sif, on the other hand...

Sif was sixteen. She and Brunhilde had grown up in one another's households. Both girls had grown up worshiping Erda for her tales of glory days as a Sentinel. (They'd follow her into the career, they swore. Erda had not been content to be the Victor's sister, and neither would they allow themselves to enter into history with a mere patronymic as their final names.) Sif's elder brother was all but Brunhilde's elder brother. (Heimdall was aloof to a fault, but always watchful.) Brunhilde's passel of little sisters were Sif's little sisters. (Sif could at least distract them if they became completely intolerable, and very rarely, Brunhilde's best friend made the younger girls look better by comparison.) Sif would get in so much trouble if she were invited to Urd's party, and Brunhilde would be mired in deep if she weren't.

"I imagine I already know where Fandral stands upon that issue." The youngest of Volstagg's trio was shameless, if rather unfocused. While Volstagg had engaged Brunhilde in today's lesson, Fandral peacocked with a falchion, demonstrating the different thicknesses of different swords to a passel of young female admirers. He'd declared the blonde a hard, heartless one, but still attempted his showy charms upon her raven-haired best friend. At least until Thor came to join them. Fandral showed an almost admirable perspicacity in his attempts to win the heart of every girl in the District, but even he knew when he stood defeated.

"Aye, he wishes to bring her along tomorrow eve. And Sif is a good friend to us, even if she is yet young. Hogun and I... are weighing our options." Sif would certainly rail at them if they denied her knowledge of Urd's party, but to the older boys, Sif's anger was a summer storm - torrential in its depth, but quick to pass. Brunhilde stood close enough to face the eye of her ire.

It was not so much that Sif would regret her absence from the revelries for the sake of her own pleasures, but to be reminded that she was the youngest of their circle of companions and was yet unworldly and unwise was the greatest of social insults. Especially when the party might include not just Urd, but Freya, Amora, Kelda, and Thor. Sif could have issues with certain of those combinations, even if she would never speak of why it bothered her so to leave such matches unsupervised. Brunhilde did her best to remind her friend that Kelda had attracted the attention of no one less than the Capitol Escort, Freya reminded Thor of his lost mother, and Amora's prime object of interest was herself. Besides, Brunhilde's cousin could likely take a bolt of lightning to the head and still not notice the rain.

It would still likely be easier to gird herself for the inevitable brawl in the treetops tomorrow evening.

"Have both my cousins been invited to the Norns', then?" It was cruel to defer this blow to Thor, but it would mean more to Sif if she were to be invited by him than by Volstagg, after all.

"Even Skuld knows that Loki's inaccessible this time of the year. While we are living the high life, he goes slumming to prove that he's not the lowest joke of District Four." The redhead looked as if he might have enjoyed carrying on in this vein, considering the lingering bad blood between clever, prideful, and perhaps, in truth, cowardly, vicious Loki and his elder brother's boisterous friends, but there was a firm hand placed upon Volstagg's shoulder, cutting the redhead off. One moment, he and Brunhilde had had the bench to themselves, the next, an ebon-haired shadow hung its mace at its hip and ghosted over to them silently as the newcomer's arrows.

"Careful." Hogun said no more, but it was all the dark-haired archer needed to say. Hogun did not like Loki any better than his friends did, but not all three warriors came from the immediate families of the richest shipping magnates in the district. Hogun knew what it meant to be an orphan, just how thin the veneer of adoption might be without the support of one's kith and kin. Hogun did not have to transfer between districts, but he'd never been formally adopted, either.

He and Volstagg and Fandral would insist that Hogun's situation was better, especially now that Hogun was past Reaping age and beholden to no one but by choice of friendship, but Hogun was the one they had all secretly worried would be taken as Tribute. He had put his name in the drawing most frequently, after all. Not even an honored and regularly long-term guest of two wealthy families could have survived on charity alone.

Brunhilde never fretted for Loki. Her uncle had no need for tesserae.

"But aye, we are inviting Thor along," Volstagg continued, stepping back from the issue of Loki at Hogun's turning of the tide. "I know not if he'll show, as he has spoken of plans for one last trip out to sea before Reaping Day, but who can resist an evening of mead, song, and boasting to carry us through the feats we have to accomplish by the next time we water Yggdrasil?"

"You intend to climb all the way up this year?" While Brunhilde would join her friends in the oversize treehouse in the lower branches above the Norns' residence, pouring first a cup of juice - and after her first Reaping, replacing it with inches from a horn of mead - down to the roots of Yggdrasil below as they each spoke of what they had accomplished in the past year and what they intended to do the next, she had never understood why the boys felt compelled to climb up ever higher to declare their plans for the following year. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that the roots were not the only things absorbing Urd's homebrew during the course of their Avenger Games parties.

"Higher than Fandral, at least," Volstagg insisted, though Hogun grimly shook his head behind his heavyset auburn-haired friend. Not in denial that the almond-eyed man, too, would attempt the impossible climb, but in doubt that Volstagg would manage to haul his greater weight above Fandral. The two were built like their preferred weapons: the younger was a straw-blade from hair to muscle mass, all lithe flash and no power but for his constant motion, and Volstagg hefty, slow, and strong as the tree, though not nearly as clumsy as he looked. Hogun or Thor would be the foremost competitor in the climb, but no one had managed to reach the uppermost branches by merely grasping the next handhold above the previous, certainly not in one night, and most definitely not while under the effects of a mix of honeyed mead, ale, and the rice wine that Hogun had introduced to Urd's "punch." (For this addition, Hogun had been titled "the greatest," and informed that if he'd had any brothers, Urd would be pushing her sisters at them. He'd climbed the highest that year, and remained up in the branches well until after the dawn sky was less red than his face.)

The only one to climb out of sight from the treehouse had been Heimdall, during their celebrations before the seventeenth Avengers Games. Brunhilde had only been ten, then, too young to understand why her best friend's brother was climbing trees at all, much less why he'd poured a whole horn of pungent-smelling liquid out as a libation to "the Careers." The boy who'd volunteered for the sixteenth Games hadn't won. Heimdall had seen but fourteen years for the sixteenth Games, yet Brunhilde was certain at the time that he could have done better if he'd gone when he'd been called.

Heimdall didn't talk about what he'd seen up there in the higher reaches of Yggdrasil. He didn't talk much at all, rivaling Hogun for his silences sometimes, but he always kept watch on his friends, especially his younger sister. The boys still climbed. Brunhilde never did. She still had work to do before she deserved to see the top.

The morning of Reaping day dawned mildly in District Four, though the distant clouds blowing in from the sea promised a storm before the occasion would be over. Brunhilde chose to take his as an encouraging sign, for District Four had long been associated with its squalling seaside, and the storm would lead this year's Tributes into the Capitol with all the deadly energy that they were used to - the other Districts would be unprepared for the fury of their thunder.

But first, Brunhilde had a different type of roiling cloudburst to face before the Reaping. She found Sif just behind the Systkin house, blunting her blade on a thoroughly abused hardwood stump. "Come now, it shall be no good for practice until you refinish the edge," she told the younger dark-haired fury, taking Sif by the shoulders.

"It shall be sharp enough for Amora, and my quick strength with it," Sif vowed as she at last turned from the long-vanquished tree.

Brunhilde offered her friend a simple nod, keeping her lips straight as to provoke no offence in the temperamental raven-haired girl. "What has she done that you require a sword to confront her?" Brunhilde could guess, but Sif had likely already held her tongue for far longer than her nature warranted.

"You are quite right; I need no sword to deal with _her_." Sif sniffed haughtily to hide the last of the tears that Brunhilde took great pains not to notice. "Might I borrow Aragorn for an afternoon? I promise I shall clean the blood from his withers myself, though surely there is no lovelier steed than a grey stallion painted in foe-blood." While Erda might agree with Sif upon the general concept, Brunhilde doubted that her mother would approve of this particular use of her beloved warhorse from her Sentinel days much more than Amora would.

"You mustn't let her teasing get to you, Sif." Brunhilde shook her head. "The only reason she has for doing so is because my kinsman is equally blind to her affections."

"Thor is denser than his hammer," Sif declared rather morosely, though she tried to hide it beneath a growl. Sif would never directly admit to being starstruck with Brunhilde's cousin, but Amora was not the only one to tease her for it, even if Fandral and Volstagg did so more playfully, and Hogun could tell when enough was enough. "Amora is the most beautiful girl in the District."

"And her affections are shallow, petty things focused mostly upon herself. Do not let her words strike you, and she shall be powerless against you." The younger girl grunted, having heard similar advice many times before. "If you do choose to engage in a contest of words, however, spar with Fandral or Volstagg or your brother for practice so that you might hone your verbal weapons a bit more finely and shore up your defences before you engage with the enemy. You must build speed in your tongue, callous in your ears, and strength in your mind, as sure as you would build such in your hands when training with any other weapon."

Sif nodded, a grimly thoughtful smile at last stealing over her features as she began planning her training with her newest instrument of Amora's destruction. "Fandral said I did cut him too sharp with my tongue once before."

"Any pretty girl can cut to Fandral's heart, and a pretty maid with a blade doubly so." Brunhilde knew better than to take their friend's frequently changing fancies any more seriously than those of Amora - Fandral loved deeply, but he was more in love with the notion of love than with Freya or Sif or any other girl. Brunhilde looked upon him with the same brotherly fondness she held for Heimdall or Thor or Loki, but that did not mean that she would encourage Fandral in any half-baked attempts to court one of her younger sisters.

"Even so," Sif said, and left it at that. Brunhilde almost felt pity for the blonde enchantress. She certainly remembered what Sif had done to Loki when her younger cousin had cut all Sif's hair off and dyed it black once it finally grew back. Still, Sif maintained the colour to this day, in part because Thor had shyly declared that it looked nice, though he swore to Brunhilde that he'd only spoken to fend off any further vengeance upon his younger brother. He didn't worry too much about a lady's hair colour either way.

"For now, we must away to the Reaping," Brunhilde directed, ready to fulfill her mission now that Sif was once more in control of herself. They were headed back beneath Yggdrasil, around the other side from the Norns' house, where the Reaping stage took up the centre of town like a gallows platform.

"Two more years, and then you shall be done with standing before the cage in a pretty dress." Sif kept her eyes well ahead of them, not bothering to ask why Brunhilde had risked being late as well and her own brother or parents hadn't come in her place. "Heimdall is already past this formality. Two more years and you shall stand amongst the Sentinels instead."

"And another year beyond that, and you shall join me," Brunhilde replied with the same conviction. "And Thor shall be a year beyond the potential tributes, as well."

Sif only shrugged, and Brunhilde did her best to maintain a stolid countenance. She did not worry that either of them would be sent to die. They'd never worried for themselves, or their siblings, or for most of their friends.

Hogun had entered his name a few extra times as a youth, as his parentage was unmentioned - and according to the almond-eyed man, best left that way - but Fandral and Volstagg had fought for the right to 'adopt' their best friend and none of them had ever gone hungry since. Volstagg had sat on Fandral and the thinner boy had jabbed the redhead's ample posterior with a practice blade until even Hogun had cracked a smile and promised that he would partition his time between their houses equally, but Hogun and Volstagg were past the most perilous age by this point and Fandral would join them as an official instructor - and unofficial ale-tester - at the training hall next year. Thor would likely follow his friends in the year after, if he did not choose to guard the border as Heimdall did. Her cousins were not set as surely in their paths as Brunhilde, but they had time to choose a profession and then re-decide.

The yearly tribute had never been anyone the girls knew personally since they were old enough to be chosen, and they'd never greatly feared that it would be. Heimdall had been spared by a volunteer before they were old enough to understand what that meant. Odin had won his Games. Their families had paid their dues.

The escort was rather young, having served in his position but two years now. He'd been a flunky for the last one, a cook to prepare "Capitol-style cuisine" for the previous woman, as if fish, potatoes, and even Risalamande for dessert were nowhere near good enough for them. William Cobb III had tried to be friendly to the young potential tributes, for he had chosen one among their number before he'd been made official escort. Kelda would not say how far things had gone in her final year among the children, or the two years following, but Cobb always smiled when he saw her waiting for him, even when he could no longer hide the weariness behind his smiles as the video from the Capitol played its yearly introduction to the Avengers Games.

At least this young escort did not insist upon so precise a divide between the years, so that Brunhilde could stay near the front of her year-group and Sif could meet her near the rear of the sixteen-year-old girls. Erda might not wish for her own proteges to be so sloppy, but when the names of this year's tributes were called, Brunhilde was glad she'd been standing closer.

Thor's name was the one they had pulled, out of all the possible boys entered so many more times into the Reaping. He'd had one chance to be drawn out of thousands, and Odin's son was called forth to follow in his father's footsteps. Brunhilde's eyes sought out her blond cousin, and her uncle, but Loki was not with them. Loki was attending the Reaping of another district. Loki had dual citizenship. Loki's name was entered there, as well.

_No._ For Thor, for Odin, for Sif, Brunhilde could not let the thought even occur.

"I volunteer for him."

"You can't volunteer for a boy tribute," the escort from the Capitol said, as if Brunhilde had just volunteered to become a frog.

"Why should a woman not stand for Thor?" Brunhilde persisted, wishing she had her spear, her sword, even something so simple as a hammer to grip and assure herself of her control. "I am my cousin's equal in arms, and no weaker than he. We are of an age. Is it so dishonorable to send two strong warriors to the Games regardless of their sex?"

The cook-turned-showman blinked, and shook his head rather dazedly. "You'll have to volunteer for Jane Foster instead. There has to be one boy and one girl." Cobb was new, but Kelda's affections had not dazzled him enough to break the rules of the Games. He was still a Capitol citizen.

"Do not worry, Sif," Brunhilde told her friend, who was rather open-mouthedly agog herself. "One way or another, I shall see him home."

_Maybe in the next life._

One way or another, she promised Sif, she _would_ see Thor back in District Four.

* * *

**Thor Odinson**

**Written by kittehkatkakes**

_"What's happened to me,' he thought. It was no dream." _

― Franz Kafka,_ The Metamorphosis_

* * *

Thor buried his head in his hands as he sat in a rickety wooden rocking chair in his father's house. The house was supposed to be luxurious, the house of a victor, but to Thor it just seemed like the Capitol hadn't made the effort, hadn't been bothered to look after their people enough to make their living conditions nice. It was, marginally, better than the slums of District Four though, so he had that to be thankful for, at least. At least they had a stove, fresher food, and a regular supply of clean water. The beds were more than just mattresses and a single blanket, but the pillows were hard. Like _rocks_. Then again, he had always felt that this was the way his father wanted it – he wouldn't subscribe to the easy living boasted by the victors of other districts, particularly not that of District One or Two.

He stared out of the dirty glass that made up his bedroom window at the beach, noticing how not a single soul sailed its fishing boat on the calmly rolling waves, how not a child played a happy game of leapfrog with his friends on the glistening sand of the beach. No, today was Reaping Day.

"Thor! Hurry up and get ready!" his father bellowed from somewhere upstairs.

"I'm coming, father, I'm coming…" he mumbled in response, casting a final glance at the beautiful beach before trudging his way up the stairs to their tiny bathroom. Sometimes, Thor would work with the fishermen on their boats, hauling in nets and spearing smaller fish with his trident. The teenager was long past the _'There's something fishy going on in here…'_ jokes, and now did his job in almost complete silence, only communicating with the other fishermen when it was really necessary. His father yelled at him for working; after all, they did not need to do so any longer, and it only got in the way of his training, but in a way, Thor felt obliged to work. If he didn't, he felt guilty. Ultimately, it was his father who had won the Avengers Games, his father who had become the victor, his father who had murdered all those innocent people. Not Thor. Thor lived in the shadow of his father, and to be perfectly honest, he was happy that way.

Rubbing the cheap, small bar of soap that had a faint strawberry scent across his muscular body and through his dirty blonde hair, Thor sat back against the cold tin of the bath, rinsing the suds away with the barely warm, almost freezing water in a small bowl. He thought about the people in the Capitol. _They dyed their hair!_ On the small television in the front room, Thor had seen the deepest blues, the lightest purples, and the most threatening reds. The teenager thought about how he would like to experiment with his hair. Nothing permanent, something different just for a week or two. And they could change their eye colour! How cool would that be? To have these things called 'contact lenses,' and change his eye colour from the icy blue it was to a bright yellow, a sea green, or a rosy pink. Although he was happy with the way he looked, a change once in a while couldn't hurt, could it?

Thor stepped out of the bath, rubbing himself dry with a not so fluffy towel and making his way back to his room. Strolling to the dusty wardrobe, he picked out the only suit he had; a black tux which he had owned since before his first reaping, since before his father had gone away, since before his mother had died years ago in that mysterious accident…

_No. Not today. _

Today, Thor had other matters on his mind. He fumbled with the slippery silver silk of his tie, finally managing to knot it the best he could. As he towel-dried his hair to stop it from soaking the back of his shirt, he thought about his brother. Loki had been transferred to District Twelve about a week ago, and although Thor didn't like to admit it, he missed his brother quite a bit. Now, he wondered what Loki was doing. Had he made new friends in District Twelve? Had they accepted him as a friend, or teased him behind his back? Practicing a smile as he looked into his smeared mirror, Thor convinced himself that Loki was fine. Loki, among all the people of Thor's acquaintance, knew how to look after himself. Brushing his hair back and checking his reflection one last time, he left his house.

The teenager left his house, slamming the green door and not bothering to wait for his father who would surely catch up to him later anyway, accompanied by the other victor, his former mentee and his best friend, Dr Otto Octavius (whom everyone called 'Doc Ock' for short). Staring up at the overcast sky, Thor sighed overdramatically as he noticed the rolling clouds forming a grey, patternless ceiling above District Four. He had one of those funny visions where his world would be a fantasy story, written by a young author, laughing at her writing as he spoke (or thought, whatever), and the whole thing turned out like District Four was trapped in a massive room. But that was nonsense. Most of it, anyway. Groaning inwardly as the rain began to pour down torrentially, looking as if it was never going to stop; Thor jogged to the shelter of Yggdrasil. This was the giant tree in the centre of their district, and as he walked in a semi-circle around it, looking up into the massive branches and running his hand along the cracked and chipped bark, the teen wondered not for the first time who had planted it there so many years ago. And who knew what was at the top, anyways? From what he knew, nobody had ever bothered to climb to the top of it.

Thor joined the crowd of other teenagers who were ploughing towards the field next to Yggdrasil where the Reaping was held annually, trying his best to ignore the freezing rain that flattened his hair and soaked his clothes. As he reached the rusting iron gates where Sentinels were doing their best to hurry the children up (but failing miserably), he subconsciously noted how the mood was sombre and the air was silent apart from the occasional yelp or cry of pain as someone was jabbed during their DNA test, and the muted pitter-patter of the rain. There was the rare hint of hushed conversation, but it quickly died out; nobody had anything to talk about on Reaping Day. Thor joined a shorter queue, and waited patiently until it was his turn to have his blood taken. Right now, the teenager was really wishing he'd brought an umbrella with him. Shivering in the cold, salty air that accompanied the sea, Thor was abruptly pushed forwards by one of the Sentinels.

"Anon, stay your hands, I'm going…" he murmured quietly, stepping forwards and holding out a pale hand. He winced as the Sentinel pulled the needle out of his finger, and stumbled away, sucking it as the first tiny drop of crimson blood appeared. He stood in the middle of an unfamiliar crowd of boys, waiting for something to happen. The pouring rain finally slowed to a soft drizzle, and Thor leant against one of the iron gates as the last teenage boy filed in behind him and the presentation began.

There was a blast of deafening music, before a man's voice introduced the video, just as it began to show a series of short clips taken from before the Civil War, showing people from the district's going about living ordinary lives, smiles on every clean, well-washed face.

"**Once, the land of Marvel lived in peace and harmony. The Capitol, and the districts, together, as one. The heart and the hand, feeding one another, surviving only through brotherhood and trust, in mutual dependency. However, through the actions of HYDRA – a rogue cell of anarchists, born from malcontents within the S.S.R., Marvel's trusted peacekeeping force – the districts were manipulated into rebellion."**

A dramatic pause, and then the video began in earnest, and war, in all its glory, took centre stage.

Thor couldn't bear to watch the video. They played the same one every year, and since he had first seen the horrific, taunting images of war when he was twelve years old, he had vowed never to look again. There were the sounds of gunshots; marching feet, screaming people…accompanied by the never-ending drone of the narrator, who he couldn't tune out no matter how much he tried. There was nothing honourable in war, he had long ago decided – it was too easy to drop a bomb on a city, to mow people down in a hail of gunfire. If killing had to be done, it had to be up close and personal. The killer had to bear the consequences of his actions, and face what he had just done, or else you were just a weapon, not a man.

He turned back as the video ended, and the escort onstage began to talk, waving his hands around dramatically and prancing like a peacock up and down the stage. Thor recalled the man being called Bill something – Bill Cobb? That was right. Bill Cobb. Thor stood on the end of a messy row at the back of the crowd of juvenile boys. Less than three metres away from him stood the girls, their rows much neater, all of them clothed in their best dresses with their hair plaited or pinned back. The only thing separating the two crowds was a small, sandy pathway a few metres wide. Thor scanned the male faces around him, but nobody seemed familiar. The weedy kid standing to the left of him muttered something that sounded a bit like:

"It won't be you. Your name only goes in twice every year. Mine's going in twelve." To show the boy (who couldn't have been older than thirteen) that he had acknowledged him, Thor gave a small 'mmmmm….' He glanced uncomfortably at the girls standing in neat rows opposite them, not wanting to be caught staring at a lady. Still, he only recognised a few people. The gorgeous Lady Sif, as always accompanied by her best friend and sword-sister, Brunhilde, stood opposite him. Brunhilde was also Thor's cousin, so they, too, were close friends. Sif turned around abruptly, as if sensing his eyes on her, and Thor immediately averted his gaze. Well, perhaps he had a crush on her… but he did not understand why she wouldn't approach him! Was it because of Amora? Thor had no feelings for her, and besides, she was only really interested in herself. He did not want to fall in love and then have his heart broken. He turned his attention back to the crowds. It was only on Reaping Day every year that the teenager could really estimate the size of his district's population. And these were only the teenagers.

Cobb stopped prancing around on the stage and finally got down to business.

"So, District Four," he boomed, "Who is to be your female tribute this year?" Thor could sense the tension in the crowd as the man fumbled in the clear ball for a teensy slip of paper. Every woman was holding her breath, hoping she wouldn't be reaped, that her name wouldn't be announced. Bill hurriedly unfolded the paper, squinting at the handwriting.

"Jane Foster!" he exclaimed. Thor could see the muscles in Jane's face tighten as she paled and began to walk very slowly towards the stage. He did not know the girl personally, but by the size of her he doubted that she had been training for this, and it was always upsetting to see an unprepared district member walk towards the stage.

"Shall we call up our next tribute?" Bill asked, completely ignoring the depressed district as he clapped his hands together in a merry mood. Thor did not understand. How could this man be happy? How could he be joyful when he was surely leading twenty-four blameless people, two from his own adopted district, to their certain deaths? Before the teenager could continue his disgusted thought-train, the man was scrabbling around inside the other clear plastic ball. Thor, along with the other males, was on edge. He wanted to get the reaping over with, wanted to go back home and do something useful. Like sleep; or eat. He would have even been happy with working on a fishing boat at the moment. Doing anything and being anywhere else but where he was right now. Finally, Bill yanked his arm from the ball and unfolded the cream slip of paper, square by square. Time had slowed down for Thor. Everything was in slow motion. Another square, and another, and another. With a rush of sound and air, time sped back up.

"Ah!" Cobb cried out in delight, and Thor returned his gaze to the stage.

"Thor… Odinson."

Thor couldn't move. His feet were frozen to the ground, his stomach turning to butterflies. The rain pattered at his hair, matting it to his head, which spun in circles. It was him. Out of all the names in the ball, all the people in District Four, he had been called. Against all the odds, it was him. Before the Sentinels tried to drag him to the stage, Thor slowly forced himself to walk forwards. His legs felt like jelly; his hands were shaking as he made his way with a false sense of leisure to the platform. He felt everybody's eyes on him, staring him out, but nobody volunteered. They wouldn't – he had been prepared for this, after all, even if he hadn't planned on volunteering himself. At the moment, Thor really should have been thinking about what he was going to say onstage, what he was going to do during the games, but he couldn't force himself to think. The only thought circling around his mind was Bill Cobb, saying his name in an endless loop.

_Thor Odinson… Thor Odinson… Thor Odinson… _

When he was about a metre away from the stage steps, he glanced up and saw the man beaming down at him, his smile obviously fake. His smile told Thor _'I'm going to look after you and give you candy and help you all you need during the Games,'_ but his eyes said otherwise: more like _'hurry up, stop dawdling, and get onstage.' _Quickening his pace ever so slightly, Thor hopped up the steps.

"I volunteer for him," a voice suddenly called out. Thor whipped around to see Brunhilde, standing strong in the crowd.

"You can't volunteer for a boy tribute," the escort said.

"Why should a woman not stand for Thor?" she persisted, and Thor smiled slightly at his cousin's bravery, before she continued her rant. "I am my cousin's equal in arms, and no weaker than he. We are of an age. Is it so dishonourable to send two strong warriors to the Games regardless of their sex?" Cobb blinked, and shook his head dazedly.

"You'll have to volunteer for Jane Foster instead. There has to be one boy and one girl," he replied, refusing her request with a dismissive air. Brunhilde turned to Sif, who looked as if she were in shock. They exchanged a few words, and Brunhilde strode up to the stage.

"I volunteer as tribute for Jane Foster," she announced firmly. Jane moved off the stage feebly, and Brunhilde smiled self-conciously at Thor as she strode past him, taking Bill's hand and shaking it briefly. Brunhilde stood on the other side of Cobb as he finished his small speech about 'the brave volunteers' or something, and the man clasped both their hands in his tight grasp, raising them both skywards.

"Ladies and gentlemen, District Four's glorious tributes!" he yelled. There was a smattering of applause that died down very quickly. Too quickly. Now, Thor realised, everybody was relieved. They were finished with the Reaping; glad it wasn't them. They just wanted to go home and celebrate, live their lives for another year. Under the shelter of the stage, Thor was safe from the rain. He watched in silence, standing next to Brunhilde, as Bill released their hands and the population of District Four filed back in the direction of Yggdrasil to the cloudy horizon beyond the tree's gigantic branches. Although he tried to spot Sif, it was impossible in the constantly moving crowd to see her long black hair, her muscular build – in fact, it was very likely that Thor would never see any of his friends again. But there was that small chance, just waiting to be grabbed. That he could win the Games. That-

"Thor!" It was Brunhilde. "Resist the impulse to make an ass of yourself!" she hissed.

"Oh- right, sorry." He spun around, taking one last glance at his beautiful district: smelling the fresh, salty sea air, the newly cut grass, everything he could take in. The sights, the sounds, the smells. They had made their way into the district's Justice Building before being ushered into separate rooms, and Thor almost tripped as the Sentinels shoved him forwards. He didn't say anything, and obliged, stumbling into the room.

For a moment, Thor stood, shocked, as he attempted to take in his surroundings. The room was bigger on the inside; and it was more decorated than anything he'd ever seen. Paintings of past victors hung on the beige wallpaper, from all of the districts. It was like a Wall of Fame. He spotted his father, Doc Ock next to him… Peter Quill from District Five… Charles Xavier from District Ten, and Sam Wilson from District Eleven. There were a few other faces he recognised too, but hey – no one really expected him to learn all of the victors' names, did they? Before he could continue searching the room with its strange paintings and oak furniture, a Sentinel marched in.

"This is the visiting room. Your friends and relative will have ten minutes to speak to you, then they must leave!" he announced, clearly enunciating each word.

"Ten minutes? That hardly-" before he could finish the sentence, the Sentinel stormed back outside, and Thor made a frustrated gesture at the closed door, taking a seat on one of the ugly brown sofas. After about thirty seconds, Doctor Octavius burst through the door, closely followed by his own father.

"Thor! How do you fare on this fine day?" the doctor beamed, slinging an arm around Thor.

"Not very well… in case you hadn't noticed, I've been reaped…" Thor muttered sulkily.

"That doesn't matter! Didn't they tell you?" Octavius lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. "We're mentoring you!"

"You are? I feel so much better," Thor stated sarcastically, already knowing, of course, that they would be mentoring himself and Brunhilde, as District Four only had two mentors to choose from.

"You would, wouldn't you?" his father groaned. "As though how you '_feel_' matters at this point! The fate of this district is in your hands, Thor – you need to face that."

"Nonsense!" his fellow mentor replied cheerfully, cutting across the Allfather, a nickname Odin was known by in the district. "We'll look after him and Brunhilde, don't you worry! Oh, we need to talk to her, too…" Otto placed a hand on Odin's shoulder, releasing Thor, and leading his father outside; presumably to talk to Brunhilde. He sighed, sitting back on the sofa.

"H-Hello? Thor, are you in here?" someone asked tentatively. The door creaked open, and a shadow slipped through. It stepped into the light, revealing the curvy figure of Sif.

"Sif? What are you-?"

"Shhh! I came to ask you a favour." Thor raised an eyebrow. "I want to see her again. Alive." Sif nodded her head forwards, indicating the other visiting room.

"I'm not promising anything, but… I'll do my best," he replied, sighing, knowing there was no way Sif was leaving without his word, Sentinels or no Sentinels.

"Thank you." She stood up abruptly, making to leave, but seemed to change her mind.

"And Thor?"

"Yeah?" She leant down and pecked him on the cheek, then left without another word. Thor felt himself slowly going red, wishing he'd have said something more.

He ended up spending the rest of his ten minutes alone, wondering what sort of biome they'd be placed in. After all, his father and the good doctor could only mentor him and Brunhilde so much. In fact, it was exactly three minutes later when he was escorted out of a secret back door where a steaming train was waiting for him. He didn't recognise the model – and to be honest, he didn't really care either. He'd never been on a train!

Overwhelmed with excitement, anticipation, and a strange, unfamiliar sense of unease, Thor stepped forward onto the carpet.


	6. Chapter 5: The Meaning of Sacrifice

**(A/N) Hey all, time for another update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we reach the District Five Reaping! Featuring the works of the fantastic Lili-Hunter, of whom those who have read some of our other fics will be familiar with as the writer of South Dakota and Jackson Rothe, and a sensational new writer in ThatOneAwkwardGeekInTheCorner! **

**Random Reader 17: Delighted to hear that you're enjoying the fic, but feel free to let us know exactly what gave you a hard time in following certain chapters - if we don't know our limitations, we can't aim to improve, after all!**

**KJAX89: Complicated is a word. So is hellbent!**

**And with that, here is the District Five Reaping! Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Six – The Meaning of Sacrifice**

**District Five Reaping**

**Written by ThatOneAwkwardGeekInTheCorner &amp; Lili-Hunter**

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**Carol Danvers of District Five**

**Written by ThatOneAwkwardGeekInTheCorner**

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_"Without pain, without sacrifice we would have nothing. Like the first monkey shot into space."_  
― Chuck Palahniuk, _Fight Club_

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Those moments in the morning, when you had just woken up, and you forgot everything, were Carol's favourite of the day. For a few brief moments you could forget how corrupt and fucked up the world is. For a few moments it was like you were five again, and you thought nothing could ever go wrong with the world. For Carol, those moments seemed to be growing shorter and shorter, but when they did come Carol savoured them. It was only until after, of course, that the crushing reality rushed back and made itself known.

When Carol woke that morning, this particular moment only lasted for a few seconds, just until she realized what this particular day was. Reaping Day. The thought brought a sour taste to her mouth. She glanced over her shoulder to the other inhabitant of the room. It was still dark, Carol had taken to waking early in the morning long ago – however her brother, Joseph, did not. He was still sound asleep. Perhaps it was the fact that he snores, but he has always been a deep sleeper, even when he was born. Carol remembered when she was two, and that her parents had told her the new baby would make a lot of noise, and she remembered he hardly ever made a sound. The snoring only began _after_ he had grown up.

Carol and her brother Joe were incredibly close, despite the two year age difference. Carol acted as his protector of sorts – he was, after all, her little brother. She was always eager to teach him everything she knew, in fact, it was Carol who taught her little brother how to read, not her father. Their mother had died long ago, Carol couldn't remember much of the woman, except that she was incredibly beautiful. That's what her father said at least, and sometimes she wondered whether or not the memories she seemed to have were just based off what he had told her. Carol didn't look like her father at all, she had inherited the blonde hair and blue eyes of her mother, but both of her brothers looked much more like their father. Little Stevie had his curly brown hair, where Joe only has the brown hair, but he did have his mother's eyes, unlike Stevie, who had his father's green eyes. It hurt Carol to know that Stevie was now old enough to be reaped. He had just turned twelve a month and a half ago, which meant that he was eligible for the games. He and the daughter of one of their neighbours next door – a small, very thin, anxious brown haired girl – were both old enough now.

Carol forced herself from her bed. She didn't want to think about the Games anymore. Carol wasn't very afraid for herself – a tall, dark haired stranger had made sure of that. She was more upset that young children, _twelve year olds_, might end up having to fight for their lives. Carol never saw how seeing little kids fighting each other to the death brought anyone amusement, but she supposed that was just how Capitol people were.

Carol moved into their small kitchen, taking a small apple that had been left on the table. Her family wasn't as poor as some families in their district – her father owned a small business – but they were in no means rich. However, Carol had never starved, by any means. Carol took a large bite from her apple, sliding on the leather jacket she was given for her birthday. She loved the jacket very much, not just because her father had made it for her. He was a leather worker, and made the jackets, shoes, and belts for the guards in the district, repaired people's shoes and clothing for them, because it was often far cheaper to repair clothes than it was to buy new ones, so her father always had a healthy flow of customers. Even the Sentinels would come to them, as much as her father disliked them, to have their clothes repaired when new supplies couldn't be sent to them.

Carol still remembered the day a Sentinel named Darrel came in to have his whip repaired. She remembered how nicely her father had acted to the man, even though she could see how upset and anxious the Sentinel made him. The moment he had left the shop her father had stormed into the back room, shouting curses. Carol was used to his outbursts by then, she must have been around ten. She had followed him into the backroom, amazed at the shade of purple his face had turned.

"Dad, why did you say you would fix his whip if it makes you so mad?" Carol had asked, puzzled.

Her father whipped around. It seemed like, for a moment, he had forgotten she was there. He took a deep breath, carefully placing the whip on his work table, and sat, gesturing for Carol to sit next to him.

"Sweetie," he started once she sat down. "There are things that you learn when you get older. One of the most important lessons you will learn is to never defy the Capitol. Please promise me you will always do what the Sentinels say," he asked her.

Carol, who didn't seem to notice how serious her father was, nodded. He moved, kissing her on the forehead, "Okay sweetie, go out and play now. I need to get to work on this whip."

It seemed that Carol never learned what her father taught her, because just four years ago she did something that could have earned her a public hanging in the town square, or perhaps, if she was lucky, a whipping with the whip her father repaired.

When Carol was eleven she went exploring. It was the summertime, a few months before the Reaping, and a little over a year before her own Reaping. She knew it was coming because her father was looking at her more often than he used to, usually with a sad or worried expression on his face. He was much nicer to her than he ever had been, he seemed to get more lenient with her behaviour than he always was. But at night she could hear him crying.

Carol had hardly understood why. Their district had thousands of girls eligible for the games, not including the kids her age. There were many girls her age going into the draw - it was the largest age group their district had seen for some time. Carol was, of course, terrified over being chosen to participate in the games, however, she felt that the odds were so out of her favour that it was almost impossible, especially because her father was only allowing her to enter her name once. Even though it made her feel safe, she was annoyed that she couldn't enter her name two, or even three times more. Carol's family was by no means poor, but they weren't rich either. A little more tessarae in the house couldn't hurt. But her father told her, "Women have no place in those games, Carol. You shouldn't be required to fight. That is a _man's_ job."

Oh, how Carol hated hearing that. That's all she ever heard, 'It's not a woman's place, it's not a woman's place.'

Carol was thinking about just that as she explored the outskirts of the district. She had taken to doing it pretty often, slipping underneath a section of unpowered electric fencing opposite the huge dam. Her father would have kittens if he knew. _Ironic_, she had felt each time as she had passed under it. _The district that supplies power still has chinks in its electric fence._

Carol had found an old house that she liked to visit a mile or so from the fence. It was old and decrepit, but warm. She knew animals liked to stay there in the winters, but she never found anything more threatening than a cat when she visited, except for the day she visited when she was eleven.

She took her usual route, stopping in front of a patch of blueberries, taking a handful as she walked to the house. She never told her brothers about this. They were too young, and Stevie would surely tell by accident if he knew, so she always came alone, sometimes with a book she wanted to read, other times with her schoolwork. This time she came with a book. It was an old thing that she had read a thousand times, but she loved it.

She opened the door, ready to sit on her favorite armchair by the fireplace, where she left some logs she had collected so she could make a small fire if she wanted, but she was shocked when she opened the door. There was a fire already lit, and a man was leaning over the table in the middle of the room.

He looked very dirty. His bright green hair was dirty and unkempt, it looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks. His shirt might have been white at some time, but it wasn't then. It was an ugly grey color, with dirt smudged in seemingly random places. Carol was frozen in place from fear. He was very obviously a Capitol man. No one else dressed like that – looked like that. The only people she had ever seen with unnatural hair colors were the tributes escorts – which – were originally Capitol citizens. If it was one type of person you should always be afraid of, it was a Capitol citizen.

Carol tried to slowly back out of the doorway, but the man turned. "Who are you?" he asked fearfully. He looked very thin, thinner than most Capitol people do, anyway. Not quite as district children, but thin enough.

"C-Carol," Carol stuttered, wondering if she could outrun the man. He seemed weak. Maybe she could get away before he tried anything.

"How old are you, Carol?" he asked in a very non-threatening, tired way. Carol wondered if he was trying to trick her.

"Eleven," Carol had answered truthfully.

"You're going into the Reaping next year." It wasn't a question.

Carol nodded again, this time edging towards the door.

"How would you like some training?" he asked, sitting down at the table, gesturing for her to sit at the table across from him.

By some coincidence, the door was swept shut behind her. It had scared Carol out of her wits at the time. She thought the man was some sort of all powerful being, but now that she thought about it, the wind probably just shut the door - it _was_ very windy that day.

That man, as it turns out, was named Mar-Vell, or so he said. Carol hardly believed that was his actual name, he'd probably just given her an alias of some kind in case she accidentally told anyone about him – not that she would ever do that. Anyhow, for the past four years he had been training Carol for the Avenger Games. Carol wasn't very keen on the idea at the time, but now it felt like a routine. She got up every morning at four-thirty and went through the section of unpowered fencing to an abandoned building nearby, where a surprisingly adept Mar-Vell taught her how to fight.

Throughout the years Carol learned very little about Mar-Vell, except that he strongly opposed the Games. She did learn a lot from him, however. She learned almost anything you could about survival. She learned any type of fighting you could name, hand – to – hand, sword fighting, throwing knives, spear throwing, she even learned how to shoot a bow, though she was a lousy shot. She was the best at hand to hand and sword fighting, anything that got her up close and personal, she was good at. If it involved anything at a distance, she could barely hit a target. It was both a blessing and a curse. Carol would much rather be able to defend herself than kill someone. From the first week she told Mar-Vell that when she volunteered – they agreed she would when she was older, what kind of training was this if it didn't amount to anything – that she would not kill anyone. Carol had her own standards, and she refused to ever kill anybody. It went against what she stood for. Mar-Vell had just scoffed at her in the way adults do when they believe they see naivety at work. However, Carol promised herself that she would never kill someone unless it was in self defense and she had no choice, and she intended to keep that promise.

Otherwise, she and Mar-Vell agreed on most things. He agreed that women absolutely had a place in the world, and that they can do just as much as men. "Women mightn't win the Games as often as men, but there's never been a final three without a woman - there has been without a man, though," he would remind her when she came to their practices ranting about something her father said. "I usually prefer teaching women, they listen better."

That was the first time Mar-Vell had ever mentioned other students, and she always pestered him about them, but he always remained very tight lipped about them. Carol supposed that it was because most of them died after they volunteered, but when she suggested that, he informed her that was not the case, and barely spoke for the rest of their training session.

When Carol arrived at their training house on the reaping day, however, he was waiting outside of the door for her this time. Four years of working with Mar-Vell, and Carol couldn't remember a single time when he was waiting outside for her before their training session.

"Good morning Carol," he greeted her. Carol had an odd feeling in her stomach. "May the odds be-"

"-ever in your favor," Carol finished, mocking his Capitol accent.

"No volunteering this year," Mar-Vell reminded her. Carol rolled her eyes. Ever since she told him she wanted to volunteer for the other twelve-year-olds back when she herself was twelve, Mar-Vell always seemed to need to remind her not to volunteer. Frankly Carol could hardly understand why he was so adamant she didn't volunteer yet. She felt ready. She didn't understand why he would rather other girls with no training went into the games instead of her. She had four years of training, after all - that was four more years than anyone else in her district.

"We're not doing any fighting today – just in case. I don't want you hurt," he informed her. Carol shrugged in reply. She'd come to enjoy her defense training, but a day off wouldn't hurt her.

They spent three hours practicing finding food, setting fires, finding water, and setting traps for animals. This was of benefit for them both. Mar-Vell lived in these woods now, so when Carol left he would go and collect the animals caught in their snares became his only source of food, and the bushes found around the area.

Carol's survival skills had been honed sharp in the four years she spent training. She truly felt sorry for anyone that didn't have the experience she did. She knew she wouldn't use any of the skills she had to kill anyone, but she _could_ out-survive anyone. She knew that for a fact.

Three hours later Carol and Mar-Vell parted ways, he wished her luck once more before he disappeared into the house. Carol managed to make it back to her own home in time to take a shower and quickly dress herself. There was a red sweater paired with a blue and white skirt. Carol frowned, but decided not to mention the clashing colors to her father. He was trying, at least. Carol looked at herself in the mirror one last time, sweeping her short hair from her eyes. Her hair was a little past shoulder length, but her bangs proved to be meddlesome. "Just stay," she told them exasperatedly.

She sighed, leaving them where they were. She walked into the kitchen, hoping for the next two hours to pass quickly. "Where have you been?" her father asked gruffly. He acted more kindly to her when she was younger in the days preceding the Reaping, but those days were gone. Perhaps he had simply gotten used to sending his children into their potential death.

"I was with a friend, schoolwork, you know?" she replied distractedly. She noticed Stevie walk into the room with Joe. Steve's eyes were bright red.

"Dad, I think the boys and I should leave now. You know how hectic the crowds get," Carol reasoned.

"But-" Joe began to argue, but Carol silenced him with a glare.

"Yes go along, just… be careful," their father ordered. Carol knew by then that he wanted to say a lot more.

Carol let the boys leave in front of her, closing the door behind them.

"Carol, what was that? We're going to be there a half an hour early," Joe complained, tugging on the sleeves of his shirt in discomfort. He grew, that shirt wasn't so small on him last year.

Carol however, was paying closer attention to Stevie. "Stevie, it's going to be okay - Stevie, look at me!" Carol commanded, Stevie was busy looking off into the distance, blinking to keep his tears from falling, but he turned to look at her. "Stevie look, I'm still here, and I have been going to the Reaping for three years. This is Joe's second time, and he's still here. Your name is only going in once, they aren't going to pick you," Carol promised him, giving him a firm hug.

Stevie seemed to calm down much more after that. Jessica, their thin neighbor burst from her house, smiling sunnily. "Hi Steve!" she exclaimed, throwing herself at the young boy. Carol could distinctly see Stevie blush, but she decided not to embarrass him for it. She knew Joe would do it later for her, so instead, she smirked at the two twelve-year-olds.

"Are you walking to the Reaping with us, Jessica?" Carol asked the young girl, and she nodded in her usual, exuberant way._ It seems the reaping doesn't scare her as much as my little brother_, Carol mused.

They walked together to the town centre, where the Reaping was held every year. They separated at the lines for boys and girls, after submitting themselves to a swift blood test, but not before the she hugged both of her brothers. "Stevie, when the Reaping is over I want you to stay put. Joe and I will find you," Carol ordered. Both of her siblings nodded before going to their respective lines.

The ominous feeling was beginning to get to Carol. She was much more confident than in past years, but she had others to worry about her, not just herself. She kept telling herself the lie she told Stevie. There is no way he is going to get picked. He _can't_ be picked.

Carol and Jessica walked to their line, and while they waited Carol explained to her what they would do. Jessica's mother was a very nice woman, but she had no older children, so Jessica might not have known how the system worked quite yet.

Carol allowed the Sentinel to prick her finger, barely wincing at the small pain. Carol went to her assigned age group, finding a friend she had in class. They talked, but Carol was focused on finding Stevie. She craned her neck, trying to pick him out of the crowd. When she finally found him, she smiled. He was chatting very animatedly with the boys in his age group - apparently the fear hadn't quieted him for too long. He looked so grown up in his cotton shirt and dress pants. Carol couldn't help but remember when he was four and fell the first time he was allowed to wear his nice clothes. He had been very upset, as was their father when he had discovered he ruined them.

The Marvel anthem blared loudly from the speakers. Carol hardly paid any attention to the propaganda, as it was the same every year. The speakers blared from the sound of the microphone. Carol realized with faint surprise, that Michael Barnett had already taken the stage. Michael was one of the more kindly escorts Carol had ever seen. He was sort of a grandfatherly figure, though he proved to have a short temper at times, he was still one of the most laid back escorts in the games, and for that district five was grateful. He wore his signature brown suit with a green dress shirt and darker tie underneath. His black, shiny shoes had a slight heel, which gave the already tall man a very towering appearance. The only surgery that Michael appeared to have ever gotten was one that made his chin much more angular, but the effect did not make him beautiful, instead it gave him an almost frightening appearance. Either way, Carol found Michael the most likeable of all of the escorts. He didn't have the expensive tastes most Capitol people had. He dressed very simply, and he didn't own an air of sophistication. He seemed the most down to earth. Carol realized, with faint surprise, that Michael had already greeted them.

_ How wonderful._

"It's important," Michael said, smiling toothily at the crowd, "to remember those lost in a senseless revolt, and honour the inspirations for the original Avenger Games. And, twenty-four years on, we remind ourselves of the might of the Capitol, to keep such a tragedy from _ever_ occurring again."

Carol rolled her eyes. Ever since she started training with Mar-Vell she started picking up more and more on the propaganda that the Capitol was spilling into the district's heads. Carol wondered if they actually believed any of it.

Michael uncrossed her arms, and seemed to stand straighter, preparing himself for his next task. Carol vaguely wondered how Michael felt in comparison to the rest of the escorts. He seemed to be the most likable one. "And now, the time has come to reveal who, among your population, will represent your district and have the chance to bring glory to you all!" he exclaimed, showing the crowd a grin that at first felt warm, but seemed to grow almost sinister. "Ladies first."

Carol sighed and untensed her lithe muscles. She shut her eyes, waiting for Michael to shout out the name of the poor soul to be chosen this year. Carol hated this part. She hated watching her friends get picked to enter into their death.

"Jessica Jones!"

Carol's core, back, and arm muscles all re-tensed as a shocked gasp sounded from the crowd. Carol desperately searched to find her. She found her young, thin neighbor walking towards the stage with her shoulders set in a sort of fierce determination. No, Carol thought to herself. No this cannot be happening. Carol didn't know Jessica very well - she was Stevie's friend, after all -but Carol couldn't watch the twelve-year-old take the stage. She was only twelve years old. Carol felt sick to her stomach at the thought of having to watch the young girl die. She saw her brother fighting a few of his friends to get to her. Carol went through all of the possibilities in her head before she settled on one.

She took a deep breath, and pushed through the crowd of girls to get to the aisle in the middle. She was immediately grabbed by Sentinels, but she shoved both of them off of her, "I volunteer," she shouted, "as tribute!"

The surprised gasps were much louder this time, and the Sentinels let go of Carol, seeming unsure of what to do, but Carol did not back down. Carol stood her ground, keeping her shoulders squared in defiance as she stared down Michael Barnett, her escort.

"That is not standard procedure," Michael drawled, narrowing his eyes at Carol. Carol felt her stomach twist, but she held her ground.

"I can say it again, if you want," Carol offered sarcastically. Inwardly she was very angry with herself, but seeing Michael's lips purse to a thin line was worth it.

"That will not be necessary," Michael said, gesturing for her to join him on the stage. Though Michael did not show it, Carol could feel she had angered him. Carol strode to the stage confidently, standing beside Michael, but inwardly, she was not confident. She felt her stomach turning into knots. She watched her youngest brother struggle against his friends to try to get to her. Carol found herself praying for the first time in a very long time. Praying for her brother not to be chosen.

"Gentlemen, you're up," Michael said, brightly. Carol almost felt intimidated by how in control he was. If he was angry, he wasn't about to show it. Carol watched Michael's thick fingers pluck a thin strip of paper. He whisked it out of the bowl, holding it in front of his face. Carol held her breath. If Jessica was reaped, then so could Steve, or Joe, for that matter. Carol hoped the odds were in her favour today.

"James Barnes."

Carol let a long breath of relief. Her body sagged in utter joy. She looked through the crowd, and found that Stevie was mostly calmed now, but found Joe was giving her a very piercing look. Carol knew how angry he was with her, but Carol was very glad she was going to the games, and not Jessica.

Jessica was a very small, unhealthy girl. She was very sickly as a child, and she was overcoming that, she was beginning to become healthier. It probably had something to do with her mother getting a better paying job. Jessica was finally able to get healthier meals, and Carol couldn't stand to let that be taken away from her, especially when she was so young.

"And so the final tributes have been chosen," Michael said, flashing his bright, white teeth to the crowd yet again, "But as always, the final question must be asked. Are there any volunteers?"

There was a long pause, and Carol thought it was just going to be James and herself until a strong voice called from the crowd, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Carol's head whipped up, blue eyes searching the crowd carefully for the owner of the voice. She found the speaker, a tall guy, probably around her age, blond hair and blue eyes. He looked strong, he had a strong, lean figure, meaning he had probably just gotten his stature not too long ago. The crowd parted as he walked to the stage. Carol could see his jaw was set in a sort of fierce determination. Carol didn't recognize him, she was sure that she would recognize him if she had ever seen him.

He hopped up on the stage, he still looked as if he had shouldered a fifty-pound bag and was dead set on not letting anyone notice the weight hurt him. Carol offered her hand to the boy, locking eyes with him. He took it, his hand was strong, and his grip was firm. Carol made a point to make her hand stronger than his felt. She wanted him to know that she didn't plan on falling to pieces on him. As much as she wanted to be by herself in these Games, she could see a great potential teammate when one was presented to her.

* * *

The ride to the Justice Building was silent. Quill, their mentor, didn't seem to want to talk much, and Carol had little to say. Carol _had_ learned the boy's name was Steve Rogers. Steve seemed busy studying their path to the building rather than talking, so Carol settled on looking out of her own.

When they arrived at the Justice Building Carol and Steve were separated to their own rooms. Carol paced back and forth in front of the chair that was offered for her to sit in. She didn't know what to think. It seems that it had just hit her that she volunteered for her own death. Carol had a leg up against the competition of course, but that doesn't mean anything in the games. Sometimes raw instinct could beat practiced wit. Carol knew that. She'd beaten Mar-Vell often enough to know that.

_Shit. Mar-Vell._ He'd told her not to volunteer, and that was exactly what she had done. It wasn't that she really cared what he thought, but he'd become a friend, a mentor in their time together. And he wouldn't know what happened to her. Tomorrow she wouldn't show up for their training session, and he'd think hopefully 'maybe she's just sick'. And then the days would turn to weeks, and he would know exactly what had happened to her.

The door burst open, and Carol barely had time to turn around before there was a short person latched around her waist, head buried into her stomach. Carol instinctively wrapped her arms around her youngest brother. _Now isn't the time to fall to pieces,_ Carol told herself. Carol needed to be strong for her brothers, and to prove herself to her father.

Carol supposed this wasn't the best way to prove herself to her father, but it was the most prevalent way. Carol planned to win the games. She knew that winning would, at some point, involve killing. Carol never liked the idea of killing anything, she refused to kill anything that wasn't completely necessary, and Carol had promised herself long ago that she would never kill a tribute unless it was in self defense. Carol was confident she could win that way. Carol decided to draw upon that confidence so she could be strong for her family.

Carol knelt in front of her brother, who still had tears in his eyes, and said, "Stevie, I need you to be strong for Daddy, okay?" she asked, looking her brother in the eyes. Carol could always tell everything about him by looking into his eyes.

Steve, to his credit, took a deep breath, and nodded. "You're going to come back, right?" he asked tearfully.

The words felt like a punch to the gut, and Carol didn't know what to say. She wanted to come back for him. This was the only motivation she needed. She needed to come back for her brother. "Yes Stevie, I'm going to come back," _or I am going to die trying_, Carol left this part to be said only in her head.

Carol looked over Stevie's shoulder, and saw her other brother. Joe looked equally distraught, but his tears were silent, and he seemed rooted to the spot. Carol's heart, if possible, seemed to twist in her chest. She hadn't seen her brother cry for a very long time. Joe just wasn't the crying type. Carol wanted to cry just seeing him cry, but she swallowed the urge. She had never considered just how much her actions would have affected her family.

Carol bit her lip, and guided Stevie to her father, who immediately latched on to their father. Carol walked to Joe, blinking hard, "Oh stop it Joe, you're going to make me cry," she laughed, wrapping her arms around her brother. He held her tightly, like he didn't want to ever let go.

"Carol, you're going to win. You're going to win, and you're going to come back home, and you're going to be with us, and everything is going to be okay. You're not leaving me," he sobbed. He had gotten taller. Carol never really noticed it until now. He was almost as tall as her now. Carol briefly wondered the other things she had missed.

Carol gave him a squeeze, tears now leaking from her own eyes, "I'm going to die trying, Joe. I'm going to give it all I have to come back to you guys. That is a promise," she stated, hugging him even more tightly. Carol fleetingly wished that she could stay with them for hours so she could give them the proper goodbyes, but she knew their time was short.

"You need to look after Dad and Stevie for me, okay? You're the next oldest, so I'm leaving you in charge. Don't stop trying in school, I want to come back to you being the top of your class. Can you try to do that for me?" Carol asked, feeling as though her throat was stuck. Carol didn't want her family falling apart without her there. She knew it was a heavy burden for Joe to bear, but she was confident he could handle it.

"I'll-"

"Times up!" a man yelled into the room, throwing the door open.

"No! Nooooo!" Steve held on to Carol's leg for dear life. Her Dad gently tugged the sobbing, inconsolable Steve off of Carol, who was now sobbing, and threw him fireman carry-style over his shoulder. "I'm rooting on you, kiddo," he said, his eyes fogging up, and kissed her on the cheek before he was pulled from the room by a peacekeeper.

Carol sank into an armchair, feeling as though someone had put a thousand pound weight on her chest. She let out a long breath, willing the feeling to go away. 'Now isn't the time to fall to pieces' Carol reminded herself. Carol was about to get up and approach the door to tell the guards she was ready to go, when she heard the door creak open. Carol turned to the door, feeling extremely confused, when she saw a young thin girl with brown hair walk into the room.

"Carol, why did you do that?" the young girl said quietly.

Carol rose from her seat in the chair and enveloped the young girl into a protective hug, as if she was daring someone to try to take Jessica from her. "Because, kiddo, I have a much better chance in those games than you do. I couldn't watch you get up on that stage," Carol told the girl truthfully.

Jessica sobbed, hugging Carol more tightly. Carol smoothed the girl's hair, at a loss of what to do. "Thank you so much, Carol! I was so scared! You need to win. I won't be able to live with myself if you don't!"

Carol squatted down in front of the young girl, wiping the tears away from her face carefully. "Jessica, you need to promise me, that whatever happens in there, you won't blame yourself, okay?" Jessica looked down at her shoes, but Carol gently lifted the girls chin with two fingers, "Jessica I chose to do this. I wanted to do it, don't blame yourself, okay? I don't want you to."

After what seemed like forever Jessica finally nodded. Only a few seconds later, the door slammed open hitting the wall ferociously. The Sentinel grabbed Jessica by the upper arm, but she shouted "Wait!" Surprisingly, the man listened to her. Jessica quickly unfastened her necklace, a six pointed gold star, the top and bottom point longer than the other four, and held it out to Carol. "Your token," she explained to the perplexed Carol. When Carol started to try and speak Jessica interrupted her, pressing the small necklace into the palm of her hand, "You can give this back to me when you win."

Without another word, Jessica turned and walked away with the Sentinel. Carol swallowed thickly, unable to voice the extent of her gratitude. Instead, she fastened the necklace around her neck while the two Sentinels escorted her to her car.

* * *

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'_

_'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him."_

– George R.R. Martin, _A Game of Thrones_

* * *

On the morning of the Reaping, Steve Rogers woke to the worst asthma attack of his life.

It began with a slight wheeze as he drew his first conscious breath of the morning – the change, however slight, in his breathing pattern drawing a feather-light touch over the irritation in the back of his throat. Steve inhaled sharply.

It only made it worse – and within seconds, Steve was doubled over as his lungs attempted to claw their way out of his chest. His throat constricted in spasms, and Steve's legs jerked as he kicked at the blankets, desperate to feel the cool touch of air against his chest. It soothed the cough only briefly, until Steve drew another breath – it shot out of him in an explosive cough, sending sympathetic spikes of pain into the top of his head.

Steve struggled to stand, to get out of his bed – to get a glass of water, or something, _anything_, to try and soothe the hacking cough rattling his ribcage. But bending over only made his airways smaller. Distracted by the lack of oxygen now stealing his vision, Steve didn't even notice the light steps of quick feet on the floorboards, coming towards his bed.

A hand landed between his shoulder blades; cool against the raging furnace that was Steve's skin. His mother's touch was gently firm as she forced him into an upright position, and her other hand pressed something smooth and warm into his own.

A cup of warm water. She must have risen to heat it as soon as she heard his first wheeze – though, in District 5, it wouldn't have taken long. Power is in ample supply, after all.

It had been months since Steve's last asthma attack, if not years. But old habits are hard to break, and the midnight-asthma-attack routine was so ingrained, Steve doubted that it would ever slip from either of them.

He almost choked on the water – _just what I need,_ he thought through the air-deprived haze, _less oxygen_ – but somehow, managed to force it down. The warm water opened up his airways, and it allowed his breathing to slowly even out.

As soon as he could form words, he turned to his mother, waiting patiently beside him. "Thank you." His voice was hoarse, scraping against the gravel lining his throat. He coughed again, a reflex, and it nearly sent him into another fit.

Sarah Rogers accepted his words with a gracious smile, like always, but it did nothing to distract from the quiet sadness in her blue eyes. "Oh, Steve," she sighed, but it wasn't an accusation. "I almost thought you'd grown out of that."

"So did I," he admitted, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, getting shakily to his feet. It hadn't been a hard leap to make; after being small and sickly for most of his early life, a few months ago, Steve had suddenly hit a very late growth spurt.

Shooting up several inches would have made him look gangly, if not for the fact that his muscle mass increased almost three times as much as his height. Absolutely no one had been more shocked than Steve himself, of course. And while his new body offered him more physical protection, it had also seemed as though his immune system had also received a superhuman boost.

Or, if that morning's attack was any indication, maybe not.

It occurred to Steve that while he'd been musing, his mother had been talking. "Pardon?" he asked, faintly embarrassed at being caught out.

His mother threw him an exasperated smile, brushing off imaginary dust from her sleepwear as she got to her feet. "I said to try and go back to sleep. There's a few more hours left before you have to be ready; might as well spend them getting some more shut-eye."

_Oh._ Steve glanced at the window, realizing that he had misjudged the time. Far from being midnight, there was probably only an hour before daybreak.

He wasn't worried, not really. Steve's name appeared inside that choosing bowl more than a few times – after regaining his health, Steve had leapt straight back into his schooling, eager to catch up on everything he'd missed out on. But he'd also joined the work force, wanting to relieve as much of the weight from his mother's shoulders as he could. Since an accident a few years ago at one of District Five's many power plants, when his father had died, Sarah Rogers had worked herself to the bone to keep their family of two afloat. Paying for Steve's medicine had been a pricey endeavor, let alone also struggling to pay for their food, and having extra on hand in case the Sentinels ever took an undue interest in the Rogers and started to feel greedy.

So, this year, Steve had promised himself and his mother that he would make things better. He'd signed up for more tesserae than he'd done in previous years, carrying the supplies of grain and oil back to his house on his now broad back and finally feeling as though he had a little control over the earth beneath his feet. He'd also taken a job at the closest power plant as an entry-level security officer, since the men and women there were happy to turn a blind-eye to his youth in return to the muscle-power that Steve offered.

The past year had been good to Steve and Sarah Rogers, and the price of it had been small – a few more slips with his name on it had been nothing at all, despite what his mother had felt at the time. District Five was the largest of all the Districts in terms of population, and the risk of Steve being chosen today was miniscule.

So he nodded, and lay back down on his cot, content to sleep until sunrise. A twinge of pain spread through his chest at the movement, and he held still until it passed, forcing his breathing to stay even.

But then it disappeared, as those things always did, and Steve breathed easier. He closed his eyes and turned on his side, willing to wait out the morning.

That asthma attack had been the worst one of Steve's life. But later, looking back with a grimace, Steve would know that it had only been a warning of worse things to come.

When he woke again, there were clothes pressed neatly at the foot of his bed. Dark grey slacks, a slightly lighter shirt, and frayed black suspenders to hold the former up, with a pair of scuffed black shoes completing the set. Steve's gaze lingered for a moment, before he forced himself to look away.

The clothes had belonged to his late father, Joseph Rogers. A tragic accident had occurred at the power plant where he had worked as system analyst, and he'd been caught in the crossfire as a surprise battle erupted between the Sentinels stationed there and a group of rebels. Apparently, they'd tried to use the power plant as a giant bomb to blow up the district – and Steve's father had caught a stray bullet, while the Sentinels stomped down on the rebellion. It had been a complete, tragic accident.

At least, that's what they'd been told. Steve had never even seen his father's body, which had been buried at the same time as the rebels' public execution for the crimes against the district. Attendance had been mandatory.

_You can't dwell on those kinds of things, Steve,_ he reminded himself quickly, feeling the familiar mix of emotion start to swell in his chest. He'd never quite managed to identify it completely – it warmed his chest like passion, relaxed his lungs with relief, but had the bitter taste and twisted stomach of sickened guilt. Firmly, he pushed it back down and stood, the wooden floorboards cool against his bare feet.

He closed the door for a bit of privacy before getting changed. There was no need to bathe – he'd cleaned himself last night, as was most of District Five's habit. _All the bathing in the world can't help you if you sleep in a dirty bed,_ as his mother used to say when he was younger.

Steve dressed quickly, combing his blond hair with his fingers before stepping out of his room. His father's clothes used to hang around his frame, as though he was a child playing dress-up – but in recent years, Steve's body had actually started to strain against the fabric, but oddly. He had a very different musculature to his father – broader shoulders with less of a slump, much smaller hips, a flatter stomach, and longer legs. Because of it, the fabric slumped in some places and was too tight in others, leaving the outfit completely uncomfortable.

He hated it, but for reasons far bigger than the simple fact that it didn't quite fit.

The only bright spot was that Steve wouldn't need the suit much longer. He was sixteen, now, and that meant that after today, he only had to make it through two more Reapings before he was safe for the rest of his life.

Steve closed his eyes. If he could make it- if they could all make it-

"Steve, breakfast is ready! Are you dressed?" his mother called.

He blinked, brushing the thought from his mind. In all honesty, Steve couldn't imagine a life after the Reaping – a life where he worked each day and went home each night, safe with the knowledge that he'd never have to fight innocents for his own right to live. He couldn't even picture what it would be like without that distant, looming horror always following him around.

"I'm ready, ma," he answered, padding into the small kitchen. Steve smiled reassuringly at his mother, whose gaze – as always – had gone straight to the suit he was wearing.

"You look nice," she said mechanically, her own smile frozen. For a moment, she couldn't look away from him, and Steve's stomach seemed to shrink three sizes. Even years after his father's death, all it took were a few items of clothing to bring back that shadowed look in her eyes, the brilliant blue dimming with almost-forgotten fear. His mother looked far, far too old for her years.

It made Steve's heart twist. He'd been too young – only six years old – to know or understand what all the yelling had meant, why his mother always cried, or to recognize the sounds of fists hitting skin-

But he _should_ have. He should have done something, told someone - but then, one day, it hadn't mattered anymore. Steve's father was gone.

Had her hands shook this morning, as she'd laid the clothes out on Steve's bed? Did she dread the day, every year, when she had to take them down from the cupboard and clean away the accumulated dust? Did she sometimes look at Steve and see his father glowering back-

"Breakfast?" she asked brightly, suddenly, interrupting the dark track that his thoughts had abruptly spiraled down. His mother gave herself a large shake, and gave him a radiant smile. Steve forced himself to do the same, ignoring the way that her grin was far too tight around the edges.

"Yes, please," he answered, and she put another chipped plate on the table, indicating him to sit.

"I wasn't sure if you were going to go meet Bucky this morning," she began, serving out the meager amount of food. It was plain, as it was most days – a gritty type of bread, some butter, and a jam that Mrs Barnes secretly made from the fruit he and Bucky collected from the bushes around town. But it was always warm – District Five had no shortage of power, after all. "Or even if he was going to come here. I made extra, just in case, but I can put it away if he doesn't turn up."

"Thank you, ma," Steve said, genuinely grateful. After Steve and Bucky had become friends as children, their two families had grown close. He could still remember the way his mother had greeted his newest friend – _"This must be little James, am I correct? It's nice to meet one of Steve's friends. Would you like to come inside?"_ \- and the way that Bucky had flushed, beaming with pride over being treated like a gentleman, and answered with as much confidence as he could muster – _"Thank you, Mrs. Rogers, but I go by Bucky, if you please. It's awfully nice to meet Steve's ma; he's told me lots about you. Are you baking bread?"_ he'd added, sniffing as he entered the house. Sarah Rogers had laughed and answered with a wide smile and an _"I am indeed, Bucky, would you like some?"_

"But I'm pretty sure he'll be staying at home this morning," Steve added, glancing out the window in the general direction of Bucky's house. He lived almost halfway across the district. "It's Rebecca's first Reaping, and she probably wants her big brother around."

His mother nodded slowly, faltering as she reached to serve herself. "Winifred's so worried," she murmured, glancing down at her plate. "Poor woman."

The rest of the meal passed quickly. In no time at all, Steve found himself walking down the street with his mother, on the way to the District's center where the Reaping would take place. The town center was huge – but then, it had to be, to house all of District Five's population at one time. Sometimes the surrounding buildings were even opened up so that the adults weren't forced to squish into the streets. It was rare, though.

As they drew closer, Steve started to glance more and more down the side streets, searching the crowds. His mother smiled knowingly, "Do you need to go meet someone?"

He had nothing to hide, but a flush still crept up his neck at her tone. "I, um. I promised to find Peggy before we all get divided up, but I can't find her." At the last word, he tried to crane his neck over the crowd, searching for the familiar head of sleek brown curls.

"Well, I'd hate to get between you and Miss Carter. When you find her, give her my best wishes, won't you?" his mother asked, patting his back.

Steve smiled sheepishly, glancing at the ground. He hadn't wanted to leave his ma alone, but he _did_ want to find Peggy before the Reaping started. "Yes, ma," he agreed.

"Very well." She reeled him close for a quick kiss on the cheek, before patting his shoulder and sending him off. "Say hello to Bucky for me, as well. And tell him not to worry about Rebecca; I'm sure she'll be fine!"

"Yes, ma!" he answered over his shoulder, already having been pulled away by the crowd. He knew where Peggy lived, and there was a slight chance that she hadn't yet left her home.

Moments later, Steve found himself outside of the said house; panting slightly from the run he'd made to get there so fast. But it was empty, without a single sign of his friend.

"Steve," came a voice from behind him. "There you are! I've been looking _everywhere_. Your mother said to say hello, by the way."

He laughed, turning to face his friend. "And she told _me_ to give you her best wishes."

Peggy's face split into a wide smile before she tilted her whole head back and laughed. The two women had enjoyed a far closer relationship than Steve had ever expected when they'd first met, and kept up a running game of wit between them. More often than not, his mother won.

Steve's heart melted a little at the sight. It was no secret that he loved Peggy, or that Peggy loved him back – but the two had yet to act on it. It wasn't a matter of not wanting to risk their friendship that made them hesitate, or something equally nonsensical. They'd discussed it occasionally, but the truth was that they were just so comfortable around each other. There was no pressure, no expectation to live up to.

With Peggy, everything felt natural, and easy, and right. They could wait.

As she drew closer, he took the time to notice what she was wearing. On the Reaping Day, everyone put on his or her best clothes, and Peggy was no exception. The olive-green dress hugged her generous figure, the sharp cuts matching her equally sharp jawline. Peggy's eyes twinkled as she stopped in front of him, her hand slipping into his. Her lips were a warm red, bright against the paleness of her skin, but it was the smile that they curved into that really caught Steve's attention.

"Shall we go, then?" she asked.

"After you," he said politely, and Peggy's teeth flashed in a grin.

It was still early morning as they made it into the plaza, the morning sun only just peeking over the tops of the buildings. Steve didn't resent the earliness as much as others; he was just glad to get the Reaping over and done with quickly, without the heavy sun beating down on them.

They chatted amiably on the way, speaking about nothing and everything – but careful to keep the Reaping far, far away from the topic of conversation. Neither was particularly worried – District Five was the most populated of all the Districts, and so the chances of being chosen were quite literally one in a thousand – but the Reaping still loomed over them, a quietly malicious shadow. The very thought of it dragged cold fingers through Steve's chest, hooking at his insides and dragging them down.

The facts didn't stop their nerves from winding up, though. Even if it _weren't_ them, it would be someone that they knew. The boy they sat next to in class; the girl whose laughter rang loud in the hallway. It didn't matter _who_ it would be, because it would always be _someone_.

The thought of what was coming to them – the Avenger Games, damn near a guaranteed execution – made Steve feel sick. The whole concept was wrong, rotten to the core. What right did the Capitol have to his life? To Peggy's? To Bucky's? Or how about Rebecca's – a twelve-year old girl, innocent and sweet, but terrified out of her mind from the mere possibility that she could be called upon to die?

Steve hated it with all of his being. He'd been beaten up enough in his youth to recognize a bully with relative ease – the heavy tightness in their shoulders, the curl of a constant sneer, the violence thrumming constantly in their fingertips. He'd been at the wrong end of a fist more than enough times to know the difference between punches; when they're fighting for themselves, for someone else, or – the worst kind – when they're fighting just for the violence itself.

On the few occasions that Steve had laid eyes on President Thanos through live-streamed television, he'd seen none of those indicators. His broad shoulders were strong, not hunched, nor did his lips do anything but curve in a small smile or shape the words in his elegant speeches. His hands were soft, decorated with rings and bracelets, but not calloused or bruised from a fight. He'd likely never had split knuckles in his life.

None of those observations made Steve feel any better. Because he knew, deep down, he recognized something in Thanos. Perhaps he wasn't a bully, or at least unlike the ones that Steve Rogers knew.

The thought didn't make him feel better. Instead, Steve watched every year at the darkened spark dancing in those small, cruel eyes, and only ever felt worse.

"There they are," Peggy said quietly, tugging Steve's shirt to capture his attention. He lifted his head to follow her gaze, and sure enough, he spotted the two Barnes children.

Rebecca had dug her heels into the dirt, gripping Bucky's forearm and shaking her head wildly as she tried to pull him backwards. Her big brother was watching her, shaking his head with lips pressed in a thin line – but it wasn't impatience written into his features. It was sadness, the desperate kind that you couldn't shake.

Steve and Peggy made their way over quickly, pushing against the crowd that swarmed the other way. Rebecca and Bucky had carved themselves a small niche against the side of a building, and as they drew closer, it was easy to hear why.

"I won't _go_, you can't make me!" Rebecca cried, her voice shaking. "_Please_, Bucky, let me go!"

"You know I can't," he replied, sounding tired. "The Sentinels will know if you miss the Reaping, Rebecca."

"So?" she replied, straining as she leaned backwards. It was then that Steve noticed she wasn't trying to free herself, but trying to drag Bucky along with her. The seventeen year old couldn't be budged.

Bucky opened his mouth to reply, but then he noticed his two friends coming up behind him. He smiled tightly at them both, momentarily forgetting the sister tugging on his hand.

"Hi Rebecca, Bucky," Peggy greeted warmly, making sure to smile at the little girl.

Rebecca blushed and immediately stood up straight, stammering out a "Hi, Peggy." She held up the older girl in some sort of awed hero-worship, not that Steve could really blame her.

"The Reaping's bound to start soon," Bucky pointed out after a moment, emphasizing the words so that they were heard perfectly by the girl on his arm. "Were you about to join the lines?"

Before joining the thick crowd of children, roped into age groups in front of the stage, the boys and girls had to give confirmation that they'd attended by allowing a blood sample to be taken and catalogued. Steve supposed it was also useful in the rare event that a Tribute had to be identified, though identical twins were rare. Regardless, the lines were usually long and twisted through the streets – but now, with less than an hour left before the Reaping, the crowd had mostly made it through. "Yeah, we were," Steve answered.

"Do you want to come with me, Rebecca?" Peggy asked gently. "I can show you what to do, and where to go. If you want."

They'd both caught onto Bucky's plan, which was as desperate as it was necessary. They all knew that the easiest way to get through the Reaping Day was not to think about it – go through the motions, get it done. Pause too long, and the anger will choke you up where you stand.

The Avenger Games: punishment for a crime that their oldest kin committed. They all know the story of the rebellion – it would be hard not to, what with Thanos's retelling every year – but its fire still burned. Perhaps the Capitol citizens of Marvel had forgotten the war for everything but its story – but the Districts did not. Hatred still simmered under the skin of Marvel's oldest citizens, joints weakened from battles long over. Their fury passed down along the line of their children; diluted, perhaps, but still there.

President Thanos and the Capitol were despised, perhaps, but a certain kind of fury existed only for the Avenger Games. Taking children from their parents, forcing them to cheat and lie and murder on live television – turning their massacres into _entertainment_.

Steve forced the thoughts to the back of his mind as Bucky fell into step beside him. There were six lines – one for each age group – and Peggy steered Rebecca over to the twelve year old section with a comforting hand on her back, leaning down to explain the process, and that the needle wouldn't hurt. It was a common fear for the younger children, though Steve didn't remember being afraid – he'd already been subjected to many injections by then, shots that always failed to lift his immune system.

Instead, he took the time to study his friend. Bucky's profile was tired, with frown lines carved into his forehead. He stared after Rebecca, eyebrows drawn. Steve nudged him, none too gently. "She'll be okay," he murmured, reassuring. Bucky's eyes flitted to meet his, and then he glanced away. "You know the chances of her being chosen are less than one in a thousand."

Bucky nodded, knowing all of this – they'd drilled it into each other over the years, the same reassurance every Reaping. It didn't seem to make him feel better, though, so Steve could only settle for squeezing his shoulder.

He hadn't added the other little fact, though Bucky was probably aware: if Rebecca were chosen, Peggy would likely volunteer in a heartbeat. The little girl was far too dear to Bucky – to all of them – that she'd risk her being harmed. It was always a tragedy when a twelve year old was chosen in the Reaping, but with Rebecca, it was unthinkable.

The minutes slipped through their fingers, and in no time at all, Steve found himself standing in a tight press of nervous bodies, index finger still stinging from the blood sample. He wiped it against the rough fabric of his pants, glancing at Bucky. His best friend had no such reservations, and had simply stuck the finger in his mouth.

He glanced over at Peggy, feeling a small twist of anxiety in his chest despite her calm, unruffled figure. Peggy was always perfectly poised – though today, the tightness of her features looked a little more forced.

Steve shouldn't have to worry, he knew, but he still couldn't help himself. Peggy hadn't taken as much tesserae as the two boys; her name wasn't littered throughout the choosing bowl with nearly as much frequency as their own. He didn't need to worry – but, as Peggy glanced over and caught his gaze with a reassuring smile, the same anxiety reflected in her warm brown eyes – he knew that simple reason wouldn't stop either of them. A smile twisted his lips; they were both just too damn _stubborn_.

The click of heels against concrete sounded from the front of the crowd, and Bucky nudged at his side. Steve's head turned, gaze falling on the vibrant and eye-catching figure crossing the stage. Surrounded by chipped concrete and cold metal, District Five's Escort stuck out like a sore thumb. His bright green shirt was almost painful to look at, with a slightly darker tie hanging from around his neck and tucked into a tight purple vest. Shiny brown pants led down to black shoes with a slight heel, and a long brown coat wrapped around his frame to complete the outfit. Finally, Michael Barnett reached the microphone and paused on his booted heels. A wide grin split across his face as he gazed out at the assembled crowd, emphasizing his sharp and wide jaw. _No amount of good genetics had blessed him with_ that, Steve thought privately._ He must have undergone surgery of some kind._

All of that aside, however, Michael was one of the more subdued Escorts, for which all of District Five was grateful. He didn't have the typical Capitol flair, or their inexplicable desire for glitter and sequins. It made him much more likeable.

"Welcome," he began, grasping the microphone with both hands, "to the Reaping for the Twenty-Fourth Annual Avenger Games! I trust that you're all as excited as I am to find out who will be representing this _fine_ district," Michael drawled with a white grin, an excited glint in his eye. There was some reaction from the crowd – not from the children or parents, but the bitter elderly and unwilling observers. The former were far too frightened to react, but the Capitol still had to be pleased.

Steve suppressed a shudder, resisting the urge to glance around. They all knew what happened when the Capitol was displeased – and today, of all days, the evidence simply surrounded them.

"Of course, before the lucky duo will be announced, a short video has been prepared for your viewing pleasure by President Thanos and many more dedicated souls back in the Capitol. If you'd please turn your attention to the screens…" Michael trailed off, waving his hand to indicate the giant projection screens that had been built up around the square. Not that they really needed pointing out – the sleek technology contrasted sharply with the worn-down District, even despite the cleaning crews from the Capitol that had worked tirelessly for the past week to get it up to Capitol viewing standards.

Beside him, Bucky placed a hand over his mouth and yawned exaggeratedly. Steve was about to crack a smile before he followed his friend's gaze and realized that Rebecca was watching them, a disbelieving smile fluttering across her face. Bucky was still trying to distract – no, protect – her.

It seemed like mere seconds before Michael was strutting back across the stage, his boots carrying him back to the microphone. Two round bowls were waiting on either side, filled with tiny white slips. Steve's chest contracted a little.

"It's important," Michael was saying, his white teeth flashing as they peeked from beneath pink lips, "to remember those lost in a senseless revolt, and honour the inspirations for the original Avenger Games. And, twenty-four years on, we remind ourselves of the might of the Capitol, to keep such a tragedy from _ever_ occurring again."

Steve wondered vaguely if the Capitol provided a speech to the escorts, or if they had to write their own. His ears grated on all the subtle propaganda, and a few displeased mutters swept through the crowd. The eldest of their citizens, ones who had fought in or heard of the rebellion, did not think upon the Capitol with kindness.

Michael uncrossed his arms, standing up straighter, and all the attention swept back towards his figure. "And now, the time has come to reveal who, among your population, will represent your district and have the chance to bring glory to you all!" he finished, clutching at the microphone with one hand. Michael tilted his head, causing the lights overhead to reflect from his gelled hair. White teeth flashed in a grin as he looked towards his right, at the girls trembling in the crowd. "Ladies first."

His thick fingers unwrapped from around the microphone, and Michael strutted to the first of the bowls. He didn't waste any time before plucking a slip from the top of the bowl, returning to the center of the stage to announce the first Tribute. Steve almost stopped breathing, and Bucky's whole body went still beneath his hand.

His voice rang out, loud and clear. "Jessica Jones."

A shudder wracked Bucky's body, and then he sagged against Steve. A weak noise escaped him, his friend far too relieved for words. He patted his back in sympathy, feeling joy burst bright through his chest. Peggy and Rebecca were safe.

In the crowd of girls, though, Jessica stood alone. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Steve realized that she was in the age group closest to the stage – only twelve years old. The other children had shifted away, leaving her like a lamb to be slaughtered – but after a moment, the thin girl shook herself and started to move. Her lips were pressed hard together as she walked towards the stage, but nothing else gave her fear away. Commotions erupted in front of Steve – somewhere in the group of twelve-year-old boys, someone was fighting to get to the little girl. A brother? It was possible.

A gasp went out of the crowd as a taller girl shoved herself into the middle aisle. Immediately, the Sentinels descended upon her – but she shoved them back angrily, her voice rising above the noise. "I volunteer," she shouted, "as tribute!"

Another surprised series of mutters when through the crowd, but it was soaked with relief. Everyone hated it when a twelve-year-old was sent to the Avenger Games, but this young girl appeared to be only a few years older. _Fifteen, perhaps._

"That is not standard procedure," Michael said slowly, gazing at the girl with narrowed eyes. The Sentinels still hovered at her back, seemingly unsure.

The girl straightened, her expression hardening. "I can say it again, if you want," she snapped. Steve almost flinched from her lethal sarcasm.

"That won't be necessary." Michael beckoned her to the stage, lips pursed. The little girl – Jessica Jones – practically flew down the stairs, her relief and terror evident on her face. She passed her in the aisle, staring up at the older girl, but no words passed between them. He thought the older girl might have given her a reassuring nod, though. Perhaps they knew each other.

Familiarity nudged at the back of his mind, but Steve couldn't place the girl. He'd certainly never been in any of her classes – though, considering he'd only recently returned to school, that wasn't saying too much.

Her short blonde hair bounced as she climbed the steps to the stage, taking her place next to Michael. The escort didn't offer a hand, simply nodded at her – but she didn't look intimidated. Her blue eyes were hard and clear, and she simply nodded back at the Capitol man, before giving her name. He repeated it into the microphone – "Carol Danvers, ladies and gentlemen," – before recollecting himself for the next draw.

"Gentlemen, you're up," Michael said brightly, and then moved away. Again, he didn't hesitate, his pale and thick fingers snatching up the slip closest to the surface. He smoothed it out with his hand, leaning closer to the microphone. Then he announced, without any pause, "James Barnes."

White noise exploded between Steve's ears. _James – oh, he means_ Bucky –_ Bucky, no-_

Beneath Steve's hand, Bucky was stiffer than a board. The other boys had already begun to move away, shuffling out of the way, but Steve was frozen._ He said his name-_

Gently, Bucky unwrapped the vice grip around his forearm and stepped away. He didn't look at him. Steve could only watch with wide blue eyes, hand still outstretched, as he made his way down the aisle. The moment was over in the blink of an eye, but Steve was still reeling, it was still happening - _his best friend is a tribute-_

Bucky stepped into place at Michael's shoulder, eyeing Carol. They'd shake hands in a moment, Steve knew, they just had to -

"And so the tributes have been chosen," Michael finished smoothly. "But, as always, the final question must be asked: are there any volunteers?"

District Five wasn't a Career District. They didn't need the long and complicated process, just a simple question tacked onto the final speech. Volunteers were uncommon, yes, but they still happened – as Carol had just proved.

With that thought, Steve unfroze. Something was swelling behind his chest, warmth that hardened his ribcage and set his jaw. He stood straighter, his mouth falling open to speak – and then his gaze fell on Peggy.

She was still perfectly composed; except for her eyes. They were wide, unexpectedly glassy. A hand hovered in the air, like she'd just pulled it from her open mouth. But as she caught his eye, all of that fell away. Peggy lowered her trembling fingers, and pressed her lips together. She nodded.

"I volunteer!" Steve called, relief pooling in the pit of his stomach with the words. For the first time all day, he no longer felt sick with fear. "I volunteer as tribute."

* * *

After that, time blurred. When he looked back later, Steve couldn't remember more than a series of fleeting images and sensations: Bucky's crumpled expression as his voice rang out in the crowd; a desperate squeeze around his wrist as they passed each other, trading destinies; Rebecca's pale face, standing out amongst all the others, as he climbed the stage. Carol's grip had been harder than iron as they shook hands, and Michael's sharp facial structure was even more unsettling up close.

Most of all, Steve remembered the cold taste of metal in his mouth as he stared out over the crowd, feeling three sizes too small for his body. Now that the danger – Bucky's danger – had passed, fear clutched his head with icy fingers. But the rest of him was still and calm, and Steve told himself that it was enough.

The Sentinels led the two Tributes away as Peter Quill, District Five's Mentor, took to the stage. Peter wasn't much for talking, so he always kept it short – thanked the crowds for their time and attention, promising an exciting year ahead for the Avenger Games, before letting them disperse.

Most families would go back to their homes, to lock up their houses and thank whatever they believed in for keeping their children safe for another year. Rich meals were placed on tables, families clasping hands and smiling for the first time all day. Others would go home to sit in cold chairs and begin counting the money they'd won or lost from betting on the Reaping, feeling only a detached satisfaction that it was over.

But for Steve and Carol, he knew, their friends and families would not go home. They'd be frozen to their spot in the crowds, immovable rocks in the stream of people that hastened to their homes. They would wait for their final goodbyes, and then they would mourn for lives already lost.

Nobody won the Avenger Games. Not even the Victors.

Steve thought on all of this, as he was lead to the Justice Building, his heart growing heavier with every step. He wouldn't say that he regretted his actions – he couldn't, he didn't – but that didn't mean that the thought of his ma, returning to an empty home with a small bed whose creases still remembered her only son, didn't strike him deep.

The room he was taken to was spacious and warmly decorated. Compared with the bare, functional design of the rest of the District, it was downright extravagant. He took an uneasy seat on the edge of the plush couch, tucking his hands beneath his thighs. The soft material dragged against his palms, but the rich decoration only served to make him feel smaller.

None of it felt real. Not the lavish room; not even the cool air that brushed against his skin, despite all the windows being shut. It was surreal; it was insane. He was, he was-

He was going to the Games.

_I'm going to the Avenger Games,_ he thought silently, a little dazed at the thought. Steve had thought he knew what he was doing when he volunteered; but these tiny revelations still bowled him over. _I'm a tribute._

The door burst open, slamming into the opposite wall with a crash that rattled the wooden floorboards beneath Steve's feet. He leapt up, already knowing his first visitor without a doubt. His mother loved him, and would no doubt be waiting for the next session, but of course, it was-

"Bucky," he breathed, and found himself enveloped in a hug that threatened to crack his ribs. His best friend only tightened his grip, forehead pressed to the crook of Steve's neck, before pulling away.

"You… oh, you _punk_," Bucky finally gasped out, saying it like a curse. His blue eyes were rimmed with red. "You _idiot_. I – oh, Steve. What have you done?"

"The right thing," he answered firmly. "I couldn't let you go into that arena, Bucky. Not while there was something I could do about it."

Hands heavy on Steve's shoulders, Bucky cuffed him gently on the ear. "What, you don't think I feel the same way? Damn it, Steve."

He knew what Bucky was feeling – that despairing vacuum of helplessness was all too familiar. There had once been a time when Bucky was the one pulling Steve out of all kinds of trouble; saving him when the bruises started to form just a little too deep.

But now, after all these years, it was Steve's turn to save Bucky. And he didn't regret it in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," he began earnestly, "but I won't apologise for what I did. You've got to take care of Rebecca, and your ma, and-"

"I don't want you to apologise," Bucky interrupted, voice thick as he hung his head. "I… God, Stevie. You just saved my _life_; I can't make you apologise for that." He clung to Steve's shoulder, and the blond reached to squeeze Bucky's hand with his own. "Just… be careful, alright? You gotta be careful, and you _have_ to come home. Promise me, Steve."

"I promise," he whispered. But time was ticking, and the minutes slipped through his fingers like water. "Only if you promise me something, too."

"Anything," was the instant reply. Bucky squeezed his shoulder again. "Anything, Steve. You know that."

"Take care of my ma, won't you?"

Bucky rolled his lips between his teeth, and nodded jerkily. Steve could almost see his own reflection in his best friend's glassy eyes – but neither of them was going to cry. They knew better than that. "Yeah, Steve," Bucky answered gently, understanding its importance without words. "You know I will."

He pulled him forward again, and Steve buried his head in the crook of Bucky's shoulder. There was a real chance that he might die in these games, and they both knew it. This might be the last time they ever saw each other.

Finally, Bucky lifted his head with a sniff. "Just… don't do anything stupid, will you? You gotta come home, Stevie."

Steve's answering smile was watery and threatened to slip off his face. "How can I? I'm leaving all the stupid with you."

Buck choked on his laugh, lightly punching his shoulder. "Punk."

"Jerk."

"Time's up!" A Sentinel stood in the open doorway, hand resting absently on the weapons at her waist. Bucky cast an askance look back at Steve as he was practically manhandled out of the room, yelling something over his shoulder that the boy couldn't quite catch.

His next visitor was more than enough to distract him. Sarah Rogers was always graceful in her movement, but now she had thrown it away in favour of reaching her son as soon as possible to draw him into her arms. Steve let himself soften in the embrace, feeling like a much younger child, and more than content with it.

"Oh, Steve," she said softly, pulling away. Her eyes were red-rimmed too, and tears swam at their edges. She was clearly frightened, but trying so hard to be brave. "My brave, brave boy." Her palm was trembling as she pressed it against the side of his face.

"I'm sorry, ma," he began thickly, pressure building behind his eyes. "But I couldn't let Bucky be taken away. Not without me."

Sarah pulled him close again, murmuring reassurances into the crown of his hair. He knew her heart must be heavy with despair, but she was willing to put it aside for her child, and Steve loved that about her. She wasn't going to fight his decision.

The minutes passed far too quickly for his liking, and too soon, his mother was also removed from the room. Before she left, she told him that she was proud – and the simple admission nearly broke him.

Steve had his back to the door as the next person slipped in, and was taking a shuddering breath when her hand slipped between his shoulder blades. "Peggy," he said, warmth flooding his chest.

He barely had time to face her before Peggy was pulling him into her arms, the strong embrace keeping him grounded as he breathed in the scent of her hair. Peggy squeezed him as tight as she dared before letting go, taking a step back.

She gave him a soft smile, and Steve admired her composure for the countless time. Peggy was so strong that just being in her presence made him feel more solid.

"I knew you'd volunteer," she said softly, hands warm through the thickness of his shirt. Her brown eyes were full of a kind of despairing pride. "As soon as she called his name, I knew."

"So did I," Steve admitted honestly, feeling so grateful just for the chance to talk to Peggy, like this, for what might be the final time. "I wouldn't let him go into the arena… and I couldn't let Rebecca live without her brother."

"No," Peggy agreed, "neither could I."

And that was the simple truth, the reason why they were so good for each other. They understood the other, deep down to the core. Steve knew that if their roles had been reversed, Peggy wouldn't have hesitated either.

Still, he couldn't help but smile, relieved, as he pulled her into his arms and she came willingly to his embrace. "I'll miss you, while I'm gone," he said hoarsely.

Peggy sniffed delicately, stepping back to give him a smile. "No, you won't," she disagreed lightly. "You'll be too busy staying alive. Right?"

That got a smile out of him. "Right," Steve agreed, and relief flashed across Peggy's face so fast that he almost missed it – as though she'd been expecting a different answer.

"Good," Peggy answered crisply. Then she went up on her tiptoes, aiming to press her lips to his cheek. But at the last moment, she hesitated, and turned her head. The brunette's lips brushed against his own, lingering, until it felt like she had stolen his breath. "Come back to me, Steve," she ordered, her voice suddenly strained. Her brown eyes were wide as she watched him, the slightest tremble in her hand. Peggy's composure was slipping.

The Sentinels, too, took her away. Steve's last visitors rushed into the room, the two Barnes women squeezing him so hard that he couldn't breathe. Rebecca was crying so hard that she almost couldn't breathe, and Steve had to make her sit on the couch before she lost her breath.

Winifred didn't have her son's stubborn pride, and fixed Steve with a steady eye. "Thank you, Steve," she began. "I don't know what we'd have done…"

"It's okay," he interrupted, before she could continue further down that path. "It's fine, really. You don't need to worry about that."

It was then that Rebecca launched herself off the couch, hugging Steve's middle with all the ferocity she had. Her words spilled from her mouth, alternately crying and hugging Steve harder as she thanked him for saving her brother for her.

Steve didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd have done it, either way, but he looked up and knew that Mrs. Barnes understood. She always did.

Eventually, they left him too – but not before he'd also roped them into promising to care for his mother, in case he didn't return. The thought of her alone in their house, with only their memories for company…

It wouldn't happen, Bucky's mother reassured him gently. They'd be with her.

Suddenly, just like that, it was over. Steve sank back down onto the plush couch, head spinning. _That was it_, he realized, feeling faintly nauseous. _That might have been the last time I see them._

_I'm going to the Games,_ he repeated, once more._ I'm going to the-_

"Steve Rogers?" Another Sentinel stood at the door, hands behind their back. It was a different soldier to the one that had interrupted his goodbyes before – this one was shorter. "It's time to go."

_I'm going to the Games,_ Steve thought, for the final time. Then he got to his feet.


	7. Chapter 6: Sins of the Fathers

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a slightly delayed update here, and there are a few reasons for that. First and foremost was the death of Terry Pratchett yesterday – the incredible fantasy writer who inspired myself and countless others to write for themselves – after a long battle with Alzheimer's. I don't want to spend too much time detailing his influence, and the wonder that he created in his lifetime, but if anyone is interested in reading my personal feelings upon hearing the news, I have posted about it on our forum – also called In the End, You Always Kneel. As a result, at the request of Miran Anders (one of our new writers featuring in this chapter, along with the marvellous Silmarilz1701), who was similarly inspired by him, we are dedicating this chapter to the memory of the great fantasist, Sir Terry Pratchett. If some of you have never tried any of his works, I'd advise you to do so with all my heart – you won't regret it. He'll be missed, to say the least. We'll never see a writer quite like him again.**

**Random Reader 17: Well, I'll note that for the future. I think I see where you're coming from there, and we'll work on it. In the meantime, I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!**

**sailorraven34: We're delighted to hear you say that! We definitely have a very strong cast of characters, both tributes and non-tributes, but of course that is down to the work of our fantastic team of writers, and I think we're only going to get better with time!**

**TheMetaReborn: America is indeed a place in this universe, or **_**was **_**at least, but more specifics you'll just have to keep an eye out in the future. After all, we have to deal with how the Captains get their nicknames!**

**Now, without further ado (as we've already been delayed enough), I'll leave you to it. Keep Terry Pratchett in your memories and prayers, and enjoy life to the full. After all, we can't afford take it for granted.**

* * *

**Chapter Six – Sins of the Fathers**

**District Six Reaping**

**Written by Silmarilz1701 &amp; Miran Anders**

* * *

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silzmarilz1701**

* * *

_"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way_."

– Leo Tolstoy

* * *

"Wake up, my dear."

Sinthea groaned and pulled the rather dilapidated covers over her head, in a very teenage moment of protest. It was warm under the bed sheets, after all, and she had no intention of getting up just yet. No, she would not.

"Sinthea Schmidt. Get up _at_ _once!_"

_Uh oh._ Grandma Scarbo was using the voice. The only person in this world that she was afraid of was her grandmother. Especially when her grandmother used _that_ voice.

"Alright, alright." Sinthea relented. "Alright, I'm up."

When Sin turned to look at her grandma to give her a decidedly unpleasant face, she suddenly wondered why on earth she was being told to get up this early.

"It's Reaping Day," Susan 'Grandma' Scarbo said enthusiastically, enlightening her.

Sin stared at her, gaping. _Reaping Day!_ She leapt out of bed, practically flew to the window, and took a peek outside. The weather was overcast and it would likely rain later, her grandmother informed her a moment later. Grandma Scarbo seemed to know the weather pretty well, as it were, so she was inclined to believe such things.

"I remember the day your father was selected for the Games," Grandma Scarbo reminisced. "It was a day much like today – overcast and gloomy."

"Selected?" Sin turned around in confusion. "Didn't my father volunteer?"

"But of course," Scarbo smiled, "I am forgetting myself. He volunteered like the good citizen he was and is."

Sinthea nodded. _That's what _she_ thought_. She wasn't exactly surprised by the slip up, as the stories her grandma told her changed every time they were told. Just like any good tale, her grandmother would say. However the theme was always the same – Johann Schmidt had gone on to win in fabulous style giving glory to the Avenger Games. Then he had lived his life mentoring potential victors, though to his dismay none had gone through to win.

But someone was bound to change that, right? Someone would continue the District Six legacy? Sinthea knew that this was her year to change things.

"What's for breakfast?"

"Bread and water, dear," Grandma Scarbo told her. "Bread and water. Cheese if you can find it. Get it yourself, you're a big girl."

Sin rolled her eyes but nodded. Returning from her spot at the window, she walked through the meagre house to the kitchen and found a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a cup for water. She also snuck an oatmeal cookie that sat unattended on the counter.

As she sat down at the table, she looked on her food in momentary disgust. No doubt her _father_, the Fourth Victor of the Avenger Games, was dining in style in his Victors' Village. But he would not acknowledge, nay, not even _notice_, his bastard daughter who sat in the tiny house at the end of Wheel Street. That wasn't to say he didn't know of her existence. In fact he'd made that perfectly clear one year when Sinthea had approached him in the village on her fourth birthday.

She'd greeted him saying, "Hello Dad!"

She had expected him to say hello back, but instead he grumbled rather loudly that he should've killed her when she'd been born. If only she'd been a boy.

That had stuck with Sin her entire life. Now in her seventeenth year, she was ready to prove to him that she was a worthy daughter, a worthy successor, a worthy warrior. She would win the Avenger Games for him, and for herself, and for her grandmother. Even if it meant putting up with her father for a mentor.

"Before you go to the reaping I need you to go to the market and buy food. As you can see we're running low on supplies," said Grandma Scarbo.

"Right," Sin replied, nodding. "I'll get right on that."

Sinthea took the list from her grandmother and placed in on the table. She had to go get changed before she did any shopping, after all. Sin went into her bedroom and pulled out a red tee-shirt, black pants, and her red belt. The scarlet red complemented her red shoulder-length hair that bounced as she walked. Her many freckles dotted her cheeks. Reaching under her pillow she pulled out the one thing her father had gifted to her. When she'd turned thirteen, her father had given her a red lipstick her mother had owned. Sin thought today would be the perfect day for such an item.

"I'll go get that stuff now," Sin told her grandmother.

She closed the door to the house behind her as she left. Sinthea checked the list and read it aloud.

"Quart of milk, loaf of bread, one fish, one pack of carrots, grapes, and peppers."

Sinthea smiled to herself. That was food for one. Even Grandma Scarbo was looking forward to later today when Sin would volunteer as tribute. She let her throat tighten slightly as she felt nervousness begin to well up inside, but reminded herself it wasn't for hours. And anyways, she couldn't afford to be nervous. This was the moment she'd been waiting for five years.

"Hello Sinthea," said her friend, Brock Rumlow, who was standing against a nearby building, idly watching people walking by, no doubt waiting for her to make an appearance.

"Hey Crossbones," she smirked, using the nickname she'd had for him since they were young children. "You ready for the Reaping today?"

Brock was around Sinthea's age of seventeen. Sinthea was slightly older, but that meant nothing to the two teenagers. They didn't really keep up with birthdays. Brock had slightly tanner skin than Sinthea's pale. His hair was black and he had recently started trying to grow a moustache, with little success.

"I hate the Reaping, and you know it," Brock murmured, shaking his head.

Sin laughed. "You always were a wimp."

Brock and Sinthea had been friends for a long time. He was the only true friend Sinthea had ever had. The two bickered often, trying to best the other, but he was the only one who saw Sinthea as the warrior she was, not the weak girl people made her out to be.

"Oh please." Brock rolled his eyes "If you didn't have me, you'd never be able to spar or train with anyone. You owe me _that_, at least."

"Alright, true enough. But I don't _owe_ you anything," she insisted. "After all, I taught myself, I conditioned myself, I owe you nothing."

Brock laughed and nodded. "Alright, that's fair. I'll see you later, Sin."

Sinthea nodded and continued on her way to the market. When she arrived there, she took a look around at the people there. Old men and women were selling their wares to children sent by their parents. After all, most of the adults were working in the factories by this time of day.

The work day started at dawn, and generally didn't end until no one was left to sell anything to, but on Reaping Day work was brought to a close around noon, as the district gathered together to witness the Reaping.

Sinthea usually spent some time working in the factories each day after school, but the kids eligible for Reaping got Reaping Day off both. As such there were more teenagers hanging around rather than usual, hence running in to Brock Rumlow whom Sin usually saw only at school, work or at night.

"A loaf of bread," Sin demanded of an old woman.

"Do you not have manners, young lady?" she replied irritably, scolding Sinthea.

Sinthea smirked. "A loaf of bread. Now."

The woman huffed but handed over the loaf of bread. Sinthea traded her a few silver coins in recompense, and turned away, loaf tucked under her arm.

Sinthea then walked a little farther along until she came upon the fruits and vegetables. She picked up the carrots, peppers, and grapes at these stations. All that was left after that was the milk and fish. Milk was easy enough, but the fish were always overpriced, given that they were imported from District Four, and only the wealthiest citizens in the district could afford it.

Fortunately for her, the fish station was bustling with activity. It seems plenty of people wanted to purchase fish that day. Sin sauntered up and hung by the fish for a few minutes as if looking. When they man who sold them turned away for a few minutes, she grabbed one, stuck it in her cloth that covered her basket, and scooted away unnoticed. Surely the man wouldn't miss one fish's coins?

Sinthea made her way down Wheel Street, past several identical houses. Each house was small, no more than four rooms large. Usually that meant two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. The walls were white brick and the roof, metal. There was one chimney over the single fireplace.

Sin sneered. She hated it here. It was ugly, boring, and altogether not her birth right. Her birth right was that she should live in luxury in the Victors' Village, and if she'd had a better dad, that's where she'd be. Not the poor girl on the corner of Wheel Street. _Screw him,_ she thought. She'd show him what kind of daughter she was, what kind of daughter she _could_ be.

"It doesn't take a boy to win the Avenger Games," she mumbled to herself. "A girl can do it too."

"Very true," Grandma Scarbo nodded as she stood outside the house smoking rapture, a wary eye cast around for passing Sentinels, who still occasionally did arrest people for possession of the narcotic. "And you my dear will be an excellent candidate."

"Here's the food." Sinthea handed over the groceries to Scarbo's outstretched arm.

"Thank you, my dear," Grandma Scarbo nodded. "Are you ready for the Reaping?"

"I think I'll go have a last look around the city before I go to the ceremony," Sin informed her. "I'll be sure to find you and say goodbye before I get in line though."

"You do that. I'll meet you on the corner of Cog Lane."

Sinthea left Wheel Street and travelled around town. She visited her favourite tree in the city park. That's where she ran into Klaus Voorhees, a member of the gang Sinthea belonged to. His nickname was Cobra.

"Hey man." Sin nodded. "What are you up to?"

"Waiting for the Reaping," he shrugged. "You?"

"Saying good bye. Not that I like anything in this hellhole of a district," she snorted.

"Yeah," Klaus agreed whole-heartedly. "Who would ever want to stay in District Six?"

"So you're going to volunteer too," she asked in excitement.

Sinthea's gang called themselves the Serpent Squad. It was comprised of five boys and then Sinthea. She was the only girl, and was often treated as a lesser member than the others. This caused her great pain, and she always wanted to best the others. Cobra she disliked least, however, and would enjoy having him as a partner in the Games.

"Uh," hesitated Klaus. "Uh no."

"Why not," Sinthea spat at him, "You're just like the other guys. You're all wimps."

"Well some of us have family that love us," Klaus bit back. "Besides, volunteering for the Games is like sentencing yourself to death. That's not courageous, that's giving up."

Sinthea growled and bared her fists. Without even a second though, she struck Klaus across the jaw as hard as she could.

"Spoiled brat," Sin taunted him. "Can't act like a real man."

"At least I'm not a bastard child," Klaus jeered at her, taking his own swipe at her.

Sinthea managed to dodge him, but his words cut deep. It made her even angrier. She full on attacked him, rolling with him in the dirt. By the end, she didn't even care that her outfit was covered in dirt. All she cared about was the serious beating she'd given the insolent boy.

Suddenly a few other members of the Serpent Squad appeared. There was Davis Lawfers, called Copperhead, and Gregory Bryan, Sidewinder, the leader of the Serpent Squad. Both boys were eighteen. They grabbed Sinthea, dragging her off Klaus. It began to sprinkle as she was pulled away from Klaus. Kicking a bit more dirt in his face, she wiped the little bit of blood from her cheek and walked away.

"Get back here, Sin," Gregory yelled at her angrily, pulling her arm so she faced them. "What the hell are you doing."

Sinthea glared at him, "Proving I'm as capable at defending myself as any of you."

Gregory, Klaus, and Davis laughed. She was a girl, of _course_ she couldn't beat them. Klaus had just been caught off guard!

"Listen, you may be a member of the Serpent Squad, but you'll never truly be one of us," Gregory told her.

Sinthea frowned, then covered it up with a glare. She didn't need them. Sinthea was perfectly capable of being her own warrior, a lone warrior, ready to battle at a moment's notice. She could be just as strong as any man, just as capable, just as smart. And her dad would see that soon.

It was time for the Reaping. The bells tolled meaning it was the fifteen minute mark before they began. She had to get to Grandma Scarbo quickly.

Hurrying up, she found herself pushing against the crowd that emptied out of the factories. There was Cog Lane. And there was Grandma Scarbo! Sinthea rushed over and nodded to her grandmother.

"I'll see you before they ship me off," she reminded Scarbo.

"I know dear," Grandma Scarbo assured her. "And I am not sad. This is what you were always meant to do."

"I know that," nodded Sin.

"Well, go on then! Hurry up into place!"

Sinthea was shepherded into place along with dozens of other girls ages twelve to eighteen. Sinthea smirked at the fear on their faces. They were such weaklings. They had no backbone. _But they needn't worry,_ Sinthea thought. _After all, only one lucky girl would be volunteering this year, and that's me._

Until a moment of panic reached her. What if she wasn't the only girl to volunteer? What if someone else, maybe someone high on terrigen, decided to volunteer as well? What would happen then? Sinthea was frightened for the first time in a long time. What if she lost her chance to be in the Avenger Games? What would she do with herself?

The possibility of winning the games was all that kept her sane in this life. That's what kept her away from terrigen or rapture, unlike many of the people in the district. It's what let her concentrate on learning self-defence. It was her _life_. What would she do without it?

"Calm down, Sin," she told herself under her breath.

"You scared, too," asked a younger girl who stood next to her, who looked absolutely petrified.

Sinthea laughed, "Not in the least."

"Oh. Cause you look-"

"Knock that smile off your pretty face right now, darling, or suffer the consequences."

The girl looked on in fear, before quickly manoeuvring away from Sinthea.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!"

A few sporadic cheers went up.

"Well then," said the announcer, "Let's get this show on the road. Your female tribute from District Six is-"

"Me," Sinthea called, "It's me. I volunteer as tribute."

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks. They looked around trying to find the voice who had volunteered. The girls around her faced her in amazement, but they were trying to figure out if it was some sort of sick joke by the Serpent Squad, if the girl was high on terrigen, or if Sinthea really meant it.

"You what…?"

"I volunteer for the Avenger Games."

"Well come on up here," the announcer said, beckoning her forward. "And what is your name?"

"Sinthea Schmidt."

"Well, District Six," the announcer continued. "Sinthea Schmidt is your female tribute."

Sinthea clambered up onto the stage, the rain really beginning to saturate her hair and her clothes. It wasn't that hard of a rain yet, but it was noticeable. Sinthea looked at their announcer, Ms Darcy Lewis. A rather upbeat, sarcastic woman, in Sinthea's opinion. Needless to say, she found her annoying.

"And your male tribute from District Six," Darcy paused, drawing the slip from the box of names with a flourish. "Your male tribute is Bruce Banner!"

Sinthea didn't care that much, but she was a little curious to see who this man was. This Bruce Banner was larger than she was, but she couldn't remember seeing him around before. And she knew, or had threatened with her gang, every kid in town. That meant only one thing – he was from _the School_. As soon as his name was called, however, Sinthea gritted her teeth because the gentle, but ever thickening drizzle turned into an all-out downpour.

_Great. _

Just what she needed.

* * *

Sinthea was escorted by Darcy Lewis into a large building with official doors and signs. It didn't mean much to her. She was just waiting to see the look on her dad's face when they got on the train. Sure, she'd seen him on stage, but he hadn't done much other than stare at her in surprise and then cover it up with a blank face. On the train though, he'd have to talk to her.

But for now, it was time for visitors. She knew no one would come see her, except in her heart she hoped someone would. She scolded herself for this – no sentiment allowed! But as it turned out, someone did come to see her, and Sinthea realized she _should_ have expected it.

"I'm so proud of you," Susan Scarbo grinned, grabbing Sinthea in a rare hug. "You're just like your father!"

"I'm going to win these games," Sinthea nodded, pulling away from her quickly. "You'll see."

"I know you will. I know."

Grandma Scarbo was assured away quickly by the Sentinels because apparently Sinthea had another visitor. Sin wondered who it could be.

"Hey Sin," Brock Rumlow said, smiling as he came in. "I think what you're doing is so brave. You'll show them all just what kind of warrior you are."

"Thanks, Crossbones," she replied. "You'll look after Grandma Scarbo while I'm gone, won't you? Make sure she doesn't take too much rapture?"

"Of course," he nodded, shuffling his feet. "Here. I found this when I was cleaning out your dad's house in the Victors' Village, all by itself in the trash."

Crossbones held out his hand and in his palm was a pin. It had a large, red skull on it that glinted in the light. In the eye sockets were set two deep black onyx stones. Sinthea took it from him and stashed it away in her pocket, before nodding her thanks.

"Well. This is goodbye for now," she said. "Don't do anything stupid, like join up with the Serpent Squad, while I'm gone. Can't have you turning into one of those idiots."

Brock nodded before he did something she never would have expected. Just as the Sentinel came in to collect him, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Sin stared after him dumbfounded before her hand came up to touch the place on her cheek where his lips had met her skin.

"Idiot."

* * *

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

"_There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all." _

– William Shakespeare_, Hamlet._

* * *

The pattering of rain briefly grew louder, as if raindrops in the clouds were leaping together in an effort to be noticed; then the sound stopped again as they used up their meagre, grey resources.

Bruce lifted his head just far enough to punch his pillow into a more submissive shape and dropped it again, pressing his dark curls into a new, dishevelled style. He heard a heavy sigh and opened his eyes into the darkness, speaking quietly.

"Cho?"

The reply was a whisper. "Yeah."

There was a squeaking of old springs as his closest roommate shifted on the bed some six feet away.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't. Stupid rain did. Not constant enough to be white noise, and it's -" Bruce lifted up on his elbows and squinted across the room. "What's got you up?"

"Dunno. I guess I'm just worried about… today."

Bruce flopped back down on the bed and exhaled. "Just look at the odds, kid. It's not that big a chance –"

A voice spoke up from across the room. "Yeah, listen to the big brain. He knows. Of course, his family didn't take out tons of tesserae on him."

"Shut up, all of you." The fourth member of their dorm room, Fred Sloan, spoke with calm annoyance. "Whoever gets picked will leave some gorgeous girl behind, and I need my beauty sleep to look my best." A pillow flew through the air in the dark, landing next to Fred's bed. "You missed. Must have been Jim. Ruse wouldn't throw it, and the little brain's got no arm."

Although Fred was the first to call him 'Ruse', Bruce was finding that the other guys had started using it, too. He didn't know what bothered him more – them using the name, or himself, starting to like it.

"Do so have an arm!"

"He's baiting you, Cho."

"Will everyone just shut up? It's only five in the morning. I'd like to sleep at least until seven."

"How can you be so calm, Ruse?" Cho threw the thin blanket back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Odds or no, it's still –"

"Eh, you know Ruse. He's just hoping all the competition gets killed off, and he can marry Betty."

"Shut up, Sloan." Bruce flopped back and pulled the blanket over his head. "All of you. Come on." Abruptly, a red light began flashing over the door, visible even through the thin fabric. "Damn. Now you've done it."

"Crap." Cho slipped back into bed, and Fred threw the pillow back to him. All four did their best to be silently asleep.

The red light was the first warning. If one of their guards – actually, known as resident advisers – had to come upstairs, there would be trouble. Bruce took a deep breath and tried to relax.

_It doesn't make any sense. We're valuable enough to educate, or train, but we still go off to the Reaping like anyone else. Well, at least I think the odds are in my favour. Why would I want to go die for anyone's entertainment? Not when there's finally a chance I could have a normal life…_

It was _called_ a school. "A Capitol Supported Facility for Advanced Mental Training", as it said over the doors. And this one, of course, was the only one District Six ever had. Bruce had heard stories about universities in the ancient days, schools for people who wanted to learn more than the basics that were covered for children, or specific training for a job. Places where you could study anything you wanted to, discover new ideas, challenge yourself, expand your horizons. Explore the whole universe of knowledge.

He couldn't imagine many similarities to where he was living now. _But then, I guess it's just like family. Whatever you live through is what's normal._

His father wanted nothing to do with him. It was horrific enough that in a drunken rage the man had killed his wife when the boy was only eight. It only got worse after she was gone, especially after Bruce's IQ singled him out as exceptional. The boy showed enough intelligence that even the Capitol was interested – so with his father's great enthusiasm he was shipped off to this boarding school when he was ten. The dormitories were more like barracks; the teachers were often distracted, disillusioned former students.

Even though it was a dismal atmosphere, Bruce was fascinated at first. There were things to learn, and at least some attention… but the longer he was there, the more he felt like a zoo animal. A poorly treated one, at that.

The students were fed, just enough and no more, and drilled in near military exercises daily - "To keep them sharp". They were sheltered, but the dorm rooms that were barely big enough for one or two held four each. The quarters were drafty, the beds were old, and the blankets were thin. Conditions could only be described as… sanitary. Only the fact that they were allowed to go home on breaks made it impossible to call it a prison.

Not really having a home to go back to, the only thing that kept Bruce going was the pursuit of knowledge. He found himself almost compulsive about learning. He spent nearly all his spare time in the lab or the library, and by the time he was sixteen, had found a way to make a light, resilient metal alloy that was now being used in the Sentinels hovercraft.

But still, when his brain wasn't tied up working, he knew he was depressed. No one would even let him discuss his mother's murder, since his so-called father was so valuable; and in the throes of young adolescence he had begun to long for Reaping days, to wish that his name would get called and then he would have an excuse; he wouldn't be forced to take his own life – but then he met Betty.

She was young, and sweet-tempered… and for some reason, she _liked_ him. Her affection this last year was enough to make him redouble his studies, hoping that the Capitol would take notice of his talents and free him from this downtrodden, drug-riddled district, and perhaps, make him worthy in her father's eyes.

Of _course_ she would be his toughest professor's daughter.

Prefect Ross was the former Prime Sentinel of District 6, and seemed to think the school should be run like any center for those who did not conform to what he saw as a perfect society. His disdain for Bruce was obvious, and he was constantly finding ways to discredit or punish the boy with demerits, even though he was the top student in Ross's Logic course – or as Ross put it, _"__Defending the Capitol through Logistics."_

How he had a daughter like Betty was a mystery to everyone.

A loud bell sounded, waking Bruce and making him realize that he must have dozed off after all, although he didn't feel any more rested.

He grabbed his glasses, dressed quickly, and was just heading out toward the lab when Cho yelled from the computer. "Yo, Ruse! Message here for you."

"Really?" Bruce walked back into the room and over to the monitor. "From who?"

Cho looked up at him with a grimace. "Looks like Ross."

"Oh, great. Of course he calls me to his office when we're supposed to have the day–"

"Hey, maybe he wants to give you a last minute exam."

Bruce rolled his eyes and squinted at the message. "Yeah, right. I wouldn't put it past him, but it just says he wants to see me. Oh, crap. Five minutes ago."

"Better not be late."

"Thanks." Bruce glanced at the clock and headed for the door at a run. "See you later, if I'm still alive."

* * *

Five minutes later, Bruce stopped outside of Ross's office door and caught his breath. Straightening his shirt, he ran a hand through his curls, which succeeded in making it only slightly more dishevelled. Betty said she liked it, but Cho always said he was well on his way to looking like a mad scientist. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Opening the door, Bruce found himself, as usual when he was in the presence of Ross, standing at something approximating military attention. "Sorry I'm late, sir. I didn't realize that -"

Ross looked up from the folder he was perusing, and gestured. He spoke in a subdued voice. "Sit down, Mr Banner."

Bruce tried not to look surprised. The old man actually sounded… concerned. He sat down and waited.

The older man stared at him for a minute, then looked back down at the folder. After a few seconds he closed it, then stood and looked out the window, his hands folded behind him. "Mr Banner – Bruce. You know we don't always see eye to eye."

"No – I mean, yes, sir, we don't. And I know you don't approve of me seeing your daughter."

Ross bristled, much more like his normal self. "We certainly _don't_. But I didn't call you in about that."

"No?"

The Prefect took a deep breath, calming himself. "No. You realize the list of possible tributes is public knowledge. And that anyone who has been in the service of Marvel as a Sentinel has the ability to look at the tesserae records. In fact, we have the ability to see what someone's odds are of being chosen."

Bruce frowned, confused. "Yes, sir? I mean, I'm not surprised by that, but I also know that my, well, my father is very well taken care of by the state, and since I'm here at the school -"

Ross spun the folder on his desk and stabbed a finger down onto it. "Look here, boy."

Shaking his head, Bruce pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket, leaned over and read what he pointed to. Then he blinked, grabbed the folder and reread it. He read it a third time, a fourth, then looked up at Ross. "This can't be right. There can't be _that_ many –"

"There are, son."

Leaping to his feet, Bruce cried, "But there can't be! The only family I have –" He stopped short. His expression grew hard as his eyes registered the only solution to this riddle.

Ross looked at him levelly. "Don't do anything rash, Mr. Banner. I simply wanted you to know that you have, by far, the greatest chance in the district of becoming a tribute." The fury he saw in the boy's eyes was unnerving, even for a seasoned warrior. "Keep in mind, it's still a random draw –"

But Bruce only shook his head, dropped the folder back on the desk and ran. He ran from the miserable campus, ran through the drizzling grey streets, ran until he reached the pharmaceutical laboratory. He wasn't sure if anyone would be at the facility, but there was no way he could go back to… that house. The house where his mother was murdered, murdered by the very man he was looking for. The esteemed Dr Brian Banner, who had found so many ways to make the production of terrigen more efficient. His father.

Reaching the lab, he ducked around the back and found a window slightly open. Without even thinking, he jerked it wide and made his way in, not exactly knowing how he found his way. A quick jog down a long hallway, another door pulled open –

"You!"

The man who turned from his equipment to look at him was barely recognizable as the man he had last seen some seven years ago. Dr Brian Banner seemed withered, worn – but his eyes glittered with anger when he realized who was speaking to him.

"What are you doing here? How did security –" He stopped abruptly as Bruce leapt over a lab bench and grabbed him by the neck.

"Why? Why did you take out all those tesserae on me? What the hell did you need them for? You practically live in a lab full of the damn terrigen, so what do you need –"

The elder Banner took advantage of his questions to break away. "What the hell? Terrigen? You know I can't touch the product! The Capitol controllers test me every week! There's no way –"

"Then what did you trade my life for? Why did you need all the tessarae? And don't tell me you were giving it to charity!"

His father blinked, and for a brief moment, Bruce thought he might have looked guilty – if he knew how. "I needed the extra grain rations."

"For what?"

His father glanced to a corner of the lab and away again, but not so quickly that Bruce didn't notice. He turned and saw a refrigerating unit, copper pipes, a large tank - "What the – you're _distilling?_ You're still drinking, after everything – everything that happened?" Bruce walked over to the still, his fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. "You needed grain rations to make _alcohol?_" Barely thinking, he reached out and grabbed a handful of spiralling copper pipe, pulling it into a knotted, kinked mess. "You _bastard!_"

"Leave that alone! Look, this has nothing to do with you!"

"Nothing?" Bruce looked at his father but punched the tank of the still instead, leaving a surprisingly deep dent. "_Nothing? _I'm likely to be chosen for the arena today. To die, just so you can stay drunk!"

Brian stared at him for a long moment before responding. "Then you'll be better off dead. I know I'll be better off when you are."

"What the hell are you saying?"

"If I couldn't trade your damn tesserae for grain to ferment, then I'm sure I'd have stopped drinking long ago."

Bruce felt his heart thudding in his chest. Pounding against his bones, Pounding in his brain.

* * *

_It was the pounding sound that did him in, that turned him inside out. Over her screaming, over his own cries, over the curses his father shouted as he beat her. The sound, the thick, heavy sound of wood hitting a body. Of the slap of flesh, the crack of bone. It pounded, on and on, after her screams had stopped, after his father was panting from the exertion. It pounded with the beating of his heart, on and on, until a more wooden crack made it clear the bat had broken. He remembered the red fury in his father's eyes, as he turned to him. "See what you made me do? See what you did?" And all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, the pounding that echoed–_

* * *

He braced himself against the flood of memory, unstoppable as time.

* * *

_If only he hadn't been using the bat to knock down apples. If only his father hadn't been home yet when he brought them in to his mother, full of pride and smiles. If only he had known to act less smart than his father. If only he hadn't brought the bat in with him…_

_"See what you made me do? It's your fault she's dead! I didn't do this to her. You did this!" And he grabbed the boy roughly by his hair and twisted his head forward and down, forcing him to look at the broken, bloody body…_

_The tears rolled down his cheeks, silently. In the wild pounding of his heart, he heard the bat hitting, again, again, again._

* * *

He grabbed the edge of the nearest table and flung it upwards, dumping hundreds of pounds of equipment and several large jugs of clear liquid that shattered with a sharp smell. Walking toward his father, he grabbed two glass beakers, breaking them over the workbench and filling the lab with noxious fumes. By the time he reached Dr Banner, who was frozen with terror at this apparition the boy had become, Bruce was panting hard, fighting to keep his wits about him. He opened his mouth, and the choked words came out as he held up the shattered neck end of a beaker like a knife.

"I could kill you. I should kill you, now. For me, and for mother."

He held up the broken beaker in his hand and saw a thin line of blood trickle to his wrist. Somewhere, in his mind, a soft, nearly-forgotten voice spoke.

_No. Don't go there. Don't be _him.

He took an unsteady breath, and stared at the man who spawned him. "But there's more to this. You're nothing. You're just a weak, puny…" Bruce threw down the broken glass and stared, not seeing.

_He's nothing. Someone let him do this. Someone decides whose life is worth something and whose is dispensable … no one should be able to just use up another person's life… who decides these things? Who would dare?_

And somewhere inside, the anger that he kept so tightly reined found a previously unseen path_. __Rebellion._

He blinked back to the moment, his breathing still strained amid the fumes. "This isn't over." His father, realizing that he wasn't going to die, grabbed a flask off the table and took several gulps.

Bruce squinted at him almost painfully, seeing not a man but a beast. Then, suddenly suffocating, he ran from the lab and out into the air.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Bruce had run so far, so fast, that he wasn't sure where his feet had taken him. He stopped, put his hand against a tree and fought to catch his breath. _Tree? Oh…_ His running had taken him back towards the school, to the forest that separated it from the nearest part of town. Most of the boys avoided it, but he found that when he was angry, or frustrated, getting out into the green space helped calm him. And at least, when he was there, he knew he wouldn't hurt anyone. He also knew that if you went deep enough into the woods, you came across an electrified fence. _So much for the school not being a prison._

Getting his bearings, he hiked along a trail he knew until he reached a tiny stream, following it to an outcropping of boulders. Bruce climbed one that he knew well, and sat back against the cold stone, cooling his temper. His eyes had just closed when he heard a girl's voice.

"Father told me."

Bruce was too worn out to react with anything other than opening his eyes. It was Betty, of course. Of course she knew, probably better than he did, that if he were upset he would end up here.

She looked at him with concern flooding her features. It brought some warmth to his deep brown eyes.

"What are you going to do, Bruce?"

He sighed. "What can I do?"

Betty sat down near him on the rock, and took his hand. "Bruce... listen...I don't know what to say."

It took him a second or two to realize she wasn't upset about the same things he was. He carefully took his hand from hers. "What are you talking about?"

Her eyes met his, and she looked nervous. "You know I care about you…a lot. And I'm not a child. I'm old enough to know that one of the reasons I care about you...is that I grew up with a former Sentinel as a father. The violence, the killing…it was just part of who he was. Part of my life. And you've always been so gentle, and so kind…"

Bruce sat up and gave her half a grin. "Okay. So that's not a bad thing, right?"

She managed to smile. "No…but if you get called into the Games…"

He waited for her to finish, and exasperation won out. "Bets. What are you saying? That I shouldn't fight for my life?"

"I don't want to watch you killing people!"

Bruce looked at her in astonishment. "I don't want to kill people! But what – what? You would rather I stood there and let them kill me? Is that what you want to watch?"

A tear ran down her cheek as she twisted her hands against themselves in her lap. "I don't know! I don't know what I want. I don't want you to have to go! I want things to be the way they've been."

Bruce slumped back against the stone, still staring at her. "Well. That's not likely, is it?"

Her eyes jumped up to his, which were now dark and cold. They sat in adolescent silence for several minutes, staring at each other. Finding, rather abruptly, that having a girlfriend or boyfriend didn't always make things easier.

Eventually, the sky took pity on them and began to drizzle rain once more. Bruce shook his head and stood up, looking towards the slightly brighter spot where the sun was trying vainly to break through the clouds. "It's getting late. We should get to the Reaping."

"Father's taking me." He nodded wearily, and she babbled out, "At least… at least there's not much chance of you having to kill me." She faltered, seeing the sudden disbelief and anger in his eyes.

"Of course there isn't. Wait, you think because my _father_–" The drizzling rain ran down his cheeks, looking like tears.

"No! I just meant, I don't have so many entries as you… I mean, it's not likely I'll be…" she trailed off, her gaze falling to the wet ground.

Far off toward the town bells began to toll, calling the possible victims to the slaughter. "I've gotta go."

He turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the grey rain.

* * *

Bruce walked back to the dorms, in time to join his roommates as they began the slow, silent walk to the Reaping. Lost in a haze, he fell into place at the gathering with the other seventeen year olds, noticing with some disgust that the whole square had been sectioned off as if they were cattle to be sold.

Only Cho broke through and spoke to him.

"Hey, Ruse…"

Blinking, Bruce turned and looked at his younger friend. It was easy to forget the young genius wasn't in their age group. He stuck out his hand. "Good luck, Cho."

There was brief moment when Cho looked even younger than his fifteen years. Then, impulsively, he hugged Bruce with all his might. Surprised, Bruce found himself hugging him back.

The younger boy swallowed hard and pulled away. He looked at Bruce seriously. "May the odds be ever in your favour." Then he turned and walked quickly toward the slightly more animated group of younger adolescents, leaving Bruce watching after him.

After a moment Bruce turned as Darcy Lewis, the assigned escort for District 6, began running through details about the Reaping. He watched the churned mud on the ground while the video played, heard the gruff voice of Thanos. At the end of the old, familiar explanation he looked up and saw, for a brief moment, the face of their presiding ruler. There was something about his eyes that made Bruce clench his fists. Perhaps it was condescension. Perhaps it was amusement.

Lewis stood and took a deep breath. "Okay, let's get this show on the road." He saw her reach into the container of girl's names, with an almost discouraged look on her face.

"And your female tribute from District Six is –"

"Me! I volunteer as tribute! I volunteer for the Avenger Games."

Bruce watched, frowning, as a lithe redhead fought the crowd and climbed to the stage. He looked around at his friends, and they shook their heads. None of his fellow students seemed to have the overwhelming urge to be in the games that so many youngsters from the towns did. Maybe they were learning just a little too much. Maybe they had hope for their lives being something beyond working in a factory, or self-medicating their days away. The girl had even called it the _Avenger Games_, like a good little citizen.

Fred Sloan turned and mumbled to their group. "Eh, I could take her." A couple of the boys chuckled nervously, but their eyes were registering more and more the reality of what was about to happen.

Bruce shrugged and turned back to the stage. After introducing the redhead to the crowd, the announcer had reached in and pulled a name from the boy's container.

"And your male tribute from District Six –" the announcer paused briefly and looked at the crowd defiantly, almost daring another volunteer to interrupt her moment.

Bruce took a breath, hoping against hope that he would wake up, that this was a dream. That his father, no matter how warped, hadn't managed to mortgage his son's life for a drink –

When no volunteer stepped forward, the announcer looked again at the name in her hand.

"Your male tribute is Bruce Banner!"

Abruptly, the drizzle turned into pouring rain.

* * *

Bruce went blank for a while. He knew he had been standing on the platform stage, next to Ms. Lewis. He vaguely remembered her talking to him, and nodding, and he sort of remembered being introduced to Sinthea, his counterpart who was insane enough to volunteer. But it wasn't until he heard her last name that anything shocked him out of his numbness.

Even now, sitting in a room so luxurious it seemed ridiculous, he couldn't believe it was happening. And that his cohort was Sinthea Schmidt. Schmidt! Daughter of the only victor Six ever had. _Of course. _

He shook his head and sat heavily in a purple velvet chair. _Not that it matters. _He couldn't imagine, at this moment, ever being able to kill someone in cold blood.

There was a sound at the door, and a Sentinel walked in, followed by Darcy Lewis. "How are you, Mr Banner? Or should I call you Bruce?"

He frowned up at her. "Bruce is fine."

"Well, good." She looked around the room, and looked at him again. "You ready for this?"

"Should I be?"

Her head tilted to the side. "Don't be a wiseass, Bruce. I'll do what I can to help you out, but you've got to do your part."

"My part?" He leapt up and strode toward her, anger flashing in his eyes. The Sentinel stepped forward, but Lewis didn't move. She just looked into Bruce's eyes, as if trying to read his mind. Bruce caught himself, and stepped back a pace. "You do mean I'm supposed to smile and nod and then kill people, right?"

The woman sighed. "Frankly, I'm just in charge of the smile and nod part. I'm hoping to make sure you come across as someone people want to see more of. So that maybe people will try to help keep you alive." A wry smile flashed across her lips, vanishing almost as fast as it came. "We're leaving soon. I'll let you say your goodbye."

Bruce laughed in spite of himself as he slumped into the chair again. "Goodbye? To whom?" He stared at her, then dropped his eyes, and seemed to study the floor. "There's no one… no one who'll miss me…"

The escort's face remained unchanged, but something in her eyes looked almost… sad. "There is someone waiting. Take your time."

She gestured to the Sentinel, who walked out with her, and ushered someone in before closing the door once more. Bruce took a few deep breaths before looking up.

"Hey, Ruse."

"Cho?" Bruce stood and found himself hugging his friend for the second time that day. "Thanks for coming. I – I didn't expect –"

Cho took a deep breath, and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He spoke so quickly, it was clear he had it planned and was afraid he wouldn't be able to say it if he didn't say it quickly. "I wanted to say good luck, Ruse. You've always been like, well, a brother. You've been there for me, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it." The younger boy blinked hard. "You just better come back. Okay?"

For a moment, Bruce felt that he might. "I'll do my best. I promise."

They stood, nodding, and then Cho slapped his hand against his head. "Damn. I can't forget this. She'd kill me." He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a folded, delicately embroidered handkerchief. Holding it out, he said, "This is for you."

Bruce took it with a frown, and unfolded the thin fabric with shaking hands to find a long, gold necklace with a heart pendant. He stared at it, and then his eyes lifted to Cho's. "This is Betty's. It belonged to her mother." Cho nodded at him. "She never takes it off."

"Right." Cho grinned. "She didn't dare come, but she told me to give it to you – and to tell you that she'd like you to bring it back."

The door opened, and the Sentinel grunted at them. "Time's up." Quickly, Bruce draped the chain around his neck, tucking the heart into his shirt.

The boys hugged once more, and Bruce spoke quietly.

"I'll do my best, Cho. I promise."


	8. Chapter 7: Scars

**(A/N) Hey guys, here we are with a slightly delayed chapter (real reason was due to my non-functioning laptop, but I'm going to claim amnesty since St Patrick's Day was yesterday, and **_**everyone **_**knows that it's the traditional Irishman's day of rest), written by the fantastic Canucklehead Cowgirl – you may remember her, she's also writing for District One's Wade Wilson – and the marvellous XxHerefor NowxX! Gonna address the reviews, and then leave you all to the chapter.**

**TheMetaReborn: Yup, we just haven't seen her in a movie yet! Who knows that, a new Captain America movie is coming out next year!**

**Random Reader 17: We'll certainly try to! Thanks for the review!**

**VengefulVixens: We hope it will too! Let us know what you think about future chapters!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Scars**

**District Seven Reaping**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl &amp; XxHerefor NowxX**

* * *

**James Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"If you are caught unprepared by a sudden rainstorm, you should not run foolishly down the road or hide under the eaves of houses. You are going to get soaked either way. Accept that from the beginning and go on your way. This way you will not be distressed by a little rain. Apply this lesson to everything."_

– Tsunetomo Yamamoto, _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_

* * *

The rain had been falling gently but steadily through the tree limbs five miles north-west of the centre of District Seven. The young man inside the rickety little tent had been watching it for at least an hour before the sun came up enough to make out more than just dark masses in the forest. His shelter was meagre, but dry. By young James 'Logan' Howlett's estimations, it had been raining since around midnight, and it showed no sign of letting up. If anything, it looked as though it was starting to intensify. The thunder was building a bit anyhow.

He'd given up the notion of sleep before the rain had even started. It would bring him no rest if he did anyhow. For the past few weeks, his nightmares had returned. Things he hadn't thought of in years were resurfacing right along with the things he thought he'd shoved down over the past six months or so.

Work seemed to help. If he worked hard enough all day, he could rest for a while. If he didn't, there was always the somewhat friendly and the not so friendly brawls between loggers. There hadn't been as many fights as of late. Not with the Reaping coming.

No one wanted to draw the attention of the sentinels so close to the big day. It would reflect badly on them should the handful of young loggers old enough to work, but still young enough to reap for the Avenger Games show up half-beat to hell. Most of their Sentinels were tolerant – but none of them were _that_ tolerant.

On reaping day, there was no work. Maybe that was why he was so edgy that morning. Normally, by the time the sun had crested the hill, he'd be cutting or up a tree securing ropes for the men below to try to help direct the way the tree fell. He was almost always the one to take on the risky cuts and kickbacks, the stalled and hung trees that were inherently dangerous and unpredictable – all the really hairy tasks that most men with a little self-preservation avoided if at all possible.

He couldn't help it really. No one else ever wanted to do it, and he was good at it. Maybe it was his lack of fear. Maybe it was the fact that he knew that if something happened to him, he wouldn't really be missed, where these men all had families that counted on them. Whatever it was, it propelled him to throw himself into the line of fire so they didn't have to.

He grimaced a little as he pulled his flannel over his shoulders. The trails would be slippery and it would take a little longer to make it into town with the mud. The weather hadn't lightened up so he figured he better get moving.

With a heavy sigh, he picked himself up and peeked out of the tent – eyes toward the skies, looking for some kind of sign of the weather letting up. The clouds were bubbling and getting darker as thunder began to rumble in the distance. He shook his head slightly to himself. Just proof that it was going to be a miserable wet day. He quickly buttoned up his shirt and packed away what little he had in the tent in an attempt to keep it dry.

He hated going to town. It seemed like every time he'd gone in the past few years, he'd found trouble – or it had found him. Generally it was a toss-up between being in the wrong place at the wrong time. More often than not he'd end up with the short end of the stick while trying to help someone, usually ending in a fight with someone bigger that thought they were badder. It was bad enough that when the Sentinels saw him coming, they would tail him – just waiting for him to do something that he could be punished for. He'd learned how to evade them, but most of the time it wasn't worth it.

The Reaping was traditionally a particularly awful day for everyone. Extra Sentinels were always shipped in to protect the escort and the camera crews. None of them were nearly as tolerable as the ones that were stationed there, and the regular Sentinels had to toe the line more too. Just being anywhere near town one couldn't help but feel the thick sense of oppression.

Logan steeled himself before stepping out into the rain. It would be a long, wet walk, even if the rain were to stop now. In ten minutes' time he was at the cutters' camp where most of the men stayed during the week, only going home to spend Sundays with their families. Only a handful was left at camp today – the rest were in town already, preparing for the Reaping ceremony. One of the men on his crew hailed him simply to wish him luck.

"Just don't get drawn today alright, Logan? We're hittin' a new section next week and I don't wanna be the guy that's gotta do the hung trees," he shouted with a little laugh in a weak attempt to lighten his mood. Logan simply gave him a curt nod and a wave and continued on his way, thinking to himself if Puck cut the damn things right to begin with, there wouldn't be any hung trees.

This was all a formality anyhow, he reminded himself. Attendance for those of age was mandatory. He'd seen what happened when someone tried to duck out – it wasn't pretty. A few years back, one of the loggers' sons had refused to show. The reaping went on without him, and lucky for him, his name wasn't drawn – but it would have had the same outcome. Less than five minutes after the tributes were loaded up and the cameras shut off every single Sentinel was on the lookout for him. Door to door, combing the forests and camps. Within a matter of hours he was found and executed as a result – though the Reaping only came around once a year, attendance was compulsory. It was a grim warning for anyone else who thought his cowardice would be a good idea in the future.

Most of the population had a tendency to show just to cross their fingers that it wasn't their child or sibling drawn. The more jaded among them went to take bets on who the unlucky saps were that got drawn. Logan thought his chances were pretty low. He'd never put his name in for more than he had to and he had no family to do it on his behalf. There were other kids that had many more entries than he did, and this was the last time around for him. He was almost optimistic about it. After it was done, he'd already decided he'd just disappear.

The district was huge, but in his wanderings, he'd found a spot on the far north line where the trees had grown just right and the Sentinel towers were just far enough off that it was nearly perfectly hidden. He could climb one and jump the fence to the other side, the branches nearly making a bridge over the top of the fence. Once he was out, he was just going to go as far north as he could. Get away from all this and just go be a hermit in the woods. He wasn't worried about hiding or evading the Sentinels. His time hunting in the woods had proven that he could be sneaky – one of the few past times he had was to creep up on a skittish doe just to touch her. It was always a good feeling when the fawn at her side would nose up to him before the doe bounded off.

He crested the hill, nearly to town now and already soaked to the bone. The rainwater was running down his face, his black hair pressed flat against his head. A Sentinel that was fairly well liked in the district let out a deep breath as he approached.

"Damnit, Logan, they're almost ready to start. I thought we were gonna have to go looking for you," he told him as his shoulders dropped. This guy never seemed to give Logan as much of a hassle as the others. In fact, under different circumstances, he might just call him decent.

"You know me, Mac – ain't really a party till I show up," Logan replied, little real humour to his voice. Mac just shook his head and gestured for him to get a move on.

They were gathering in the square already. He looked to the clock on the Justice Building – apparently Mac was right – it was a little later than he thought. His eyes wandered to the wet dripping mass of teenagers gathered, most of them in their Sunday best, all of them in varying stages of misery. He chuckled to himself when he saw some of the kids that were considered upper class here, all of them looking overly uncomfortable in the wetness. He knew every face in that crowd all too well. Up until around eight years ago, he was one of them. Then everything changed.

His father, John Howlett, wasn't his father at all as it turned out. His mother had been having an affair for years with the groundsman, Tom Logan, and one miserable winter day he came to the Howlett estate to convince Elizabeth to run away with him. Words were exchanged with voices raised and in a flash, Tom had murdered John. In the matter of a few hours, Elizabeth and James were thrown from the estate by old Mr Howlett and Tom was taken away and executed for murder. Within days Elizabeth had killed herself, blaming young James for the whole fiasco. Since then, not one person in that group had spoken a word to him.

He held his head high as he checked in with the last handful or two of stragglers. This was likely the last time he'd use his given name. After his parents died, his grandfather had made a point to let anyone who would listen know that young James was no kin of his. The townspeople started calling him 'that Logan boy' and it stuck, though now it was just 'Logan'. He forced a neutral look on his face when he wanted to scowl and after the check in was complete, went to stand in the group of boys his age.

The stage was large, but the people on it were grouped into the driest area of it. There was a podium at centre stage, behind it stood the two previous victors from District Seven. The two men couldn't have been further apart in looks. Both were tall – one lanky and dark, the other broad and blonde. At the moment, both looked bored and inconvenienced by the weather, totally disinterested in the happenings around them.

Just as the mayor started his speech, thunder crackled loudly overhead and Logan smirked as the skies opened up in earnest. The strange looks he'd gotten from some of the wealthier kids at his soaked appearance were replaced with a deeper level of misery as they too were all soaked to the bone. Most of the kids in the crowd were trying vainly to shield themselves from the deluge as Logan simply stood there with his arms crossed, watching the mess unfold as water dripped from his nose and elbows. Those on the stage were protected, as were the huddled groups under the store fronts. Only those up for Reaping were getting drenched. The mayor's speech was cut short and the footage was played, though it couldn't be heard well from the roaring rainfall and the thunder above – not that anyone needed to hear it. It was the same damn song and dance they did every year. The rain began to ease when the escort for their district made her way to the microphone.

She was an irritatingly adorable woman named Moira MacTaggert – a perky little brunette with an odd accent even for those from the Capitol. Her bubbly personality was a bit grating to Logan, though he figured with enough whiskey he may be able to tolerate her better.

"Let's get down tae it," Moira said with a weary smile after finishing her required speech and staring to the heavens at the downpour. The people in Seven didn't exactly dislike her. But she was just so _odd_, they couldn't really like her much either, at times her accent was so thick, few could follow her meaning.

"Th' young lass representin' District Seven for th' twenty foorth Avenger Games is–" she paused just long enough to draw the name and unfold the paper with a nervous smile. Logan was uncomfortable as in his head he can hear Moira's singsong voice chirping out Kayla Silverfox's name last year.

"Benedetta Gaetani."

Logan's eyes searched out and found her in the crowd as the girl self-consciously pulled her cloak closer in an effort to protect herself from the hundreds of eyes boring into her from every angle, the group of girls around her breathless, but at the same time relieved as they separate themselves from her proximity, some of them looking surprised to find her that close to them. She rushed to the centre aisle, the crowd moving aside as she went. He closed his eyes a moment as she made her way to the stage.

This one he knew and he didn't think she deserved to be in the Games. A few years prior, not long after he'd joined up with this last cutting crew, he met her. Just once.

* * *

_He was deeply in the woods in his tent, half asleep when he heard raised voices not far off. He crept closer toward the disturbance, cautiously keeping himself hidden as the fire near the voices flickered its dull orange light across the trees. The voices had him on edge, as long ago he'd learned quickly that hushed voices in the middle of the woods rarely meant anything good – or legal – was going on. The scene he found was disturbing. Even if he'd thought he'd prepared himself. _

_Benedetta was a pretty little girl. Charming and bright eyed, she looked pixie like to him, even though she was clearly terrified at the events around her. She was struggling against the man that had a hold on her, two more holding her father and a fourth making his way toward the girl with something in his hand as he muttered low and sinister toward the elder Gaetani, his voice harsh._

_The young man didn't know what was going on, but he knew it was wrong and he made a dash in, trying to stop it._

* * *

In retrospect, what chance did he really have against that many grown men? Sure, he'd proven himself in plenty of fist fights and bar room brawls since then, but at the time he really had little experience and no chance.

* * *

_He rushed the man approaching the girl, but whatever it was he had in his hand was thrown in her face long before Logan was close enough to make contact with him. The fight was quick, violent, and very one sided. Benedetta lay on the ground, holding her face and crying out in pain. The two men that had been holding her jumped into the fray and the three of them ended up beating Logan halfway to a pulp before turning their attention back to her father, eventually killing him. While the men were distracted she glanced once at the young man bleeding on the ground before slipping into the safety of the dark trees. Logan had quickly followed her cue while they were once again occupied with the old man. _

* * *

He hadn't seen her since that night.

Right then he couldn't even hazard a guess as to what the girl was thinking since her face was hidden in the shadows of her cloak – she was one of the few there that had been smart enough to put something on that would actually shed the rain.

"Gentlemen, yer turn," Moira said with a kind smile, as she pulled the name for the boys. Thunder crackled loudly overhead and the name was lost in the storm. Those nearest the stage had heard it though and turned looking for its owner.

"James Howlett," the little brunette on stage said for the second time. He was still in shock.

"Sonofa..." Logan muttered to himself, and then anger started to grow. For a moment, it looked as though no one in the crowd knew who they were talking about. Then realization hit them and the boys around him backed away as if he was radioactive. Logan gritted his teeth and turned toward the aisle, more pissed off with every step he took, the crowd parting like the red sea. As he climbed the steps he glanced to Benedetta, who showed no reaction to his presence. He took his place, looking out at the sea of faces that look entirely relieved that it was these two on the stage rather than one of their beloved.

As the mayor read out the treaty of treason, Logan's eyes slipped up to the adults huddled under the eaves of the shops with their children too small to be up for grabs. For an instant, he saw one face he thought he'd left in his past. His grandfather locked eyes with him for just a moment, all the colour drained from his face as Logan just stared back coldly until the old man simply couldn't look at him any longer. Covering his mouth with his hand, Old Man Howlett turned away and finally Logan's eyes fell to his feet with a small sigh.

He realized what Kayla must have felt up on this stage the year prior. The impending feeling of dread, knowing that chances were this was the last he'd see of the people he'd grown up with and the forests he loved. It had to have been worse for her. She had people that loved her – family. Him. Little snippets of their time together flashed through his mind. Seeing her for the first time, her smile, the way the wind caught her hair. Replaced by flashes from the games – the look of sheer terror on her face at the blood bath. The horror as the boy from Two sunk his blade in her heart. Fox dying moments later with Logan's name on her lips. And he was furious. The sadness that had held his heart for so long cracked and his rage began to blossom.

He decided then that no one would ever see fear on his face. As the anthem ended, his eyes raised to the crowd and some of the people in the front row take a step back at his fierce expression. He's going to win or he's going to take down as many of those other unlucky bastards as he can with him when he goes.

The Sentinels ushered them off the stage and into the Justice building. He's placed in a room where, as he understood it, family and friends were allowed to wish him luck – and say goodbye. _Gonna be waitin' a while if they expect anyone to show for me,_ he thought to himself as he stared out the window, watching the crowd quickly disperse.

The room was stately. It reminded him quite a bit of his father's old study – velvet covered cushions and ornately carved dark wood – likely black walnut. The room had a thick plush carpet that matched the long drapes that brushed the floor. The whole room felt muted to him, the fabric all around it muffling the sounds within. As he looked at the lavish décor around him, the long lost familiarity of it simply added more fuel to his fire.

Then, to his shock, the door opened, and he looked over his shoulder as he turned to see Kayla Silverfox's father. The man never liked him. He forbade her from seeing him and even turned him away when they held her funeral, but there he was looking determined and grim.

Without a word, he silently walked forward and picked up Logan's hand – never breaking eye contact as he placed what felt like soft worn leather in his palm, closing Logan's fingers around it and narrowing his eyes a bit. He placed his hand on Logan's shoulder and nodded grimly at the young man. Logan quickly realized what he was doing and locked his jaw returning the nod.

He was wishing him _luck._

The older man then dropped his arm and lightly shook his head with his mouth drawn tight, hesitating as he finally broke the stare and simply turned and walked away. As soon as he the door closed behind him, Logan looked to what he'd given him.

Fox's medicine bag. He knew there wasn't much in it, though he didn't dare look – that was forbidden by her people. She'd told him what it held once – a few stones, a lock of his hair, a claw from a wolverine they'd found on a trap line, a little bit of tobacco, some pine needles and likely a few little things she'd never told him about as well.

They were things she thought would help her spirit in life. This bag was sacred. He was in shock from the old tribesman's gesture, staring at his own clenched fist around the little piece of buckskin. Knowing he'd likely be alone until his time passed, he decided to take a good look at the beat up little pouch. The beading on it was traditional and simple, done by Fox herself. Some of the fringe on it was damaged and when he turned it over in his hands, he found an old bloodstain on the back of it. He wrinkled his brow as he examined it.

As he realized the stain's significance, all the tension in his face melted away and he let out a deep, weary breath. That would have been from last year. He looked at the little pouch in his hand a moment longer then pulled the strings over his head and tucked the medicine bag into his shirt. This will be his token.

He wasn't alone for long. At least, not as long as he thought he would be. Mac, the Sentinel he saw on the way in ended up being the one to lead him to the train.

"Time to go, Logan," Mac said, eyes wide. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but good luck. You die and it's going to be awful boring around here." Logan raised his eyes, a mirthless smirk on his face as he walked over to Mac, who shook his hand before he led him out.

"I'll see what I can do. God forbid you get bored on my account," Logan murmured dryly.

"Yeah, that's not real comforting. Last time you told me that, I had to call in for back up to break up the brawl," Mac replied with a tremor in his voice and earning a little chuckle from the young man.

They were almost to the platform with cameras closing in before several of the sentinels from the Capitol took over and escorted him onto the platform next to Benedetta and Moira. Logan looked troubled as the cameras flashed and Moira whispered to them to smile between gritted teeth before they were shoved onto the train moments later, the door locking behind them.

"Next time I tell ye tae smile, _do so,_" Moira scolded. "Honestly, I'm tryin' tae help ye." Logan let slip a derisive snort and earned himself a glare from their escort.

"Ye won't have as much time as some before we arrive. Ye'd do well tae make yerself presentable before we get there," she snapped at him. "From th' look of ye, it'll take a miracle tae get ye camera ready."

* * *

**Benedetta Gaetani of District Seven**

**Written by XxHerefor NowxX**

* * *

The dark veil covering Benedetta's face paired with the darkness of the alley made anything further than four feet fade into obscurity; she would have just enough time to manoeuvre around the odd crate and turned over trash cans in her path. And if that wasn't bad enough, the veil Roekel had given her as part of the getup caused areas of her face to itch. The only reason why she hadn't discarded the thing was because she didn't want to risk exposing herself to anyone once she got to the main road. She didn't want to have to deal with the staring.

Darting quickly from the alley and onto Holland Grove Court, Etta paused under the nearest the storefront over-hanging to determine where Roekel's booth was before heading in its direction. She slowed down when it came in to view, cursing silently under her breath. Reaching in her bag she pulled out a shirt and set into wiping down the water slicked counter.

It was in vain, Benedetta realized, to try and keep her booth top dry. The store front covering didn't extend far enough, allowing the run off from the roof to splash down continuously. Not that it made much difference; not a single person had made their way past where she'd planned to set up shop.

Only a few people could be seen entering the local bar that doubled as betting grounds that - in particular for the Avenger Games – held bets on potential tributes, the rest wandering about further down near the square, preparing for the reaping later on. Anyone in their right mind – or who had a choice – would be sleeping in. With a sigh she tossed the now drenched shirt to the side and closed her eyes.

She wished she had tried to tell Roekel that no one would be about at such an early time, let alone anyone who would be interested in palm readings and the other mystical nonsense today of all days, the stubborn fool. She let the conversation she had not even an hour ago with her landlord of sorts, Niles Van Roekel, come to mind.

* * *

_Etta woke with a jolt to the harsh jarring of her cot. Adrenaline pumping, making her near skittish, she turned her head and looked up to see Roekel standing before her, both hands in his lab coat pockets. Taking one breath at a time to calm herself she stared back, waiting for him to speak first._

_"Why are you still in bed? There's much to be done before the reaping," he said, his eyes alight. If she learned anything of the man before her she knew when he had schemed up an idea._

_She internally groaned before rolling onto her back and sitting up, leaning her back against the wall. According to the clock on the opposite wall, it was a quarter past seven._

_"I was trying to sleep in a bit. But I didn't know there was more to do. What is it?" she asked while wiping the corner of her eyes, tacking the question on at the last minute. She also knew that he was easily angered._

_"Look at what I got here." He gestured to his left to a sign. An eye had been painted on it and in bold black letters it read:_

**_M. GAETANI_**

**_Know your future_**

**_Tarot_**

**_Palm Reading_**

**_Crystal Gazing_**

_He had a grin spread from ear to ear when Etta turned her attention back to him._

_"What do you think? Keith managed to draw the eye while he was up for it."_

_She thought that the idea was not one of his wisest. She knew nothing of what he wanted her to do, and even if she did who would come; most people of the district still had faith in religions from days past, those who weren't as strong in belief still held to superstition._

_Something must have read upon her face for his mood changed quickly. He crouched down before her and got in her space._

_"Save it. Whether or not you approved was of no concern to me. Keith is down on his medicine and we are low on money. You should be grateful that it's this that I ask of you. You could very well be in Reiko's position."_

_Benedetta's eyes roamed to where her roommate normally slept at the mentioning of her name. She hadn't come back from the night before._

_"I'm sure one of the filthy men of this district would do with you as they pleased, if only as a means of filling your father's..." She tuned him out at the mentioning of her deceased father and his gambling habits._

_"Are you listening to me?" When she didn't acknowledge him, he grabbed a hold of her face._

_"I said do you _hear_ me?"_

_Jerking from his grip with wide eyes, she uttered a low yes. Pausing for moment, he stared before standing and she watched as he turned and went to the cabinet across the room, grabbing something from the top and tossing it back in her direction._

_"Here. I want you to try this on, see how it looks. And don't worry, I'm not peeking," he said, voice back to normal when he didn't hear any movement._

_Benedetta opened the small closet door near her bed as means of a partition. Quickly shedding her jacket and night clothes, Etta slid into the dress and placed what appeared to be a veil on her head._

_Closing the door she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back, then froze. If she wasn't mistaken, this had to be hers. It had to be her mother's._

_"Beautiful, isn't it?" He'd gotten behind her while she'd been dazed. Through the veil she couldn't see his face clearly._

_"Wh-where'd you find this? How'd you get it?"_

_Instead of answering he merely made his way towards the door._

_"Did you find her?!" Etta couldn't hide the despair, so evident in her voice, as she turned after him._

_"I expect double the amount you made from pickpocketing last week and I want it well before the Reaping begins," was the last thing he said to her before moving down the hall._

* * *

He hadn't been so cruel when Etta first met him. Two years prior he had found her on the edge of the tree line around town, crying and holding her face in her hands in a feeble attempt to ease the pain.

Carefully he scooped her up and brought her back to his home that doubled as his place of practice. He fixed her up as best he could and gave her a place to lay her head. He even promised to help her find her mother. Everything had seemed to be looking up.

In the span of that month Keith Kilham, Van Roekel's deceased colleague's mild mannered son, fell ill to cancer and as his condition worsened, so did Roekel's behaviour. Gone was the kind man who'd helped her in her darkest moment, replacing him with who she had to deal with.

She suppose she couldn't blame him completely, after all it was obvious that he cared for the boy. Watching someone you cared for slowly waste away would affect anyone. She could, however, blame him for the way he went about things. The only reason she hadn't left was the same reason she'd stuck around as long as she did; her mother.

It was one of her weak spots and Roekel's trump card; a brief mentioning of rumours of where she'd recently been spotted here, an article of clothing or one of her personal possessions turning up there and he knew he'd have her caught like one of the fish from Four.

The wind picked up briefly, blowing the rain under the cover and wetting Benedetta's dress a bit. Having been brought back out of her thoughts, she backed up and hugged herself wishing not for the first time that she could turn back the clock to a time past before letting go. She still had a to find a way to make the amount Roekel expected, which only left her one option.

She found herself walking down towards the bar, sliding the veil down just enough to let out her hair and show her eyes, but high enough to hide the beginning edge of scars. While anyone sixteen and older was allowed to enter, anyone younger was banned. For once Etta was thankful for her recent pubescent growth spurt that made her taller than the average woman, standing at five feet seven inches.

The guard at the door simply glanced at her as she entered behind two men dressed in flannel shirts and boots. While the two carried on with their conversation about the head of their crew, she deftly checked their pockets before moving toward a empty table near the far wall. Checking the amount, she came up with eight notes total. This was going to take a while.

* * *

Benedetta folded her arms on the bar counter in front of her before dropping her head down roughly. She honestly didn't know what else she could do. She'd checked nearly every occupant that she had a believable opportunity of getting close to, swiped any coins from the gambling stations when no one was watching the top, practically done everything but rob the place. She'd only made thirty-five notes for her troubles, not even a quarter of what she needed.

"_Nettie?_ That _you_?" Shocked from hearing the old nickname whispered she looked up.

"Joh-mmf." Her mouth was quickly covered as the man leaned over. Etta just stared at him in confusion.

Johnny Ohm was his name. He'd used to work with her parents during the days of their magic shows, having taken him in from the streets when he was thirteen shortly after he'd ran away from the orphanage. He'd heckle her father from the crowd before allowing himself be 'embarrassed' with magic as the opening act. When her mother disappeared, he'd moved up to participating in the shows. That was before her father's depression and gambling had gotten out of hand, so much so that one day Johnny was nowhere to be found.

"I don't go by that name. Not anymore," he said while letting her go. "You can call me Joel."

He grinned, but it looked strange. Etta stared. Just stared. 'Joel' lost the smile.

"Where did you _go?_" The question was quiet, almost too low to hear among the clanking of glass and loud conversation. But she could tell he did; his shoulders slumped.

"I just floated around for a while, living from day to day. I-"

Further down the bar top, a furry faced man slammed a glass down, signalling that he wanted a refill.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

She watched as he set about filling glass stopping just as the ale reached the brim. The man slammed down three coins before turning away beer in hand, a bit splashing. Once he'd gone Joe – Johnny came back to stand in front of her.

"So...what _were_ we talking about?" To Etta's surprise, her words come out strong if not a little sharp.

"Why did you abandon us?"

_Why did you abandon _me_?_

That is what she really wanted to ask. After all, to her, that's what he did. He'd just taken off in the middle of the night and left her all alone to deal with her father. He wasn't there to try and keep things together, when it counted. He wasn't there that _godforsaken night._

Johnny sighed and ran his hands over the hat on his head before leaning over.

"I'm so sorry I left when I did, you have no idea how much. I'd just saw how things were heading and decided to jump ship. If I had known what would have happened..." He let the words die on his lips.

Silence fell heavily between them for a moment, both trying to read the other expression. After a moment Benedetta spoke up.

"I take it you know what happened." He nodded, glancing away and his jaw stiffening.

"You know what they did to me?" He turned back, eyes hard

"What do you mea-"

Looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, she turned back towards Johnny and pulled the veil down, exposing the distorted, bumpy skin that stretched from her right jaw, over her nose and upper lip, and right under her right eye. She tried to keep from folding in on herself and keep the tears at bay as she felt his eyes on her face

"I-"

"Don't worry about it. It's not like you _owe_ me anything," she said, pulling the veil back up and walking away from the bar and blending into the crowd.

When she was close to the exit, she went to a nearby empty table. She felt even worse now than she had before. Which reminded her of her lack of notes. She'd just have to heading back to Roekel's.

"-does it have to rain every time I come here? This district is filthy already as it is. And this mud is ruining my shoes!" A woman with a Capitol accent could be heard right outside the entrance.

"Weather conditions aside, I hope this district's tavern has quality alcohol. The cheap champagne in the mayor's mansion has gotten old rather quickly," a man said not that long after.

They both came into view after. The woman was dressed in white and turquoise. She shook out her umbrella in the direction of a group of men. The lot looked far from pleased but none said anything. The man was in what appeared to be a metal suit, two cameras placed on either shoulder. He glanced around the room.

"Well it's certainly bigger inside than it appeared. Come on, Tavia. We're supposed to be back in an hour." He made his way to the bar and Tavia followed, calling after 'Marcelo'. In her haste she left her umbrella and a bag on the table.

She left her bag. On the _table_. Surely being from the Capitol, she had to be loaded, right? Besides all Benedetta really needed was at least a hundred notes tops. Tavia wouldn't miss it that much, probably wouldn't even notice. After all she did leave her bag on the table. Completely unattended. Could it really be that easy?

She couldn't waste much more time contemplating; the two would come back and be gone, losing her opportunity. Shifting from her chair to the one at the next table, Etta grabbed the bag and went opened it. A wad sat in the middle and pulled out a bill, which had five hundred written in each corner. _Close enough._

"What do you think you're _doing?_"

The gruff voice came from close behind her. Turning her head, she saw two Sentinels approaching. The question had garnered the attention of most of the attention of the establishment. In particular Tavia and metal man Marcelo.

"That is my purse! What are you waiting for her? Get her!"

Without thinking Etta shouldered her bag and threw the purse as hard as she could at the closest Sentinel before hopping out of her chair, turning it over to give her time to run off. Etta disregarded their shouts for her to stop, darting between the gambling booths and dodging out of the way of tables and people. When she neared the bar, the camera man tried to cut her off but was tackled down to ground.

"Let's go. Now!" Johnny shouted once he had gotten back to his feet.

After a moment of hesitation, she followed after him. Once behind the bar, Johnny slammed the back door behind them and trashed down a back hallway that let out into an alleyway. Etta couldn't see much through the rain so she let him lead, dragging her to the left and down another alley before doubling back, pulling her into a tiny doorway behind a trash can.

"I think we lost them," he said after peeking over the top eight minutes later.

Benedetta let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Beside her Johnny had doubled over and started laughing hysterically.

"I hope whatever you stole was worth it." She held up the note for him to see. "Not a complete waste then."

His laughter had settled down to a few chuckles, enough so that he was able to move; he came to stand with her in the door way. Benedetta took the chance to actually look at him in the light above.

He'd changed a lot and not at all from the lanky fifteen year old she knew. Sure, he'd gotten taller and filled out a lot. The most noticeable change though had to be his hair. All of it was completely gone. She noticed when he took his cap off to shake out. In its place were scars. Come to think of it, they marked his head and face. The worst one had to be the cut from his mouth to his left ear. But his personality and most of his mannerisms were the same.

"You're staring pretty hard there," Johnny said.

Etta's eyes immediately met his at the comment and she became aware of just how close he was. In hopes of making space between them, she flattened her back against the opposite side of the doorway. The bricks felt rough to her skin but she had no intentions of being any closer to him or stepping out into the rain.

"I'm sorry about your job," she finally said after a moment of silence. Johnny just waved it off.

"Don't worry about it. I'm more concerned about you. Where have you been? Where are you staying? How are–" She didn't need this, all of his questioning. She was still angry at him for leaving.

"Johnny, don't. This was just a chance meeting. I appreciate you helping me, I really do, but I don't want to catch up or make anything of...this. I have to get going." She'd taken a step out into the alley when he spoke up again.

"I thought you were dead." Etta turned her head back in his direction.

"Well it's natural you would assume so."

He didn't appear to hear her but kept talking, Benedetta assumed, to himself.

"He told me. That bastard _told me_ that he'd already dealt with you, that you were as good as dead. I guess he meant..." he didn't finish that train of thought.

A chill ran down her spine. _He'd dealt with you._ He couldn't be talking about anyone other than him. The man that left her disfigured and brutally murdered her father. Etta wanted to leave even more so now, but forced herself to go back. She took a hold of Johnny's arm to get his attention.

"How did you come into contact with Solomon?"

As far as she knew he and all but one of his men were murdered during a attack somewhere in the woods. Karma worked out perfectly at times.

"Got the jump on his carriage when he was heading between bases. Barely managed to take him and one other guy out before having to get the hell out of dodge. Thank God I ran into Corazon when I did. She..."

Johnny's voice faded as Benedetta began trying to process everything that was just said. He'd killed her father's murder, how she didn't have a clue. It obviously hadn't been easy if the part where he barely escaped gave anything away. Even better he'd come in contact with her mother. Or he could being lying to keep her here. But what of the scars he had? What had he done that might give her reason to doubt him?

Shaking her head as a means to clear her thoughts, she asked him in clearest voice she could manage.

"Do you know where my mother is? Could you contact her?"

His returning grin looked more like a grimace.

"I can do one better. I can take you to her."

* * *

It was half past one o'clock by the time Benedetta returned to Roekel's. She'd quite a bit of time talking to Johnny about her mother, trying to learn anything new. He'd answer some of her questions, others he'd say she'd have to ask for herself.

They both came to an agreement that he would take her after the Reaping finished. The reaping. It still filled her with wariness considering the number of times she'd taken out tesserae in the past two years, but the anticipation of what would occur afterward kept most of the tension she normally felt at bay.

Going down the hall and into her bedroom, she pulled off the veil and tossed onto the floor somewhere behind her before pulling out a pair of jeans from the cabinet. Instead of changing into a shirt she hiked the dress up to her waist and carefully tied it in the back to secure it. After grabbing her jacket and lifted the hood she exited the room.

Now all she had to do was find Roekel and pay him one final time. After searching the first floor, Etta pulled out the five hundred note and headed up the stairs. When she reached the top, she made her way to Keith's bedroom.

The door was left ajar and glancing inside she could see Roekel sitting a chair beside Keith's bed, one hand in both of his. Not wanting to intrude she set her earnings outside the door then headed down the stairs and out the door.

Etta stuck to side streets and alley ways as she made her way to the square. She didn't want to be spotted on the off chance any Sentinel may still being looking for her. In no time at all she was pushing through a crowd gathered under the covering of the bakery and entering the registration line.

After checking in Benedetta made her way to the fourteen year old girl section. Looking around it appeared that most had not dressed appropriately for the weather and were now regretting it; as Mayor Lieber commenced the start of the games with his speech, thunder cracked and the rain that had been tolerable began to fall down in earnest. She was glad for her veil.

His speech was cut short and a video was played in its place. When it was done the escort, Moira MacTaggert, came to take his place at the podium. After a brief introduction the cheerful brunette with her strange accent – odd for even the Capitol – tapped the microphone in front of her.

"Let's get down tae it," she said before reaching into the girls ball to he left of the podium.

Benedetta's hands clinched inside of the pockets of her coat. This was the moment of truth, the only thing standing between her and her mother. Once whoever the unfortunate soul that Moira was about to call for had mounted the stage, her worries would be over.

"Th' young lass representin' District Seven for th' Twenty Foorth Avenger Games is–" she paused long enough to pull out a name and read it, long enough for a nervous sweat to break on Etta's brow. What was she waiting for?

"Benedetta Gaetani!"

Blood rush clouded her hearing, causing everything else to fade into the background. Of course. Of course this would happen when what she wanted most was just in hand's reach. Taking a breath to calm herself, she pulled her jacket tighter around her and stepped from the crowd.

Moira continued after Etta came to stand beside her near the podium. No one volunteered in her place when given the option, which was to be expected.

"Gentlemen, yer turn." Thunder cracked again as she read out the boy's name, allowing only those close to the stage to hear it.

Etta waited as she called for 'James Howlett' again. An all too familiar person stepped from the crowd. At the sight of the burly man memories of the night she wish she could forget came to her, feelings of rough hands restraining her, the heat on her face from the burning carriage...

Benedetta focused her gaze straight ahead, doing her best to ignore the look he gave her when he stood beside her.

Everything else went by in a blur, from the treaty of treason speech to Johnny's visitation in the Justice Building. All too soon she was being ushered out toward the train. Despite Moira's advice, the most she could managed was a small wave.

When the train doors finally shut, Moira whirled on the two of them.

"Next time I tell ye tae smile, do so."

James let out derisive snort and as Moira prepared to return the favour, Benedetta made her way down the train car and into the first vacant room she spotted, shutting and locking the door behind her.


	9. Chapter 8: Love and Loss

**(A/N) Hey all, time for our next update, which has been slightly delayed in order to give enough time for reviews to come through for our previous chapter, which was delayed for legitimate and totally non-alcohol related reasons. This one features the talents of abrokencastiel and bloodbaby1, and I hope you all think it lives up to the very high bar set by our other writers!**

**jd finck: Glad you're enjoying our fic, and I hope you'll keep doing so! One note – all of our named characters **_**are **_**actually based on Marvel characters, some well-known, some lesser-known, but all of them are Marvel through and through! After all, with over 10,000 characters to choose from, any role we're looking for already has someone to fit it!**

**KJAX89: No guesses as to who you're rooting for in the Games, so? Really glad you enjoyed it, and I have no doubt that Canuckle will find a way! Where there's a will, right?**

**TheMetaReborn: It was Scottish indeed! Moira is traditionally Scottish in the comics, though that was kind of washed over in X-Men: First Class. I was more bothered about Banshee, given how few Irish superheroes there are, but oh well…**

**Okay, think I've delayed you all long enough! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Love and Loss**

**District Eight Reaping**

**Written by abrokencastiel &amp; bloodbaby1**

* * *

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"Through humour, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it."_

– Bill Cosby

* * *

"Peter, are you awake?" Aunt May's voice trailed up the stairs and prodded at Peter's ears.

He rolled over and pulled the covers up under his nose, eyes still squeezed shut.

"I expect you down here in five minutes. We need to leave soon and you need to eat some breakfast."

Peter groaned and inched the covers up a little bit more.

_"Peter!"_

"I'm up, I'm up!" Peter slouched forward, the covers still clinging to his shoulders. With a sigh he pushed the warmth down and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He'd slept in quite a while since he wasn't required to be anywhere, a nice reprieve from his usual early schedule at the factory. Sunlight slipped between the blinds and slanted across his bedroom. It would be a beautiful terrible day.

He slipped into a pair of semi-clean pants and a shirt he spotted on top of the laundry pile before speeding down the stairs, following the smell of pancakes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had pancakes.

"Peter Parker, what in the _world_ are you wearing? Are these clothes even clean?" Aunt May stopped him before he could get any food, turning him around and pushing him back toward the stairs. "Go back up there and make yourself look presentable. Put on that white dress shirt and nice pants."

"Aw, Aunt May, I'm _starving_."

"Then hurry!"

Peter rolled his eyes and climbed the stairs again. He managed to find the shirt his aunt had requested at the back of his closet. Not too wrinkled, hopefully she'd be okay with that. The pants were a different story. He must have grown a few inches in the past year. The hem was high and revealed his ankles awkwardly. He sighed and traded out his sneakers with a minimally scuffed pair of loafers. His hair was hopeless bed-head, but he ran his fingers through it in an attempt to make it lie at least a little flatter as he made his way back down the stairs. "Better?" He turned a quick circle and raised his eyebrows at his aunt.

"Better. Though we are going to need to find you a new pair of pants for next year. Maybe I can alter a pair of Ben's old slacks." A sad look crossed her face, but she quickly hid it behind a smile. "I guess I'm feeding you too much if you're growing so fast."

Peter smiled back around a forkful of pancake. His own heart hurt remembering Uncle Ben, especially since he blamed himself for what happened. But he couldn't dwell on it right now. Mentioning his late uncle always made Aunt May sad, and the day was going to be bad enough without that memory.

Only half of his pancake meal was gone when Aunt May glanced at the time with a gasp. "Oh my goodness, is it really that late? Come on."

Peter managed to choke down a final bite and a few gulps of milk before she moved his meal to the fridge and ushered him to the door.

"It will be waiting for you when you get back. Now let's go."

The pair left the small house and walked quickly toward the square. It wasn't often the streets where barren, but no one was in sight. They were definitely going to be the last to arrive.

"It's a good thing we don't live too far away," Aunt May said as they turned the last corner. Up ahead the square was already filled with teens and surrounded by anxious relatives. The sign in table was closing just as Peter and Aunt May arrived.

"Sorry we are so late. I don't move as fast as I used to." Aunt May smiled at the woman who grudgingly took her equipment back out.

"Name?" she said with more than a hint of annoyance.

"Peter. Parker," he added, after a moment. The woman actually looked at him then, her eyes slightly narrow. She motioned and he held out his finger for her to prick and confirm his identity.

The machine beeped and she nodded. "Join the boys."

Peter gave his aunt a quick hug before heading for his area, his hand trailing in hers. He slipped between the boys until he reached his friend, Harry Osborn.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Harry whispered, leaning in Peter's direction.

"Fashionably." Peter looked toward the stage and saw Harry's dad, Norman, seated in the row of people next to the other Victor, Jessica Drew. "Your dad excited for this year?"

"We haven't talked much. He's been too busy making strategic plans or something with Ms Drew." Harry shrugged. "Beginning to think that if I want to see him I'll have to volunteer myself."

The Reaping was well underway, the short movie about the origin of the Games just ending with a final shot of a smiling President Thanos that sent a shiver down Peter's spine. The District 8 Escort, Betty Brant, stepped back up to the microphone. Her purple dress seemed to glow and a large matching flower was stuck in her chin-length brown hair. "President Thanos is always so eloquent. His words always—" she paused, more for effect than searching for a word. "Inspire." She smiled, her eyes wandering the crowd.

Peter scanned the crowd himself until he found the blonde head in the girls' section that was Gwen Stacy. She turned as if feeling his gaze and he waved slightly to get her attention. He grinned when their eyes met and he gave her a thumbs up. Gwen rolled her eyes, looking pointedly at the town square clock, but gave a small smile before turning back to Betty.

"You two seem to be getting along," Harry said, following Peter's gaze.

"Things are going good," Peter whispered back. "She's coming over for dinner later this week to officially meet Aunt May."

"Little early to be making plans, isn't it. You might be reaped."

Peter snorted, but his heart skipped a beat nonetheless.

"Bring out the names!" Betty flourished and four people carried out two giant woven containers and two stands. The basket-like coverings had been woven for the original Games and had been carefully preserved for each subsequent Reaping. Betty maintained a large smile while the stand were situated and the woven covers removed to reveal the glass bowls containing the names. "Now, let's start with the girls." She ruffled her hand through the paper slips. Finally, she removed one and walked back to the microphone.

Peter subconsciously held his breath. Anyone but Gwen. Anyone but her.

"Neena Thurman."

A girl began moving toward the stage as Peter let out the air he'd been holding. "Gwen's safe."

A commotion in the back of the girls' section drew everyone's attention. "Move outta the way!" a different girl ordered. Sentinels tried to stop her, but she quickly fought them off.

"Okay, that's impressive." Harry gave a quick clap that went unnoticed. "She's got guts."

The girl finally broke through. "I volunteer!"

A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd at the sudden revelation.

"I take it back. She's crazy." Harry shook his head and Peter had to say he agreed.

"Well, um, it seems we have a volunteer, everyone! Well come on up here so we can continue on." Betty beckoned the red-headed girl forward.

The girl took a moment with Neena before heading on toward the stage. Her red hair was marked with a white stripe at the bangs that made her very recognizable. They weren't in the same year, but Peter had seen her around.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Anna Marie Adler," the girl informed the escort. "I go by Rogue."

"Whelp, these Games have already gotten interesting," Harry said, talking over the rest of Betty's short interview. "Not only a volunteer, but a volunteer with a nickname already. Good luck Jessica Drew."

Betty finished interviewing Anna and moved on to the boys' bowl. "Now for the gentlemen." Again she dug in the names for agonizing seconds.

Peter had a sudden sinking feeling as her fingers searched. It turned into a hard rock in his stomach when she pulled out a slip. Each step Betty took toward the microphone in her gold heels only made the feeling grow stronger.

"Pete? You okay?" Harry noticed Peter's suddenly pale complexion.

Peter didn't get a chance to answer before Betty unfolded the paper and leaned into the mic. "And our male tribute is–" her lips pursed. "Peter Parker!"

Harry's eyes widened as he looked at his friend. Peter didn't move. He could only stare at Betty.

"Peter?" Betty searched the crowd, trying to pin point the exact location of the tribute.

His feet began carrying him toward the stage. A strange sense of floating and being pulled down by a thousand weights accompanying every step. He somehow made it up the stairs and stood next to Betty.

"What a fine looking young man. Congratulations to both our tributes," she said, smiling between Peter and Anna. Peter's eyes stayed trained on the ground. He didn't want to see Gwen, Harry, or Aunt May. _Not yet._

The assembly ended and Betty led Peter and Anna toward the courthouse. Peter glanced at his fellow tribute and caught her eye. He gave a small smile, but she didn't return it.

"Alright, you two. Meet with your adoring fans! I'll be back to get you soon." Betty ushered each teen into a separate room and Sentinels closed the door.

The room was lavish in comparison to Peter's house. A large desk took up the majority of the space and a large bookshelf was against one wall. A cushy couch sat in front of a picture window and Peter shakily lowered himself on it. He needed to get a hold of himself before anyone came to see him.

What was he going to do? He let his head fall into his hands, his palms pressing into his eyes. Not him, too. He couldn't leave Aunt May like Uncle Ben had. Like his parents had.

The door opened and Peter immediately stood. Aunt May entered, freezing just a few steps into the room. The pair stared at each other a moment. She opened her mouth but closed it again, unable to choke out any words. Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. He hadn't seen her cry since the day Uncle Ben was taken. She was always strong. Peter crossed the room quickly and pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face into her shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while. Aunt May crying quietly and Peter with his eyes squeezed shut. Finally she pulled away and Peter led her to the couch to sit. She ran a shaking hand under her eyes, clearing away the tears.

"Now I expect you home soon."

Peter forced a smile. "And I expect pancakes for dinner."

Aunt May chuckled. "Is that all you can think about? Pancakes?"

"Well, I didn't get to finish mine this morning." Peter regretted the statement as soon as he said it.

"I should have let you eat."

"It's my own fault for waking up so late."

Aunt May patted Peter's knee and smiled slightly. "You never let me take the blame."

Peter took her hand and held it tight. "Of course not. You're perfect."

"Far from it. You put me up on a pedestal. Ben and I tried to raise you right after your parents, but I think that you did more for us. You're such a good boy Peter. Uncle Ben would be proud of you. I'm proud."

The tears in Peter's eyes slipped down his face as the door opened and the Sentinel motioned for Aunt May to leave.

"You come back to me, Peter." The pair stood and she pressed him into another hug, clinging tightly to him. "It's your responsibility." She released him and memorized his face. Peter held up his hand, his ring and middle finger bent, signing, "I love you." Aunt May signed back before leaving the room.

Peter wiped the tears from his eyes as he turned toward the window. He had to keep a hold of himself.

The door opened and Peter heard quick footsteps approaching him. He turned just in time to get a punch in the shoulder by Gwen Stacy.

"Ouch! What was that for?"

"For being an idiot. What are you doing?"

Peter frowned. "Apparently getting abused by a blonde girl."

"No, what are you doing here? Why?"

"I didn't have much of a choice." Peter's face softened.

"Well that's a stupid reason." Gwen paced just out of his reach, wringing her hands. "We're going to have to come up with a good plan. A good strategy. Mr Osborn will be a _great_ mentor. Have you started thinking of a plan?"

"Well, I was mainly planning to not die. The rest is a bit hazy."

"Now is not the time to joke, Peter!" Gwen jabbed a finger in his direction and Peter caught her hand in his.

"It's going to be alright, Gwen." He pulled her close and tucked her head under his chin, her arms trapped between them. Fly-aways of blonde hair tickled his face.

"No it's not," she mumbled into his chest. "You're going into the Games."

"It'll be alright. Trust me." Peter pushed her back and smiled. "I'll be alright."

Gwen searched his face, trying to find any doubt, but Peter maintained his grin. "Promise?"

"I promise."

Gwen's mouth set and her eyebrows knit together. "I'm going to hold you to that. If you don't come back I'm going to kill you."

"I know what's bothering you," Peter said in an overly serious voice. "You think that because I'm gone Aunt May won't make you dinner."

"Yes that's exactly it." Gwen rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Not the fact this might be the last time I'll see you."

"I knew it." Peter shook his head and sighed. "You were only using me to get to my aunt's delicious food. I guess you'll just have to take my spot. I'm sure if you ask nicely she'll be able to make you a little something."

The unasked request got through to Gwen. "I'll visit her all the time. Make sure she's okay."

The door opened and Gwen glanced back at the waiting Sentinel. She turned to go, but Peter pulled her back, spun her around, and planted a kiss on her lips. Her arms went around his neck after only a moment's hesitation and he hugged her closer. They only broke apart when the Sentinel gave a warning.

"Can you at least give me a little smile? Like you're going to see me again?" Peter called as Gwen walked away.

She turned and walked backward, a smile plastered to her face that didn't reach her shinning eyes. "I'll see you soon."

Peter was left alone again. He sank back to the couch, a real smile on his face. At least he got to do that once.

Harry was the next visitor. He came in and joined Peter on the couch quickly. "My dad is going to get you through this. Just do what he says, whatever he says. He's good with people and I'm sure he can get you a bunch of sponsors. Just lay low and...What are you grinning about?"

"Gwen came to see me. We kissed." Peter leaned back, his hands behind his head.

Harry sighed in exasperation. "I'm glad that this experience is going to well for you."

"Turns out my inevitable death is great for moving relationships forward."

Harry's smile faltered and he looked down at his hands. A silence fell between them. They looked anywhere but at each other. They'd been friends since Harry had stood up for Peter against Flash Thompson back in grade school. They always joked that Peter would have died early if Harry hadn't stepped in.

Outside Peter could hear the district. Everyone was going about their own lives now, ignoring the fact that two of their own were probably going to die. He had done the same thing himself every year until now. He'd forgotten the kids, some of them younger than himself, almost the instant they'd been Reaped.

Peter stood and began walking aimlessly around the room. He didn't want to be forgotten. He'd seen it happen many times, not only with tributes, but with his parents after they went missing and Uncle Ben after the Sentinels took him. No one ever asked what happened to Uncle Ben. They acted as if nothing had happened. As if he'd never existed.

A letter opener sat on the desk and Peter grabbed it. The bookcase offered him a way to the ceiling.

"_What_ are you doing?" Harry moved to steady the swaying bookshelf as Peter swiftly climbed.

Peter balanced precariously, a knee on top of the bookcase and his other leg wrapped into a shelf. The letter opener easily carved into the wood panelling next to the ceiling: Peter Parker was here. In a few weeks he would probably be forgotten like all the other tributes, but at least the panelling would remember him. He slipped down the side of the case and landed lightly on the balls of his feet next to Harry.

"Vandalism?" Harry raised his eyebrows.

"My last act as a free man." Peter grinned cockily despite his darker thoughts. Eventually Harry and Gwen would move on with their lives. Aunt May needed to move on, too. Even though she wouldn't have Peter to keep her smiling any more.

"Hey, Harry?" He waited until his friend looked at him. "Take care of my Aunt May for me, alright?"

"You don't have to ask, Pete."

The door opened and Peter walked Harry out. They embraced tightly and shortly before they parted. This time the door didn't close. The Sentinel simply blocked the exit.

"You come here often?" Peter asked him, peering over the man's shoulder.

The Sentinel didn't answer.

"Okay, slow down there, Chatty Cathy. Just a question." Peter's joke didn't even earn a glance.

Betty appeared in the hallway and the Sentinel grabbed Peter's arm to move him to the Escort.

"Thanks for the help, I might not have made it without you," Peter said dryly, rubbing his arm when the man let go.

"Alright you two! Let's get going, shall we?" Betty led the way and Peter and Anna followed closely behind, the Sentinels bringing up the rear. They went out the back exit from the courthouse

The train was waiting for them at the station and a small crowd had gathered to see them off. Sentinels didn't let them get too close. Peter managed to catch sight of blonde hair before he was hustled on-board. He pushed past Anna and Betty into a main compartment with windows facing the station where he could see Aunt May standing with Gwen, the girl holding the older woman's hands tightly. Peter pressed a hand to the glass as the train pulled away, hoping they could see through the tinted windows.

"Come here and meet your mentors. May I present to you Norman Osborn and Jessica Drew!" Betty clapped while Peter and Anna simply stared. "Of course, Ms Drew will be Anna's mentor and Mr Osborn will take Peter."

"Hello, Peter." Norman shook Peter's hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry to see you in this situation."

"I know I'm in good hands." Peter smiled.

"Now, let's go enjoy a good meal. I'm sure you two are famished after such a long day." Betty began heading for a different car.

"What about preparin' for the Games? Isn't that important?" Anna said, her arms crossed.

"Afterwards we will begin working on strategy," Norman assured. "For now, I suggest we take a moment to relax. You two are going to need all of your strength and wits about you."

Anna didn't seem too happy about the idea of 'relaxing' even though it sounded like a great idea to Peter. There were going to be no breaks after this and he was exhausted. Not to mention starving. The image of the pancakes in his fridge back home made his heart hurt. He would come back. He had to taste those pancakes at least once more. Besides, he'd made promises he had to keep.

* * *

**Anna Marie Adler of District Eight**

**Written by bloodbaby1**

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"_Boredom is the conviction that you can't change...the shriek of unused capacities." _

― Saul Bellow, _The Adventures of Augie March_

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Anna Marie had watched the Avenger Games go on for her entire life. At first, not liking how people had to kill each other in order to survive, the Games had terrified her, and the thought mere thought of ever having to compete was enough to make her sick. Anna Marie had long brown hair and green eyes, and for most of her childhood she was a sheltered child. No evil came her way, and no boy was allowed to get close to her. As time went by and Anna grew up she consistently got into fights with her father, and ultimately ended up running away from home after her father caught her kissing a boy, threatening to end his life if he ever came near her again.

After running away, Anna ran into a woman named Irene Adler – Irene initially didn't want to have anything to do with Anna, and tried to return her to her parents. When the two showed up at her family's home, it was discovered that her parents had been killed in an explosion at the clothing factory just a few days before. Anna had lost everything in one fell swoop, and in that moment she didn't know what else to do but to cry. Seeing Anna on her knees crying, Irene sighed heavily and reluctantly took Anna into her home as her adopted daughter. It wasn't long before Irene taught Anna how to fend for herself in the world. Irene was aware that the Avenger Games could pick any child at random and with her still in the age range to be picked, Irene at least wanted to give her a fighting chance. Over the next few years Anna grew up to be strong – however, Irene still viewed her as that little brat she ran into on the street. In the end, Anna had become Irene's daughter, and was no longer the sheltered innocent and frightened girl she used to be...

Now Anna was all grown up – she was eighteen, and at the moment she was being rudely awakened by Irene. Anna groaned at the cold water being spilled over her.

"Irene!" she squealed.

She jumped up off of the bed, throwing the covers at her mother.

"What is_ wrong_ with you? I swear that water gets colder each time you throw it! Why can't you just wake me up like a normal human bein'?" Anna complained.

"Because you would never get up if I did."

"Ugh, we go through this same argument e'vry mornin'" Anna groaned, getting out of bed.

"That's because you start it," Irene said, heading for the door.

Anna stuck her tongue out of her mouth. Irene hadn't seen it because her back was turned at the moment, but they really had gone through the same argument since she started living with her.

When Anna made it to the kitchen Irene asked, "What are you going to do today?"

"What do you mean? Today's the Reapin', remember?"

"You'll never get picked for that, plus it's your last year to be a part of it," Irene pointed out.

Anna shrugged her shoulders,

"There's nothin' to do. I've spent week after week layin' upside down from my bed tryin' to think of places to go and people to see. I've pretty much seen them all."

"I doubt that."

Anna gave her mother a look that said she had no idea. Anna had been fired from two jobs in the past eight months. Her inability to tolerate 'stupidity', as she put it, didn't make her the best employee. With nothing to do, she spent her weeks walking around the district looking at the same things and talking to the same people. The only good thing about that was her time spent with Neena. They were pretty close, but even they went through the same routines day in and day out. Whenever she encountered Remy, he'd hit on her like always and it seemed like he was running out of original pick-up lines to use. Most of the time she could finish his sentence before he did. Bobby was much better, but they didn't get much of a chance to hang out lately. Bobby had to work, and as a result they were almost always missing each other. The only time they really got a chance to talk was when he passed her on the street while she was going to pick up Irene from work. Even then they didn't get much time to have a private friend-to-friend chat.

"Why don't you go hang out with Neena?" Irene said.

"Why suggest that when you know that's what I'm gonna do anyway? Seriously, if I don't find something different to do in the next few hours I just might shoot myself."

Irene looked at Anna. "That's not funny."

"Is it ever really?" Anna said, scrunching her eyebrows in an irritated look.

Irene picked up the keys to their home and motioned for Anna to leave. She was in the habit of locking her out of the house so that she'd go somewhere to do something, but anytime she and Neena had to part ways she found herself back at home, breaking and entering. Irene knew it was pointless, but she kept it locked up for other obvious reasons.

Irene and Anna walked down the sidewalk passing familiar faces on the street. They stopped by the store to pick up some bread; Anna ate it every time she went to meet Irene at her job. She looked around at the same buildings and felt a little part of her dying inside. She wanted the colour of the building to change, she wanted them to be different sizes, she wanted to be anywhere else but District Eight. She hated every inch of the place, and if she could just go somewhere else and see other places she would be satisfied, she'd be content, at least for a while.

As they were walking she saw Remy hail them with a quick wave of his hand.

"Hello, Cher," Remy said, bowing his head a little towards her as he walked up to her.

Anna smiled and said, "Hi Remy!"

"Where are you ladies off to now?"

"The Reapin' is today, remember?"

Remy laughed taking a hand out of his pocket and grabbing the bottom of her chin as he said, "I wouldn't know Cher, Remy ain't never been picked durin' a Reapin'. Besides, I'm of age now so they can't touch me. Good thing too, gave me a chance to find you."

Anna laughed and swatted his hand away from her face.

"Boy, you really are the charmer, ain't you?" she said sarcastically.

"You dah only girl dat eva resisted Remy's charm, Cher. It won't last long."

"You wanna bet?" Anna said, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

Remy just smiled and turned around, as he was walking away he said, "Dey don't call me Gambit for nothin', Cher."

Anna rolled her eyes but couldn't help but smile at Remy's constant antics. _It really is like every day is the same as the one before it, _Anna thought. Her mind was deep in thought about how boring the life in District Eight was. Aside from the occasional chat with Remy and his persistence to get her to fall in love with him, everything was the same. It wasn't long before Bobby walked up to her.

"Hey Bobby!" she said.

Bobby stopped and smiled at her.

"Hey Rogue, Irene. How are you?" he asked, using the nickname Irene gave her after she ran away from home.

"Good, thanks," Irene replied.

"Same as usual," Anna said, her tone hinted that she wasn't too thrilled about that.

"Good, I think." Bobby smiled.

Irene smiled at him gently and Rogue smiled back. It wasn't long before their quiet little moment slipped away from them. The horn for the Reaping sounded, and Bobby and Irene looked in the direction from where the sound was coming from. Bobby looked like he was worried, like he felt that this year he could be picked for the Games. Rogue's arms were crossed before her chest and she sported an arrogant smile. Bobby shook his head but Rogue walked ahead of him, he followed behind worried. Irene watched as she walked behind the two of them. After submitting themselves to the yearly blood test by the Sentinels, everyone seemed to line up in perfect order waiting to find out what was going to happen. A woman walked out from the large door in front of them, she was dressed in expensive clothing some of which Rogue recognized was made from her district. Despite being the district that makes the clothing for the Sentinels, they also sent some other clothing out to the higher districts. She was wearing a brilliant orange dress that had an ombré to it, turning into a summer yellow sort of colour. She wasn't very attractive; in fact to Rogue, the make-up they added on her face made her seem more pale and ugly then she already was.

_They shoulda just left her without make up,_ she thought to herself.

A small grin wiped across Rogue's face as she looked at the woman speaking in the microphone. She was finally done introducing herself to the people, she called out for the baskets for the Reaping.

Now with them all set in place Betty said, "Now let's start with the girls."

She walked over to a clear plastic bowl with white cards in them; her fingers danced around the cards a little before she grabbed one and picked it up. She walked back over to the microphone to tell everyone which female tribute would be in this year's Avenger Games. Every female and every parent were waiting for the moment to be over, praying that the name that was called wasn't them or one of their children. Their hearts were pounding so fast it was almost like the few seconds that she took to open the card and read the name was an eternity spent waiting.

She finally read aloud, "Neena Thurman."

_Damn,_ Rogue thought almost biting her tongue down. Part of her really wanted to be the name in that card.

She was friends with Neena, and everyone turned to Neena as she slowly walked out to the isle. Betty was waving her up to the stage happily but Neena was moving slowly. Anna's stomach was in knots; she was partly just hoping everything that was happening to her friend at the moment was just a dream. She looked down at her feet and unconsciously brought her thumb up to her mouth so she could bite on her nail. She had spent some time thinking about how Neena would survive the Avenger Games, and knew that only luck would keep her alive, or at least get her out of the situation. She then realized what she could do for Neena.

Rogue sighed and stood up straight, pushing past everyone and yelling, "Wait! Move outta the way!"

She finally made it out to the isle and saw Neena; she was running up to her and the Sentinels interfered, stopping her in her path, but let her through after a subtle nod from the district's escort. Neena, hearing the commotion, had turned around and saw what Rogue had done with surprised eyes. Rogue ran up to Neena and yelled, "I volunteer!" She sounded kind of pissed off, even to her own ears.

Neena looked back at Rogue and gasped, shocked by her statement. The Sentinels calmed down and Betty exhaled, looking surprised. Rogue briefly wondered what she thought her chances in the Avenger Games would be like.

"Well, um, it seems we have a volunteer, everyone! Well come on up here so we can continue on."

Rogue nodded to her but turned to Neena first. Neena looked at her in disbelief but also couldn't hide her relief. Rogue smiled and grabbed her forearm, and Neena mimicked the action knowing it was their own special way of saying goodbye. Rogue wrapped her hand around the back of her head and hugged her friend.

"Thank you, you didn't need to do this," Neena whispered.

"No problem, I _choose_ to do this," Rogue said, winking at her as she turned away to walk up the stage.

Irene clenched her teeth when she heard Rogue volunteer in place of Neena. This was the last year, her _last year_, and she wouldn't have been involved in the random picking of the Avenger Games anymore. Irene inwardly admitted to herself why she was so pissed off that Rogue volunteered herself into the Games: she loved her. She hated that she had grown on her so much that she had actually felt lonely now, knowing that her daughter was facing a high possibility of dying in the games.

The pain she was feeling was matched by Bobby's when he watched her walk up on the stage next to the microphone. His best friend, and secret crush, was now a part of a televised event that meant the losers would have to die. He looked away from the stage, pissed off at her and found his eyes falling on Irene who was some distance away. Irene's arms were crossed and she seemed unamused but if she was that angry at the decision that Rogue made, why did she let Rogue make it? Why didn't she interfere and tell her to shut up? She could've stayed if they had just done something.

While all of this was going on in his head, Rogue was asked by Betty to give her her name. Rogue said into the mic, "Anna Marie Adler. I go by Rogue."

There was a hint of attitude and disdain at the last part of her sentence, especially when she said her nickname and shot darts at Betty with her eyes, who simply laughed again and said, "Oh my, well, everyone, let's give Rogue a hand for volunteering as a tribute this year."

The woman clapped her hands together smiling still not realizing that she was in quite possibly the tensest environment ever. Rogue had her arms crossed and rolled her eyes at her failed attempt to get people excited about the Games. Betty moved on and headed for the next bowl that was on the other side of the stage. Once again her fingers flurried around the bowl touching almost every card until she was satisfied that she had chosen the right one. She picked it up and headed over to the microphone again and unfolded the card.

She spoke into the microphone. "Peter Parker."

There seemed to be no movement from the boy's side prompting Betty to call out his name again. Young Parker walked out from the boy's side of the area. He headed up to the stage and the woman sighed satisfied that that was over. She smiled again and said,

"Congratulations to our tributes."

"Well, shall we?" She said, raising her hand to the door behind them.

Rogue turned around and followed Betty, but as she did she took one last look back at Bobby and Irene. Rogue had noticed Peter had looked her way and smiled at her, but part of her brain was still processing the decision she had made, so she didn't return it. She figured maybe she'd apologize for her behaviour later, but for now she was realizing what she was about to do.

_Yeah, I am an idiot, _Rogue thought.

It wasn't long before Betty ushered Rogue and Peter into their separate rooms of the Justice Building. Rogue whistled at the beauty of the room.

"Didn't think I'd get the royal treatment for this," Rogue said.

The door opened and Irene, Bobby, Neena, and Remy walked through. Rogue looked back and when she saw the expression on Bobby's face, she looked down like a child that might be in trouble. Fitting, considering she was in a lot of trouble not just with her friends and family but with the Games as well.

"What the hell were you _thinking,_ Anna?" Irene said.

"I was thinkin' that Neena was too young to be in these Games."

"And so what, you thought you'd be a hero?" Bobby asked, furious.

"Bobby calm down," Rogue said, putting her hands up.

"Relax Bobby, she made dis choice on her own, she's a fighta. Unless you worried she ain't gonna win," Remy said teasingly, while his arm was wrapped around his neck.

Bobby forced Remy up off of him and walked away to the other side of the room saying, "Of course I'm worried she won't win. If she doesn't, she dies. It may be called the 'Avenger Games' but it's not a _game_ – this a competition where you almost literally face death and she _voluntarily_ decided to get in the ring with him. This isn't a smart choice, Anna, even for you."

"I believe in you, Cher," Remy said with a cocky smile.

Remy walked up to her and gave her a hug, he kissed her on the forehead but that was as far as his lips were able to reach before Irene grabbed him by the collar of his coat and pulled him away from her.

Remy just smiled with a laugh and said, "Oh yea', forgot dat you were still 'ere."

Rogue looked at Irene; she looked like an angry queen. Neena walked up to Rogue and grabbed her hand, tears were almost in her eyes. The burn mark that surrounded her left eye was the reason Rogue and Neena knew each other. Neena was around the area when the explosion that killed her parents happened. She was taken in by an uncle of hers but they kept in contact during the years.

"Words can't express how I feel Rogue," Neena said.

Rogue smiled. "I think that's best, to be honest, Neena. If you weren't picked I think I would've taken the place of whoever _was_ picked instead," she lied.

"What? _Why?_" Bobby shot at her.

"Rogue what exactly were you thinking?" Irene finally spoke up.

Rogue looked at her mother and said, "I was thinkin' about how _normal_ this entire place is. How the hell did being in separate districts with no idea what the rest of the world was like become normal? I'm so sick of this district and of the Sentinels and of the same damn routine every day. I want adventure in my life. I want to do somethin' _different_."

"Then take a different route to work, say hello to different people, watch the sunset! Don't volunteer for an event that has no guarantee of you returning to us alive," Bobby said, upset.

The door opened and the Sentinels said, "Time to go, everyone."

Neena looked back and gave Rogue a smile.

Remy bowed his head and said, "Good luck, Cher."

The two were out the door and Irene was headed behind them to give Bobby his last few moments with her.

"Ire– Mom," Rogue said.

Irene stopped and turned to Rogue. "The moment you volunteered, I knew why. Seeing it in your eyes just now, I've accepted that you made this decision on your own. I've taught you enough to survive, so you better come back home to me, Anna, or I won't forgive you."

With nothing left to say, Irene turned around and walked out. Bobby walked over to stand in front of her now. His fists were clenched and his face was tight with anger. She could tell how angry he was at her. Rogue felt bad for doing this to him but she really was tired of the same daily routine in her life; even if this cost her her life she was willing to do it just to see a different scenery. She didn't like how pathetic of an excuse that was, more so because it wasn't going to be enough to comfort Bobby.

All she could really say was, "Bobby, I'm sorry."

Bobby was silent for a moment then he swallowed and said, "What if you don't come back? What if something happens to you out there and you don't come back, what am I supposed to do then? See, you may hate the continuing normal routine of your everyday life but some people...some people like me live for that."

"But Bobby, I don't!" she said cutting him off.

"I'm not finished!" he yelled.

Rogue straightened up startled but his shouting.

"I look forward to that because every day that means I get to see you."

Rogue narrowed her eyes on Bobby, her eyebrows lowered, showing her pain for what Bobby said.

"Every day I looked forward to seeing you on your way to meet Irene at her job. Every day I look forward to seeing that smile and hearing your voice. You made this decision for yourself – I get that – but you didn't for once think about anyone else that cares about you, and how we might feel, much less me. Since knowing you, I can't imagine my life without you, and now I'm about to find out exactly what that's like and it makes me sick."

"Bobby."

"Shut up. Just _shut up_," Bobby said.

His rage somehow calmed down. Bobby walked over to her and placed his hands on her face, and he looked her in the eyes. Rogue could feel hear heart beating fast; she never knew she could feel like that. She didn't even know why she felt like that. Bobby placed his lips over hers in a kiss that nearly suffocated her. He loved her, he loved her too much to let her go but he had to. He just couldn't let her leave without letting her know how he's felt about her all these years. If she did die, at the very least that would be one thing he wouldn't regret. When he pulled away from her, he saw tears form and fall from her eyes as she inhaled air to breathe again. Bobby didn't stay because the door opened again and the Sentinel called him to get out.

"I love you, Rogue," he said, looking back at her.

Rogue had fallen to her knees, her hands touching her heart; she wanted so desperately to repeat those words to him, but she was having a difficult timing speaking. By the time she was able to think properly again Bobby was long gone – along with the rest of her family that had come to spend there last few moments with her. Betty took both Anna and Peter out of their rooms, and led them to the train. She watched as Peter pushed passed them to get on the train and look out the window. She saw him press his hand against the window and wondered who he was looking at. Betty introduced them to Norman Osborne and Jessica Drew – their mentors for the Games, and informed them that Norman would be Peter's mentor and Jessica Anna's.

However, her thoughts remained for a moment on the boy with his hands pressed up against the frosty glass window, and she bit down her sadness, turning away from the past and to her mentor, eager for the new life ahead of her.


	10. Chapter 9: Grim Reapers

**(A/N) We're back, with our Tuesday night chapter for In the End, You Always Kneel! We're at the District Nine Reaping now – boy, hasn't time just flown by – and this one features the creative talents of the wonderful Ophelia Lokisdottir and the incredible Tando! **

**Vengeful Vixens: Thanks for the reviews, delighted that you're enjoying the fic so far! I particularly appreciate the description of Pepper, as a guy with a "psycho redhead" girlfriend (btw, she'll be writing in this fic with the pen name InDeepDarkWood, so let's hope she forgets to read this one)! As for Silver Fox, we decided to use Kayla Silverfox from the Origins film as her real name, with the Silver Fox as her in-Games nickname, as we're trying to avoid some of the crazier names. For example, you might just see a nod to Drax the Destroyer in this chapter, but what mother in her right mind would name her child that?! Thankfully, most comic book characters have aliases, and we'll be using some of those.**

**TheMetaReborn: Well, we can't claim the idea as our own, alas. Long before this fic, before I had even set us this collab, I took part in a Hunger Games collaboration by 24tributes24authors – as did JGrayzz, our writer for District One's Elektra Natchios, and Alex, one of our moderators! While the fic – Bring Them to Their Knees – was sadly left unfinished, I did get to take my character, Erik Fiske, to the fullness of his storyline, and I had a great time writing it. Long story short, it directly inspired me to start up this fic – but yes, no one, not even me right now, knows who's going to win this thing!**

**Whew, those were two long replies! Going to leave you to it so!**

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**Chapter Nine – Grim Reapers**

**District Nine Reaping**

**Written by Ophelia Lokisdottir &amp; Tando**

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**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Lokisdottir**

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_"__We all have a personal pool of quicksand inside us where we begin to sink and need friends and family to find us and remind us of all the good that has been and will be."_

– Regina Brett

* * *

It was the dread in the pit of his stomach that woke Kurt that morning. The feeling was heavy and cold. It seemed to be sinking through his gut, weighing him down and pulling him into the mattress. He did not get up right away. He didn't think he _could_ get up right away. He lay on his back, his eyes tracing along a crack in the ceiling. Over and over, along the fractured lines. Eventually, he found himself on his feet, shedding his pyjamas and tugging on pants and a sweater. Margali would make him change for the Reaping, but for now...

On his way to the front door, he passed the twins' room. He eased the door open and peeked in. Amanda and Stefan were sleeping peacefully, unaware of the depth behind the Reaping. It was only their first year, after all. Kurt, now fifteen, had been through it three times. He paused in the kitchen, snagging an apple from the bowl on the counter. The Wagners were not rich, but they weren't struggling, either. Kurt and Margali worked in District Nine's main industry – wheat production. Kurt spent his time out in the fields with a scythe in his hand, while Margali worked in the factories. With both of them bringing a decent income, the family was comfortable.

There would have been three incomes, had the twins' father not been absent. He'd disappeared before they'd been born, leaving a very-pregnant Margali to take care of the recently-adopted Kurt. No one knew who he was. _Margali_ barely remembered him. She had kept no pictures of the man. "If he didn't want to stay in our household then he doesn't deserve a place in our household," she had told her children on many occasions. Kurt was proud of his mother for moving on from the man. He didn't deserve her attention.

Kurt closed the front door quietly and jumped down the steps of the small house. He took a bite of the apple as he wandered towards the wheat fields. A gentle fog had settled upon the streets, echoing the feeling of the sombre day. He felt as though the mist had invaded his body, slowing his mind processes to a crawl. He was dreading the Reaping, yet he felt distanced. The fear was there, but it lurked quietly in the back of his mind instead of attacking his every thought.

The silence was broken by a gentle rustling. The nutty, rich smell of wheat drifted up his nostrils as he tossed his apple core away into the grass on the side of the road. His solid footsteps turned to crunches as the cracked pavement turned to dirt and gravel under his feet. He followed the path through the sprawling wheat fields almost to the district edge. He could see the tree line beyond the tall chain-link fence. It looked weak, but Kurt knew it was positively crackling with electricity. One lone tree sat on his side of the fence. Nearly thirty feet tall and dense with foliage, it towered over the surrounding landscape.

Kurt approached the base and with a swift, fluid motion, he jumped, caught the lowest branch and swung his legs up and over. He pulled himself higher and higher until he was two-thirds of the way up, then perched on a branch. He blew out a long breath. The land around him was brushed in gold as the sun began to climb higher in the sky, burning away the fog. Past the shimmering fields, he could see the shapes of the buildings in the centre of town. The roof of the Justice Building was recognizable, along with several grain factories. No smoke rose from the tall pipes today. His eyes lazily roved across the horizon, taking in the colours of the landscape.

"Kurt!" The sound of a girl's voice snapped him out of his reverie. He nearly fell from the tree, skilfully latching onto his branch as he slipped.

"Kitty?" he called down as he slithered down through the branches. The sun was much higher in the sky. He wasn't late to the Reaping, was he? He would be killed.

He dropped to the ground in front of Katherine 'Kitty' Pryde, his lifelong friend. Her brown hair was pulled back in a curled ponytail and though she wasn't outright smiling at the moment, she always seemed to look pleased. She was one of the happiest people Kurt had ever met, and it seemed not even Reaping Day could put a damper on her mood.

"Am I late?" Kurt asked hurriedly.

Kitty waved a hand. "Nah, you got plenty of time. I came to find you because your mom's looking for you." Kurt glanced down at his clothes and was instantly thankful that he hadn't put his Reaping clothes on earlier. His sweater was stuck through with pine needles and sap clung to the fibres from his unplanned descent.

"Thanks, Kitty." Kitty began walking backwards back the way she'd come.

"Hey, Kurt...raceyouback!" she yelled quickly as she took off down the path. Kurt let out a yell of laughter and raced after her.

* * *

"_Ow!_ Mom..." Kurt yelped as his mother pulled a comb through his dark, curly hair. "It's not gonna lie flat, you know! This is – _ow!_ – making it worse!" Margali finally abandoned the comb job.

"I just want you to look your best," she said ruefully.

"I look _fine_, Mom!" Kurt said, picking up the black dress shirt hanging from the back of his chair. He shrugged it on and did up the buttons. "What about the twins? Are they ready?"

As if in answer to his question, Amanda bounced into the room, sky-blue dress fluttering around her knees. Her blonde hair was curled, falling in gentle waves over her shoulders and held in place with a dark blue ribbon. She grinned at Kurt.

"How do I look?" she chirped, bringing a smile to Kurt's face, though it was tinged with sadness.

"Like a princess," he said playfully. "So your brother must be a prince."

"No I'm not!" a voice yelled from the other room. "I don't wanna wear this! It itches!"

Stefan stomped into the dining room, a scowl marring his face and one hand tugging irritably at the dark blue bow tie around his neck, the same shade as Amanda's ribbon. "It itches and I don't wanna wear it," he repeated sullenly.

"Ah, but you look so handsome, Prince Stefan!" Kurt joked, causing the boy's lip to jut out even further in a pout.

"Here, Kurt, I found this for you," said his mother, holding out a dark red waistcoat.

Kurt pulled it on and admired the way it contrasted his black shirt and pants as the family headed for the door.

* * *

As they neared the centre of town, they joined the throng of families flowing sluggishly through the streets. When they finally made it to the square in front of the Justice Building, Margali kissed each of her children on the head and joined the crowd of parents beginning to line the square. Kurt guided his siblings toward the twelve-year-olds' line before joining Kitty and the other fifteen-year-olds. The children oozed forward, checking in with the Sentinel officers and then lining up in the cordoned off areas for each age group.

Kurt scanned the stage. There were the dreaded glass balls, filled with tiny slips of paper. Goosebumps erupted on Kurt's skin just looking at them. He forced himself to look away, focusing his attention on the occupants of the stage. Four men sat in a row of chairs. The mayor sat on the end. To his left were District Nine's mentors. Kurt's gaze lingered on the first man a little longer than the others. The man was ridiculously muscled, skin dyed grey by Capitol surgeons and decorated with intricate red tattoos. Kurt could barely remember his Games, ten years earlier, but what had happened afterward had made him infamous throughout the district.

Before the Games, he'd been Arthur Douglas, an eighteen-year-old tribute with a fiancée waiting for his return. He'd racked up an impressive twelve kills, setting a Games record. He'd returned victorious, and he and his wife soon after had a daughter. The family had been happy for a few years until Douglas had refused to aid the Capitol (in what, it had never been made clear, but many suspected that the Capitol had attempted to recruit him as a mercenary) and his wife and daughter had been slaughtered by the Sentinel forces, sending the man spiralling into depression, often broken by violent rages. With nothing to quell the anger burning inside him, however, the man had become reckless and shunned by the inhabitants of Ten. He had taken on his Games moniker in an attempt to regain people's attention, but it had failed.

The other victor, Erik Lensherr, was older by a decade or so, the winner of the second Games. Many unexpected events had followed his participation in the games – he had been an underdog, expected to go out in the first day or so, and the next year he had formed a friendship with the victor of the third Games.

The mayor rose from his chair and the low murmurs of conversation died away as he stepped up to the microphone. He began to speak about the games, about the honour of competition, something something... Kurt let his eyes drift away from the mayor to the bright colours of the Capitol escort, Robert Kelly. His coiffed hair was a dusty green and his suit was black, adorned with tiny green gems that caught the sun and flashed whenever he shifted in his seat. He had a beard – really more stubble than a full beard – dyed to match his hair and shaved in sharp, crisp lines that arced up to touch his cheekbones. When the mayor finished his speech, Kelly rose and strode over to take the mayor's place in front of the microphone.

"Welcome, everyone!" His Capitol accent was not nearly as thick as some that Kurt had heard, but it was there, and it grated on Kurt's ears. He shuddered as the man continued talking.

"Before we begin, I'd like to show you a wonderful film that the Capitol has provided us!" Kurt nearly left then and there. He would almost rather die than watch the inane propaganda _again._ Once was one time too many. He glanced across the aisle at the fourteen-year-old girls and sought out Kitty's face. She was looking at him too. Kurt crossed his eyes and faked a gag. Kitty stifled a snicker before snapping back to the front as the film came to a close.

"Beautiful, as always," gushed Kelly. "Let's not waste any time, shall we?" He reached for the first glass ball. "Ladies first, shall we?"

He rifled around in the girls' bowl before pulling out a slip of paper. "Wanda Maximoff!" Kurt, like everyone else, glanced toward the sixteen-year-old girl section. A pair of Sentinels were escorting a brunette toward the stage. The girl was regarded in the district as a little crazy, to be quite frank.

Kurt watched the brunette climb the steps to the stage. His mouth was dry and his palms were wet. His heart began beating double time as Kelly made his way leisurely over to the second bowl. Kelly rifled around in the receptacle, his fingers disappearing in the scraps of paper. Finally, he plucked one out and sauntered back over to the microphone, unfolding it delicately. Kurt tried to swallow the lump rising in his throat. It felt like a boulder was inching down his windpipe.

"And our male tribute is... Kurt Wagner!" All around Kurt, there was a rushing sound as the boys let out the breaths they had been holding.

_Not Kurt._

Kurt suddenly found himself unable to breathe at all. Unable to even move. Someone tugged on his arm, prompting him to stumble into the aisle. His feet carried him slowly up to the steps and he climbed them in a daze. Muffled words reached his ears and he looked up. The Maximoff girl was holding out a hand. Kurt reached out and shook it once before letting his hand drop to his side as he turned out to face the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you your tributes of the twenty fourth annual Avenger Games!" There was a slight ripple in the crowd as a few people gave a couple half-hearted claps. Kurt felt a hand on his shoulder and then he was being steered into the Justice Building.

He was led to a small room containing a worn couch and a desk and chair. He sank into the couch, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. Kurt hugged his knees to his chest as he began to shake, fighting back tears. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing his mother clutching the twins' hands. The three of them rushed into the room and Margali swept her eldest son into her arms. The floodgates broke, and Kurt began sobbing into his mother's shoulder. He felt small arms wrap around his waist and dropped his arm to enclose his siblings in the hug. The family just stood in an embrace for a couple minutes, taking in one another's touch before they were separated- likely permanently. That new realization brought on a fresh wave of tears for Kurt – _he was probably never going to see his family again._ They'd only see him when his body was brought back to them for a funeral.

Margali unfolded her arms but didn't let go of her son's shoulders, holding him in front of her and gazing into his eyes.

"Kurt, sweetheart...I love you so much. You know that. I believe in you, my little one." She cupped his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, wiping away the wet tracks that lined the boy's face. Kurt wrapped his arms around her again before he felt a tugging on his sleeve.

"Kurt, you hafta take something with you," said Amanda in a trembling voice. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and held it out. "Will you wear this for me?" Stefan untied his bow tie and held out the strip of fabric.

"No, I want him to take mine!" Kurt pushed up his sleeves and held out one arm out to each child.

"I'd be honoured to wear both of them." The twins set about wrapping the fabric around Kurt's wrists and up his arms before tying it in messy knots. When they were finished, Kurt was assaulted by bear hugs from both sides. "_Ooof!_" He wrapped one arm around each of his siblings.

The door to the room swung open, revealing a Sentinel officer. "I'm sorry. Time's up." She did sound genuinely apologetic. Kurt kissed the tops of the twins' heads and then his mother's cheek before receiving one from each. They were ushered out and Kurt was expecting to be alone, but to his surprise, Kitty Pryde practically flew into the room and crashed into him, wrapping her arms around him.

"Why did it have to be you?" she said, her voice a half-sob. "I don't want you to go!" Kurt returned the hug.

"I know...believe me, I don't want to go either. But I can't _not_ go. At least I have a chance." Suddenly, the reality of the situation came crashing down on Kurt again. He was trembling and his breaths came in short gasps.

"Kitty – I don't…think…I can do this..." he choked, tears springing to his eyes. Kitty adjusted her hold on the boy, moving one hand up to the back of his head, which he buried in her shoulder. Kurt locked his arms around his friend and sobbed into the sleek fabric of her yellow dress. He didn't think he had any more tears left, but he darkened the fabric on Kitty's shoulder. A wetness on his collar told him that Kitty was doing the same thing. Finally, they broke apart when the Sentinel officer re-entered the room.

"I have faith in you," Kitty said quietly before she was ushered out the door. A second officer escorted Kurt out of the Justice Building and to the train station, where a sleek Capitol engine waited for them. He and Wanda were led towards an open door. Kurt saw his family standing near the platform and raised a hand before he was led up the steps and the door hissed shut behind him.

* * *

**Wanda Maximoff of District Nine**

**Written by Tando**

* * *

"_I finally figured out that not every crisis can be managed. As much as we want to keep ourselves safe, we can't protect ourselves from everything. If we want to embrace life, we also have to embrace chaos." _

― Susan Elizabeth Phillips, _Breathing Room_

* * *

Wanda Maximoff carried a large bushel of wheat up the dirt road, her work boots scrunching against the gravel and dust blowing in the wind. Other workers passed her by, some of them jogging up the hill to get to their destination. To both of her sides, endless fields of golden wheat surrounded her, with an equally marigold sun beating down, causing her to build up a sweat. Despite the unpleasant smell her worked-up sweat must have been giving off, she didn't really mind. She never kept much company to begin with, so personal appearance didn't mean much to her, and in District Nine, no one cared much for appearances anyway, since everyone either worked in the wheat fields or the processing plant up by the district's border.

She much preferred to admire the scenery around her, however simplistic it may be. Rows of wheat swayed in a light breeze that would blow through her every now and again, lifting the tips of her brown hair for just a few brief moments. Somewhere off in the distance, the slow rush of an irrigated canal broke through the wind, flowing downstream just like a natural river.

She reached the top of the hill, revealing a train depot. Dozens of bushels of wheat were stacked up in pyramids while a set of railroad tracks ran through the middle. The train brought the wheat up to the processing plant, where they're either shipped back to the district, or taken out to the other districts.

Wanda placed her bushel among the others, and she was just about to head back down the hill when a young man about her age with silver white hair came running up after her.

"Hey sis, better pick up the pace, or we'll never finish before sundown!"

She blinked a couple of times. "S-sorry Pietro. I was just...lost in thought."

Pietro Maximoff threw his bushel high up so that it flopped onto the top of the pile. The two of them then began walking back down the hill to the fields below.

"You excited for the Reaping tomorrow?" Pietro asked, his impatience causing him to break into a light jog as they head down the hill.

Wanda shrugged. "What's there to be excited about?"

"What's exciting? Extra rations! I put my name in seven extra times, and I'm hoping they add in some fruit as a bonus," he explained.

"Fruit? In your dreams. We always get grain from our own district, nothing else." Wanda's pessimistic world views gave her voice a sharp, clear tone.

"Hey, a guy _can_ dream. And hey, I heard that the Summers family managed to get their hands on a live chicken during last month's distribution. Maybe we'll be just as lucky."

She rolled her eyes. "That sounds ridiculous. Where do you hear this kind of stuff anyway?"

"Mostly from the guys I work with at the processing plant," he explained. "I'm sure you'd hear a bunch of interesting things too, if you ever interacted with people."

She knew that Pietro didn't intend to be mean, but sometimes the blunt way in which he spoke gave off that impression.

Wanda shrugged again. "I find that most people aren't worth listening to. Too many lies, too much deception. Like, did you even see this chicken they were talking about? How can you prove it's real?"

Picking up a scythe that they'd left on the ground, Pietro began whacking at the stalks of wheat, collecting them in his hand, "Even so, wouldn't it be great? Even if it's _completely_ untrue, isn't the idea alone of eating meat with your family for a whole week just make you wanna smile?"

She had to admit, she couldn't recall the last time she'd had a decent meal, and there's only so many ways to repurpose flour from one of District Nine's many processing plants, especially without any other readily available ingredients.

"Okay, fine. Maybe some chicken every now and then would be nice…" Wanda admitted begrudgingly.

"That's the spirit, sis! Now c'mon, a full feast is less than twenty-four hours away!" Pietro tied up a bushel and threw it toward Wanda. Unprepared, it hit her in the face, knocking her to the ground.

* * *

The town square was bustling on the day of the Reaping. Wanda looked out of her bedroom window and watched as myriads of people in faded overalls, dirtied shirts, and straw hats made their way into the heart of the town. She had adorned herself with her best pair of blue jeans, and a thin white blouse with one corner tucked in.

"Wanda, are you ready yet?" her mother called from the living room.

"Almost!" she cried from her room.

With a clay bowl of water at her bedside, Wanda carefully washed her face, making sure not to let any of it spill onto the floor. Most of the district's water goes to the wheat production, so they had to conserve everything they did get.

When she had finished, she walked from her room to the main room of their two-room hut. The morbid heat dried off any droplets of water that clung to her face, and she found her mother and Pietro standing by the door a moment later.

"Now remember children, if you, or any of your friends are chosen. Do not react, do not retaliate. Act natural, and blend in. And if you are chosen–"

"Don't think like that Mom," Pietro interrupted. "I mean, what's the chance of either of us getting chosen anyway? We may put our names in multiple times, but so does everyone else. We'll be fine Mom."

Wanda nodded her head, "Yeah Mom, we'll be fine."

While she may have wished to avoid the Games on the outside, secretly, she wished she would be picked for the Games. Of course, it'd almost certainly mean that she'd die – historically, District Nine tributes were always amongst the first to go, and she wasn't physically intimidating, not by a _long_ shot. No, rather, it was the idea of touring all of Marvel. She'd never been outside of the confines of District Nine's fields of yellow wheat and grass, and she could only catch faint glimpses of the Capital and the other districts from the holographic broadcasts during the Avenger Games. And being able to see all those places in the flesh, even for just a few moments, well, wasn't that worth dying for?

Wanda and Pietro joined the droves of people walking towards District Nine's Justice Building, where the Reaping would be held. As people passed by, they greeted and waved to Pietro – ever the popular socialite among the population of District Nine. But no one waved to, or greeted Wanda, which was just as well. She liked to stay away from people, especially her peers in the district. In all honesty, they bored her. They spoke of growing patterns, a new ball to kick around during the off hours, and relationship rumours as if they were the most invigorating points of conversation. Wanda, on the other hand, preferred to talk about ideas, dreams, things that weren't quite grounded in reality. And _apparently_, no one else in District Nine was interested in that.

The dull, grey Justice Building loomed over the district, the tallest building in sight among the fields and scattered huts of straw, mud, and other materials. The Justice Building had always fascinated Wanda, how it always matched the skies on a cloudy day, and how the building itself seemed to reach for the sky. While she had never been inside, she bet that if she could climb to the top, she'd be able to see the entire district from there.

The Reaping process was the same every year – give a blood sample, confirm your identity, and then...wait. Wanda was separated from Pietro when they divided the boys from girls. She looked around at the other girls in line with her. Some were just a little older than her, participating in their final Reaping, and some of them were much younger, perhaps this was their first. A pair of girls just in front of her were holding hands, one girl much younger than the other. The older girl went up first to give her fingerprint, and to hold her hand out for one of the Sentinels to jab her with a syringe-like device that took her blood sample, the girl gritting her teeth and shaking slightly as she's hit with a burst of momentary pain. The younger girl went next, having no difficulty stamping her fingerprint in ink and printing it onto the blank piece of paper. But when the Sentinel reached out with his device, the girl instinctively yanked her arm away. The Sentinel reached over from the table and grabbed the girl by the arm, forcing her arm onto the table before stabbing her with the device. The girl screamed, both from the shock and from the fact that the Sentinel probably jabbed her a little harder than he should have. It didn't matter to the Sentinels – to them the members of District Nine were all the same: disobedient, dim-witted, and simplistic.

The older girl pulled the younger one away as Wanda stepped up and gave her fingerprint. She kept a solemn frown, she remembered having a similar reaction during her first Reaping.

Continuing to the crowd gathering by the Justice Building, Wanda peeked out from in between two others as a tall, older man stepped up to the podium, "Welcome District Nine, to the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!"

A few sparse claps could be heard from the on-looking audience, but they quickly died down as the majority remained silent. They showed the usual propaganda film, as always showing rows upon rows clips of clean, well-dressed workers walking on paved roads among green fields and shady trees. They're all smiling and carrying baskets full of bread and fruit. The mere sight of food made Wanda's mouth salivate. She hadn't even had any breakfast.

A message was superimposed onto the happy people, a black-and-white cursive text saying. **"The Capitol is looking out for you!****"**

Wanda clenched her fists in anticipation as the film ended and a pair of Sentinels brought out two glass bowls, one filled with boys' names and one with girls' names. The bowls are practically overflowing with the duplicated names of all of the children of District Nine, slips of names flying away with the breeze as they're presented to the man. _Guess Pietro and I weren't the only ones who wanted extra rations_, she mused wryly.

"Ladies first, shall we?" he asked, before dipping his hand into the bowl to his left. He stirred the pieces of paper around in the bowl for a little while before finally picking one and pulling it out. "...Wanda Maximoff."

Wanda's heart raced as those around her turned around and stared at her, quiet murmurs echoing through the crowd. Words like "crazy", "lunatic", and "weird" flowed through their conversation, but she didn't care. Two Sentinels pushed through the crowd to retrieve her, and she lowered her head as they escorted her to the stage. Her hair fell in front of her face to hide the smile plastered across it. An escape, or a death sentence – the Avenger Games was both, and Wanda was more than happy to participate.

She quelled her smile by the time she reached the stage. The tall man, Robert Kelly, was the district's escort, who, despite his outrageously colourful clothing, was stiff in nature.

He leant down and whispered to Wanda. "Congratulations."

She smiled, not quite sure if he was being sarcastic. "It's an honour, sir."

Wanda stepped to the side as Kelly reached into the male bowl. It didn't really matter which male got picked – as long as it wasn't Pietro, Wanda couldn't care less.

"And our male contestant is...Kurt Wagner!"

Her eyes shifted through the crowd, looking for someone to start walking up. The name wasn't familiar to her, but she thought that maybe she'd recognize his face, maybe he was one of the boys Pietro talked to. She looked to her side and, as if out of thin air, a boy just a few years younger than her was climbing the stairs to the stage. She'd seen him maybe once or twice before, maybe working in the fields, or when she visited her mother working late in the plant. Whoever he was, she didn't know much about him, and that was probably for the best.

* * *

"I...I don't know what to say," Pietro's chilled voice floated through the dead air of the waiting room.

After the Reaping had ended, Sentinels had escorted Wanda and Kurt to separate waiting rooms in order to say goodbye to their parents. In the next room over, the sobs of Kurt's family echoed through the thin walls.

Her arms folded, Wanda shrugged. "That's a first."

"You...you don't seem very upset about it," he observed, hands in his pockets.

"What is there to say?" she mumbled. "Getting chosen for the Avenger Games...it's just something that happens. Of course our chances were increased because of how many times we put our name in...we need the food after all–"

"...children?" a soft-spoken voice interrupted Wanda.

They turned to the door to find a frail, older woman being escorted by two Sentinels. They closed the door behind her, and Pietro ran over to her, embracing her in a hug.

"Mom…" he stared into her eyes, looking for answers, for some kind of response.

Their mother's eyes were blank, and vacant. All of their childhood, they'd seen her as the emotional core of the family, the balancing factor between Pietro's manic excitement and Wanda's pessimistic doubt.

_How would she respond to her own daughter being sent to her death?_

She approached Wanda, and hugged her. "Wanda...this is the greatest thing that could've ever happened to you."

Pietro's jaw dropped open, but Wanda nodded in understanding. "I know, Mom."

"Bu-but...what?!" he shouted. "What are you talking about?!"

Their mother turned around, and placed her hand on her son's shoulder. "You'll understand when you're older Pietro. There's no room for adventure, or expression in District Nine. This is her chance to get out, to see the world."

He looked at the two of them as if they'd gone mad. "But...she might…"

"I think it's worth it," Wanda admitted, interrupting him. "District Nine is known for its losing tributes, and it's not like I could ever hold myself in a fight anyhow. My fate has already been mapped out by the stars; I might as well enjoy it while I can."

Clenching his fists, Pietro lowered his head, his veins nearly popping out from his arms and head. "No! You can't...you can't just _accept_ this! You're going to live, goddamnit! Something...something will happen, I promise!"

He stormed out of the room, pushing past the Sentinel guards by the door. Their mother sighed, and clasped Wanda's shoulders. "Your brother has every right to be upset; to an extent...I am too. But I know this is what's best. You never would've been happy living through the daily grind, and no boy...well, marriage never interested you anyway, did it?"

Wanda chuckled, it was almost impossible to imagine herself as a married woman of District Nine – if finding friends was already so hard, how could she ever cultivate a relationship?

"Oh yes! You need something from your district, right?" her mother asked suddenly.

Wanda watched as her mother removed something from her neck. "No...you're not going to give-"

"What else are you going to bring? A clump of dirt?"

She smiled, rolling her eyes – she'd actually been considering that.

Her mother lifted up the necklace, a plain silver chain with a small golden ring hanging from it. The ring, while dirty and rusty with age, still emanated a slight glow when held up in the light. A pattern of intertwining leaves lined the middle of the ring.

"Mom...your wedding ring...I...I thought you stopped wearing it when-"

She shook her head. "Just not on my finger. Gets in the way when I'm working anyway."

She lowered the chain so that it fell gently around Wanda's neck, before tucking it under her shirt, hiding it away.

"Keep this well-hidden. If there's one thing I've learned about the people in the Capitol, it's that they don't appreciate subtlety."

Wanda nodded, remembering watching the flamboyant Capitol announcers interviewing previous tributes, often shifting the attention away from the tributes and onto themselves.

There was a knock at the door. "One minute warning," a Sentinel's voice echoed from outside.

Wanda's mother gave her one final hug. "I think Pietro's right...you can win the Games. Just make them remember you."


	11. Chapter 10: Criminal Minds

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our latest update, this time featuring our District Ten tributes, written by Gumby1011 – who has been involved in several of our other fics – and DarknessSeeps – who, like myself and JGrayzz, also was involved in 24tributes24authors' Bring Them to Their Knees. **

**Created to Write: Glad that you're enjoying the fic so far, and looking forward to seeing what you make of the rest of the tributes! Sorry about the swearing, but then again, this is rated T for a reason, and there'll be a little of it here and there, largely depending on who's writing the chapter. While there'll probably be a lot of characters used over the course of this fic, Wikipedia's always there if you want to learn more about them. Buck Chisholm, for example, is our version of the villain Trick Shot. As for the District Two mentors, while they weren't featured in the Reaping chapter, I'm sure you'll get to meet them when we reach the Capitol!**

**Anyway, I've held you all up long enough. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Criminal Minds**

**District Ten Reaping**

**Written by Gumby1011 &amp; DarknessSeeps**

* * *

**Prisoner Seventy-Two of District Ten**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

"_What my research told me is that a psychopath cannot change. You're born like that."_

– Jeff Lindsay

* * *

It was a prison cell. But it wasn't just _any _prison cell. It was _his _prison cell. Prisoner Number Seventy-Two. He had a name, that's true, but the guards only ever called him Prisoner Seventy-Two. They didn't like using his real name. Maybe it was the way he'd always flaunted it in the guard's faces with some imaginary air of entitlement. But then again, his name didn't entitle him to anything. He'd always been some no-name orphan. Even now, while his name was known, they just called him by his number.

_'Number Seventy-Two, go to your cell. Number Seventy-Two, eat your slop. Number Seventy-Two, stop brutalizing Prisoner White!'_

All day, every day, Seventy-Two was told what to do. And it drove him _mad. _Or at the very least, it exacerbated the circumstances. But this, this was his cell. It was his world. It was his womb. And in it, he prepared for the eventuality of his _glorious _future! They didn't let him out anymore. That was how he liked it, in a way. There were no distractions. And it fostered hunger. Such _glorious, _untameable hunger. For the rush. For a true test. For blood. One day he'd be able to try and sate his hunger. If that were even possible. It had always been there, and now, it only grew.

But for now, Prisoner Seventy-Two was left to his own devices. At one time, the cell had been padded with white, sterilized, protective cushions. Seventy-Two would only hurt himself, they said. Seventy-Two couldn't be trusted with a cellmate, they said. In a way, they were right. Prisoner Seventy-Two needed to train. To prepare! And such a soft springy tomb would prepare him for _nothing _of the outside world, where life was cold, and hard, and unrelenting and _vicious. _He'd begun growing his claws. Honing them with his teeth as they grew. They'd tried to cut his 'fingernails' once. But they'd stopped after he nearly took a gash out of his handler's jugular with his glorious, lethal claws.

Then they'd grown long enough that he'd been able to dismantle the soft. Slowly, he'd painstakingly torn apart the walls of his cell. Scraped patches off the walls, and the floor, until he revealed the cold, hard, beautiful bones of his prison. He'd even tried to eat the meat, but it had been bland and tasteless. He'd then taken to testing his strength against the bones. He knew he could never best them. But that was okay. His foes would never be able to best them either. So if he came close to them, he would only break his enemies. Seventy-Two decided that while he was in the womb, his number would become his identity. Every day, he'd punch the bones of his home seventy-two times with each fist. Every day he would bash the bones with each knee seventy-two times. Every day he did seventy-two push ups. Every day he did seventy-two sit-ups.

And every once in a while, his body would give out with his mind screaming at it. It was then he'd rest for what felt like seventy-two hours. And he could feel it working. Soon, he felt no pain when he struck the bones. Next to no exertion from his exercises. He could feel it. He'd reached his pinnacle. He was ready. He paced in his cell now. He was a caged animal. He was ready to be let loose. He hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Months, maybe. True, they fed him, but his last meal had been before he'd been placed in the womb. His last taste of blood. But yet they didn't kill him. They knew. They knew it couldn't be done. They knew that he'd only ever come back. Until one day…One day…

There was a knock at the door. Prisoner Seventy-Two paused, in the midst of his newest exercise. He'd developed a genius method of dual-training: he was doing push ups, the end of which consisted of him bashing his forehead into a wound on the floor, bringing his forehead to the bone with a solid _thunk. _He eventually decided that until he'd reached the next pinnacle, the distractions were not important. _Thunk. _Whatever it was, it could wait. _Thunk. _Nothing important happened here. _Thunk. _Except of course for Seventy-Two's imminent perfection. _Thunk._

A man opened the door to his cell. It hadn't bothered to gas him. _Thunk._ Or taze him. Or stick him with a sleepy needle. _Thunk. _That was weird. The man currently bashing his forehead against the floor repeatedly found it weird. _Thunk. _Prisoner Seventy-Two looked up. It… it was _him. _Why ever would it be him? The blood ran over his eyes, but there was no mistaking him. He was blond. He was balding. His green-eyed gaze was cold and emotionless as he looked dead into Seventy-Two's eyes. Seventy-Two immediately ceased his training. This might actually be worth listening to after all.

Prisoner Seventy-Two looked for all the world like a child possessed. In a way, he was. His obsessive training coupled with lack-lustre nourishment had hardened him into the appearance of a miniature adult with teen-scaled bones. There was no baby-fat. No fair skin. It was impossible for fat and unmarked skin to exist under the circumstances he'd forced upon his own body. His knuckles were scarred, his fingernails honed to sharpened points and spattered in red. His own blood-red in fact. Prisoner Seventy-Two was funny like that. His muscles were well-defined for their early stage of development, and his slim frame combined with that made him look altogether an eerie paradox. Like some kind of feral animal. A demon child in a white prison uniform.

His forehead was large, and currently dripping further blood from a brutal gash on the forehead. His hair was fiery red and curled. It had been maintained by the occasional padded-suit handler to be relatively tame as it twisted chaotically away from Seventy-Two's skull. His ears were slightly small, and seemed to be pressed back against his head. In fact his entire face was kind of long, and tapered down altogether until it reached the tip of his pointy chin. And his eyes. Yes, his eyes…they were searing, dark-green things, with tiny pinpricks for pupils, typically. They were the eyes of a young man who searched endlessly for the darkness in which the fears of others lay, that he may better embody that primal blackness. Eyes that constricted to unnatural tiny points at anything even slightly brighter than the dark they'd grown accustomed to. And his teeth…they were perfectly straight. You'd expect them to be all bent out of shape, the way Seventy-Two always used them. They were white. Or at least they might have been, were it not for the crusted blood. And the lips framing them twisted into a horribly gleeful smile before finally speaking.

"He-o ther, Wad'n!"

There was a moment of silence before the blonde man raised an eyebrow. "You wanna try that again?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two rolled the syllables around in his mouth. He decided to actually, truly focus on the conversation, considering how long it had been since he'd last spoken to an actual person. He tried again. "To what do I owe this _pleasure, _Warden Brock?"

The Warden's nosed wrinkled at this. It was almost as if the cosmos were mocking him by having Seventy-Two even _feign _cooperation. As if it were welcoming him to resort to this, his last chance. He cleared his throat before beginning. "You owe this visit to circumstances I'm not at liberty to discuss in detail with anyone, especially you." He never broke eye contact with the maniac. To do so would be to invite a flurry of violence against him. And while it was true that this child would need an inordinate amount of luck to overcome him – a fully grown man. It was in Seventy-Two's nature to develop a lucky streak at the worst possible time.

He was responsible for the death of one guard and the hospitalization of five more since his incarceration two years ago. And that was almost all before he was transferred to solitary six months in. Before he'd trained.

"Oh, now that ain't no way to treat somebody you're asking a _favour _of!" Seventy-Two grinned as he stood up straight. He only came up to the warden's chest, yet he still somehow seemed to loom over the room. "C'mon, Brocky boo! Spit it out! Whaddya need from good-ol Seventy-Two, eh?" He giggled in the back of his throat. "You got a _guard _to sic me on? Or maybe some _prisoner _you wanna see dead, eh? Eh?" He sidled over to the warden "C'mooooon, man, don't leave me in the dark, spit it _out!"_

Warden Carl Brock took a single step away from the criminal. "Tomorrow is the Reaping, you know."

Seventy-Two froze in his tracks. "As a matter of fact… I _didn't." _The convict stomped his feet into the ground, a low growl breaking out of his lungs and transforming into an anguished howl. "So _that's _it, then!?" he bellowed. "You're just here to _mock _me, then! To remind ol' Seventy-Two – 'Hey, guess what you little bastard, you're not goin' to the Games 'cause we won't let you volunteer'is that it!?"

"Nonsense." The Warden wiped the spittle from his face with one hand. "I want you to volunteer as tribute."

"THAT'S-" Seventy-Two cut himself off. This was a little far-fetched, but… If there was a chance… any chance that he could get into the Games… He grinned for a moment. "That's..." The moment expended, the grin fled. "That's funny, Warden, real funny." He huffed. "You know as well as I that those Capitol pricks don't let us inmates in! That would go against their whole 'Survival of the fittest innocent young man or lady' bullshit!" He folded his arms, lightly pushing his claws into them to relieve some of the tension.

The warden put up a single finger, like a teacher scolding a student. "Yes…" he trailed off, evidently feeling uncomfortable about something, and Cletus' eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I hadn't been entirely truthful when I told you that. I arranged it so that you were removed from the Reaping pool – I didn't want someone like you souring the Capitol against our district. However, things have changed."

There was a singular moment of silence. "What?"

The Warden smiled internally. He had the maniac on the hook. Now all he had to do was tug on the line. "I have it under good authority that the lottery tomorrow is going to be rigged."

Seventy-Two's grip on his arms intensified. "Come again?" This was unacceptable! Flawed though they were, the Games were the closest thing this pitiful world had to being a contest of the _truth! _That survival of the fittest was the only real law in this world! In his indignation, he even forgot that the Warden had lied to him, and deliberately kept him from his destiny.

"And there's no use in lying to you, I am partially to blame." The Warden shrugged. "I'm in a bad way with worse folk, and I fear the lottery for District Ten males may indeed be rigged so that my son Edward is picked."

It was then that Prisoner Seventy-Two grinned again, in earnest this time. "So… That's what you want of me, then? You want me to save your brat's life?" This wasn't a lie at all! All of the warden's bullshit had actually been the truth! _He was going to finally get his chance! _"Alright, boss. I'll have to move some things around, but I can make time for that." He grinned in unrestrained glee.

The Warden nodded. The dirty deed had been done. "Excellent. I will arrange for you to be deposited two blocks from the Justice Building shortly before the proceedings. You are to be cleaned before then-" Seventy-Two took a deep breath to protest. "Worry not, your claws will be left quite intact. We just need you to blend in more. So we'll need to get most of that _blood _off of you."

Seventy-Two moaned at this, dejected slightly. But as soon as the Warden left, he felt a grin come across his face. He was going! He was really, truly going to the child who had been known as Prisoner Seventy-Two let a blood-curdling howl up into the air. Fate had finally revealed his hand! Nothing in hell or on earth could stop him now!

* * *

Seventy-Two was quite uncomfortable. He wasn't in his prison uniform anymore. He was dressed quite normally in fact: in boots, jeans and a short-sleeve plaid button-up shirt. His claws and teeth were depressingly smooth and clean, and the gash on his forehead had been stitched shut. There were three men in the car with him. They were all in that ever-familiar purple-and-blue uniform of the Sentinels. The car was silent, save for the purr of the engines and Seventy-Two's humming to himself. That said…the silence was so dreadfully _boring…_

"Hey. Hey guys. Why are we in a normal car?" the prisoner finally ventured. Nothing but silence rewarded his curiosity. "Is it because we're breaking the _law?" _The engine whirred onwards as they hit a pothole. "I think it's because we're breaking the _law." _The driver sighed, his grip on the wheel tightening. Seventy-Two grinned. "You know that this car is unusual, right? Unless we've gotten richer since I went away." He looked out the window and saw the cobbled-together nature of the buildings they passed by. "Yeah, we're still dirt-broke." The man in the passenger seat coughed. "I guess that's why the windows are tinted, huh?" The car was silent again. "... You guys are no fun."

Seventy-two finally gave up, riding in silence until they reached a street seemingly inseparable from any other in District Ten, save for the fact that it was actually paved. This was towards the centre of the district. The car slowly pulled over.

The driver finally spoke up. "Get out."

Prisoner Seventy-Two grinned, and was about to open the door before he paused for a moment. Every person in the car tensed at this. But the prisoner had remembered something. Something important. "Hey, guys…" He looked around the cars slowly. "How…How old am I?" This inquiry was greeted with silence or a moment, before the driver finally spoke up.

"Um…You're…You're fourteen or fifteen, I think, kid."

Prisoner Seventy-Two chuckled before stepping out of the car. "Thanks, man." He didn't even look back as he heard the engine rev up and the car pull away. The ginger boy grinned to himself as he meandered up and down the street, humming to himself. "Happy birthday to me…" He paused outside the window of a butcher's shop and licked his lips. "Happy birthday to me…" He hauled back and nearly sent a fist through the window after a particularly enticing cut, only to realize that there was a man inside the shop giving him a funny look, as were several other people further down the road. Prisoner Seventy-Two gritted his teeth and began trudging down the street. "Happy birthday…dear…"

Then off in the distance, he heard the herd moving. It was a dull roar, like a sedated earthquake, punctuated with the shouts of the herders moving the cattle along. He looked up the road… And they came. Thousands of them. Thousands of heads of delicious, succulent meat being herded to the slaughter. Red dust filled the air behind them. They were the best specimens. The two-legged ones that wore their false skins. A skin he now wore. Young, likely tender. And oh-so-easy to catch. But that was not to be their role. Not today. Seventy-Two stood on the edge of the road, eyes flitting from face to face as the children slogged past. For a few agonizing minutes, he wondered if he missed his mark…Then…_there!_

Seventy-two sidled into the crowd, wearing the grin of the wolf infiltrating the flock. And he already had his lamb all singled out. Short blonde hair. A jaw already going square like his father's. A spark of coldness beneath the terror in his eyes, the same terror in the eyes of the entire flock in fact. Except for Prisoner Seventy-Two. He slid between members of the crowd, drawing close to his mark untill directly behind him. Then he reached out with his claws and… Put a hand on the boy's shoulder like he was an old comrade. "Hello…_Friend._"

Edward Brock felt a cold tingle run up his spine. Then he looked down at the grotesquely long, pointed fingernails on his shoulder. He felt the urge to bolt, but he dared not to in the chaos of the reaping procession. "Who…Who are you?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two walked up alongside the boy, a smug grin twisting around his teeth. "Me? Oh, I wouldn't worry about _me, _Eddie. Today is all about _you!" _He somehow managed to whisper this in a tone that seared into Eddie's mind like a hot iron, straight to the 'fucking run' portion of his brain.

"What – What do you mean by that?" Eddie was scared of the answer, but at the same time he could sense that the boy expected the question. That, and that it would be best to not disappoint.

A knowing claw tapped on Seventy-Two's nose. "Why, Eddie, it's because today you're going to have your _name _drawn, of course! And then _I'm _going to be the bigger man and volunteer for you."

A knot of terror formed in the pit of Eddie's stomach. There was some kind of spell woven by the creep's words, and it melded into the fear surging through the air in anticipation of the reaping. The child took the maniac's words as objective facts. The boys said nothing for a while. Then the herd rounded a corner. They could see the Justice Building. Seventy-Two sniggered. "Here we are, Eddie. The site of my sacrifice for you, friend…Say, how old are you, chum?"

The child stuttered. Something about Seventy-two tended to do that to people. "F-F-Fourteen."

"Well, idn't that a regular coe-ink-ee-dink!" the ginger smiled. "So am I." The herd broke off into groups now, roped off by age. The Sentinels stood guard over the yard as the staggering populace of District Ten filed into its slaughter pens. The yard was massive. But the bulk of the humanity of this district crammed into every nook and cranny. The crowd had grown mostly silent now. Someone out there was going on the chopping block, and every soul was praying it wasn't them. Three was a stage set up under the eaves of the Justice Building. And on it stood several sentinels around a man behind a podium. Off to the left were to giant glass orbs positively overflowing with little paper slips. These orbs emanated some kind of intrinsic evil. And Seventy-Two absolutely _loved _it.

He couldn't help but think that the man behind the podium seemed a little _odd _for a Capitol Snob. His face was hard, his black hair with greying sides cut to a short buzzcut. He was chewing on a smouldering cigar, and Seventy-Two took this as a sign that the smile on the teeth clenching the cigar was very forced. But as the children filed into place, eventually the sound of shuffling feet hushed down and then only the assembled bodies and the dust hung in the air was left in evidence of the titanic exodus. Then, Cigar spoke up. "Good morning, District Ten!"

There was but silence in reply. It wasn't a good morning to anybody but Prisoner Seventy-Two. Slowly, over the course of several minutes, Cigar's smile turned to an irritated frown. He turned from the microphone for a moment and coughed before facing the crowd again, smile renewed. Seventy-Two chuckled to himself. _Amateur. _"My name is John Jonah Jameson," Cigar continued. "And it's my honor and _pleasure _to be conducting this, the District Ten reaping for the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!"

Jameson continued along with his little speech. He'd correctly assumed he'd get little to no fanfare from this crowd. "Today is a very special day, as we will be selecting who should represent your _noble _district," This word was spat with no small amount of veiled contempt, "in this year's games! But let's not mince words here, people, your tributes are going to have an awful lot on their plates, it'd be best to not keep them, eh?"

He reached over to the left and hovered his hand over one of the bowls. "First up, the girls!"

Seventy-two nearly smacked himself in the head. _Of course… My partner. _He hadn't forgotten. Not entirely, anyways. But he was so excited to get his chance that it had simply slipped his mind! Anyways, Jameson had put his hand in the bowl, now. After a few moments of dramatic tension it came out holding a paper slip that the man quickly opened up. "Raven Darkholme!" he called out.

For a moment there was silence. "Raven? Come on out now, you've had a calling- Ah, there you are!" He pointed over towards the sixteen-year-old partition of the girl's side, where a tall, red-haired girl strode out into the aisle. She quickly walked up to the stage and climbed up it until she was standing next to Jameson.

Raven was tall, and oddly well-muscled. Seventy-Two smirked to himself. She'd be useful, that much was certain. Cletus didn't really pay much attention as Jameson made the traditional small-talk with the tribute. In fact, his mind only snapped back to reality as Jameson called out: "And now, for the boys!"

Seventy-Two chuckled to himself. "You ready for this, Eddie?"

"Shut up."

Jameson's hand dove into the bowl.

"Gonna call your name, Eddie."

"You don't know that!" came the frantic whisper.

"Edward Brock!"

There was silence. Slowly, the other fourteen-year-olds backed away. There was soon a vacant ring, and only Eddie Brock and Prisoner Seventy-Two stood in the middle. "Ah!" Jameson called out. "And which of you strapping young lads is Edward?"

Seventy-Two waved cheerfully. "Hello there, Jimmy! I got your boy right here!" He tapped a claw on Eddie's forehead. "But hey, he looks like he doesn't wanna go, doesn't he, why just _look _at that _mug, _eh?" And indeed, Eddie looked like he was about to pass out. "How about I take him off your hands for ya?" At this point, Seventy-Two leaped in the air repeatedly like the child he really was. "Me! Pick me! Pick me! I VOLUNTEERAH, AS TAH-RIBUTAH!"

The smile had vanished from Jameson's face. He – as well as a good chunk of the crowd- had gone slack-jawed. The Sentinels that had been about to retrieve Edward simply stood aside as Seventy-Two literally _skipped_ between them and up to the stage. "Hey, Jimmy! HiJimmypleasuredoingbusinesswithya!" he rambled as he took his spot next to Raven.

After a moment spent reassuring himself that _yes, _that _had _just happened, Jameson found his voice. "So, uh…" You could have heard a pin drop. "What's…What's your name?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two grabbed the microphone and bellowed into it. "MY NAME IS CLETUS! KASADY! Remember it, Jimmy, 'cause I'm _going places!_"

* * *

**Raven Darkholme of District Ten**

**Written by DarknessSeeps**

* * *

_"Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Don't let the bastards grind you down."_

Margaret Atwood, _The Handmaid's Tale_

* * *

The bare, dry ground was scorching hot, burning the tips of Raven's calloused fingertips as she lowered herself to the ground, hands laid firmly on the hot soil, poised to jump into action. She was in the garden of some stranger who lived in the richer area of District Ten, the house cream-white, large and towering like a beautiful palace to the sixteen-year-old Raven. She was dressed in a worn white t-shirt and black jeans, very casual for this sort of event.

A sharp sound of a door slamming open, bashing against the wall harshly as a thunder of footsteps marched into the sitting room.

"Sit down," hissed a gravelly voice from inside the opened window. Raven's ears perked up immediately at the sound. After the long moment of waiting, it was time. Time to eavesdrop on the conversation the Sentinels said would occur.

Then she was going report back to them, resulting in a warm reward of a hot chocolate before she attended the annual Reaping.

She silently pressed herself up to the wall just below the window, shielding herself from greedy old Bolivar Trask's view. Now, who was Dr Trask? Dr Trask was the rich owner of this grand property in which Raven was trespassing, and he ran a large business consisting of several ranches in the district, doctoring the animals himself, which had gained him the title 'Doctor; and the wealth of a poor Capitolite. It was unusual that the Sentinels had asked Raven to keep an eye on him for any signs of something shady, given that he had contributed a lot of money to the poorer people in the district with his loans, but work was work, and she would take what she could get.

"So, what's the news?" Dr Trask demanded, his tone sounded furious, as if he was expecting the worse.

"The Davis family are refusing to pay, sir," a much quieter voice replied. At this voice, Raven had to lean closer to the window to hear it.

A smashing sound of a glass hitting a hard surface resonates in Raven's ears. Dr Trask's voice rose to an angry roar. "They haven't _paid_?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but they refuse to."

"They are _dead._" Raven makes out the sound of Dr Trask getting up and pacing the floor. "You hear me, they're dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Go back to them tomorrow morning, and tell them if they still refuse to pay me my money back, they will have the fate the Sirkes family faced," snapped Dr Trask. "You know I hate peasants already, but I had to at least try and help them to see if they could be _nearly_ as civilised as the richer citizens. And they're clearly not."

Raven stifled back a gasp. The Sirkes? That was one of the families living on a ranch far out from the town; she didn't know them, but heard they died in a tragic fire accident. She sat there for a moment, dread filling her as she realised the meaning of Dr Trask's words. The Davis family, whoever they were, were refusing to repay the loan they borrowed from this egotistical man, and he was going to kill them like he did to one of the Sirkes. She had to find the Sentinels immediately and repeat to them what Trask said.

As Raven pushed up into a sitting poise, ready to run, Dr Trask's voice echoed from the window. "Toad, I need you to get that little girl outside before she escapes."

Surprise rippled throughout Raven's veins as she listened to his words. She leapt to her feet just when Dr Trask suddenly appeared at the window.

She stared in shock at the man. The first thing she noticed about him was that he was a dwarf with shaggy brown hair. He wasn't what she expected to see, but she recognised his face from the pictures in newspaper she found in dustbins amongst the streets. It was Dr Trask with short, stubby arms and a small torso.

As the shock diminished down to small embers in her stomach, Raven swirled around on her heel, her blazing red hair spinning out behind her as she darted across the lawn like a little bird fleeing to freedom. She was ever so nimble and quick on her feet from years of experience of running away from people. In the distance she heard Dr Trask bellow, "Get her!"

A chorus of barking followed Raven, and she craned her neck in time to catch glimpse of three large rottweilers bounding down the lawn after her, with a skinny frame of an ugly man dashing behind. The man had a greasy face and wore dark green clothes, and he was fast.

In desperation, Raven urged herself forward even quicker, her legs shooting out in front of her without a second thought; if she could just run a little bit faster, she could hide herself in the hedges around the corner. She was thin and small for her age, but her red hair and blue tattoos were easy to spot even in long distance.

The barking drew nearer.

Her heart hammered hard in her ribcage, like a bird fluttering frantically within its cage.

From nowhere, the green man jumped at her back. She fell to the ground with a hard impact, grazing her palms when she defensively put out her hands on instinct.

"Hah!" The man climbed onto her back and forcibly pushed her face into the gravel hard. "I got you!"

Raven swore outwardly in frustration, struggling within his tight grasp.

"Up you get," he said in a cheery voice, yanking the redhead to her feet. Raven glanced around for a place to escape to. "No, no, no, don't even think of trying to escape. You're going nowhere."

"How did _you_ get me?" snapped Raven. Nobody ever caught her in a chase, not until this strange man, at least.

He chuckled, his tongue slivering through his teeth. Raven stared in horror at his tongue. It was a shade of sickly green, like it was infected with a bad disease or something. When he noticed her staring at his mouth, his lips split into a Cheshire grin, all yellow teeth like a shark's teeth, and he stuck out his tongue. She flinched at the sight of it, slimy dark green against his greasy skin.

Raven struggled wildly in his arms as he dragged her down the road, the dogs following their heels, no longer aggressive and violent but obedient and well-behaved. There was no way she was getting caught, never.

_There has to be a way out…_

She was dragged into the large mansion, her worn trainers filthy from being dragged across the gravel and dirt. Glancing around frantically, the girl spotted Dr Trask waiting in a chair in the middle of the hall, a smug smile plastered across his face as Raven was tossed to his feet like a helpless victim.

But no, she _refused_ to be a helpless victim.

Leaping into action, Raven got to her feet and slapped Dr Trask. A red mark appeared on his cheek, and his hand instantly went to it.

"Well, well, you like to put up a fight," Trask muttered.

"Screw you," Raven spat. "You're not touching me at all."

"Let's get to the facts, why are you here?" the dwarf inquired firmly. His brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

The girl crossed her arms, blue tattoos swirling along the lengths of them. At the sight of the tattoos, Dr Trask raised his eyebrows; his eyes studiously examined her whole figure from the toes to the head.

"You're a little bit too young and poor to afford tattoos…" he observed shrewdly." By the looks of your ratty clothes and uncut, greasy hair, you probably live on the streets. So that means someone particular pays you…for information?"

Raven kept her face expressionless to avoid revealing any evidence of her agitated thoughts. _How could he guess that straight away?_

Trask's eyes narrowed in suspicion at the girl. "Tell me your name."

The corner of her lip quirked up in amusement. "My name is Mystique." She never ever told anyone she encountered her true name. They had no right to knowing her real name.

"Interesting name," the dwarf murmured. "Mystique, what were you doing here?"

Raven pushed herself up on to her feet, hissing at Toad when he reached over to hold her arms behind her back. "Okay…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you…" she muttered, mimicking a tone of embarrassment as she cleanly lied through her teeth. "I was only here to, um, steal some of your food and possessions. Please forgive me, as you know, I'm poor, Dr Trask."

Dr Trask frowned at her pleading but glanced down at his feet. He was known for being generous to people, so he automatically knew he had to spare Mystique, or he would get judged for it. He liked to be called 'The Nice Rich Man', due to his arrogance. But Raven knew what kind of a man he truly was…

"But how could you afford your tattoos?" Trask commented suspiciously, his eyes following the lengths of her arms and shoulders, studying the blue tattoos.

Raven let out a giggle, as she proudly looked at her tattoos. "Men like them…you know…and I use their money they give me for them." She often hated pretending to be this type of a girl—a slutty prostitute—but it was the only way she could escape.

The dwarf looked disgusted as he realised what she meant. "Ah. So, Mystique, did you hear anything we were talking about?"

"What do you mean?" Raven replied innocently.

"Did you hear what I was saying when you were waiting outside?" Dr Trask asked impatiently and yet a little bit nervous.

The redhead scrunched up her face in confusion. "I didn't hear anything, so I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

The man stared at her for a long moment, as if he's trying to not believe her, but she convinced him so well he was left pondering what to do. As he contemplated, Raven's eyes wondered around the room as if she was bored when actually, in fact, she was examining the area. It was a hallway with polished wooden floorboards gleaming under their shoes, white walls with a dozen of paintings of pretty landscapes and a large framed photograph of Dr Trask shaking hands with President Thanos, the leader of Marvel. The president had dyed purple skin, his face split into a cruel smile, wearing a long blue cloak that he seemed to always wear, at least when in the public eye.

Raven often wondered what it was like to be in the Capitol and to encounter President Thanos face-to-face, thinking of how his large size would make her appear tiny. She thought of the things she would love to say and throw into Thanos' face. However, from the rumours she heard, the President was invincible and terrifying – he had the strength of a god and a cruel heart to match.

"I'll let you go…if only you do what I say," Trask's voice interrupted her thoughts. He walked toward her and looked up in a stern way. "Do not steal ever again. It's morally wrong. You must stop it or you would get punished horribly…I'm trying to help you here." A gentle, kind smile plastered across his face.

_Why is he being so kind now?_ Raven thought hostilely. _Don't get fooled by him, he doesn't care for poor people like you, Raven._

"I promise," Raven lied effortlessly. Her smile was as bright as her glistening amber eyes and her fiery red hair. "I won't do it again."

Trask sighed gravelly and in relief. "Thank you. Now if I let Toad release you, you won't do anything, will you?"

She nodded in response, eager to no longer feel Toad's sweaty hands on her back.

The small man nodded at Toad who obediently released her. Raven stretched out her stiff arms, looking curiously at the photograph of President Thanos and Dr Trask.

"May I ask, what is the president like?" she asked in a sweet, prying tone.

Following her stare, the dwarf glanced at the photograph with a slightly severe look in the pits of his dark eyes. Momentarily, he stared at the photograph, as if reflecting back on a chilling trauma in his life, his facial expression heavy with ceaseless dread. That look of dread vanished into the thin air when he turned to Mystique, a gracious smile flickering across his cheeks. "He is a marvellous man. I was lucky to meet him."

In that tone of false gratitude, Raven could see a scar in his existence, a scar slowly mending itself from the visit to the Capitol. She wondered why the mental scar was there…

"You are lucky to meet him. I would _love _to meet him," replied Raven, and she wasn't lying. She _would_ love to meet the president. It was her wish to visit the Capitol and see the city through her own eyes, to see place that ruined her life from a young age. And to ruin the Capitolites if she got the chance.

She smiled pleasantly and turned to leave, hearing Toad complaining to the dwarf for releasing the 'thief' when he was making a grave mistake. A self-satisfied smile split out on Raven's face, knowing Toad was correct; they _were_ making a grave mistake…

* * *

The second Raven Darkholme departed from the street and from Dr Trask's eye-sight, she flew down the streets in a thrill of exhilaration. She got out successfully with her lies. It was like this every time she almost got caught and it felt like a drug to her, addictive, dangerous and thrilling.

Skipping along the street, she smiled brightly as she caught sight of a Sentinel. Once she gave the information to the Prime Sentinel, she would save the family Dr Trask was threatening, get Dr Trask arrested and, more importantly, she would get a treat.

"Hi!" she shouted out as she slowed down, approaching the tall Sentinel. The guy was dressed in purple and blue from head to toe, with a helmet over his head so she couldn't see the face of the man. "I'm Mystique and I've got some information."

The Sentinel glanced at her once and automatically recognised her. "Follow me."

Raven walked after the tall, lean man, heading in the direction for the square. It was the Reaping Day, so there were several people already grouping up and following in throngs of thick crowds toward the square. Raven watched the grave faces of parents as they comforted their nervous children with loving gestures of hugs and smiles – the sight of it all just increased the thickness of Raven's jealousy for children with parents who were still alive. They were all so lucky and not grateful enough for it, whilst other kids like Raven were orphaned and living on the streets or in horrible conditions of old orphanages. Those poor kids were frail without their parents' love – _No, those kids are strong and brave_.

Raven was one of those braves one, as she liked to think so.

As the Sentinel strode, his heavy boots thudding loudly against the hard ground, the crowds of terrified families parted and allowed the perilous Sentinel to walk through with little Raven right behind. There were curious glances at the petite girl who sauntered through the crowd like she had no care for the world.

The butchers along the streets were shutting up their windows; the small shops closing and locking their doors, and the shutters on the windows were being closed. There was tension hanging in the atmosphere as the families left their homes and headed in the direction of the square, silence lapsing in the air like a sad funeral.

Raven was vastly intrigued by it all, by how humanity acted so helpless and weak in the face of inevitable death without putting up a protest and trying to defend their children.

In the faces of other children, Mystique saw the look of immense trepidation and fear for themselves. She could see their clocks turning inside their heads_: Will my name get picked? Would one of my siblings or friends get reaped? What will happen if I get reaped? Will I die?_

The narrow street of District Ten slowly opened up into the wide span of the square, clamour and voices filling up the air. The grey stone Justice Building stood at the front, sturdy and as hard as granite, and a temporary stage was set up in front of the building. Currently, the mayor stood on the stage, his face weathered and aging with years of stress, trying to keep his district living after the Civil War which Raven would never remember considering she was born several years after it ended. He looked so exhausted, as if he was about to break down at any second.

Raven's thoughts got penetrated by the low, coarse voice of the Prime Sentinel.

Her eyelids fluttered as her gaze landed on the broad-shouldered Sentinel. He towered over her at an intimidating height of six feet, in one of his hands was an electric stick, used to shock and beat up people at the same time.

"Hello, Mystique," the words were muffled by the helmet he wore. "Got any news?"

Raven nodded. "Very interesting information for you, if you give me the prize of a meal," she replied in a sly tone. Never trust a Sentinel until they show you can trust them.

The Head Sentinel exhaled a sigh of frustration. "Is this about Dr Trask?"

"Yes, you asked me to keep an eye on him two days ago, and now I have some information."

He slipped the electric stick into his belt and rubbed his hands, surveying the square. "Well, this will have to wait until after the Reaping. I have to keep the Sentinels in check, so don't go anywhere after the Reaping finishes."

Raven smirked cynically. "I'm going nowhere."

The Prime Sentinel nodded sagely and in thought as he pivoted on his heel and marched off, leaving Raven alone. Glancing around, she caught sight of the mentors getting onto the stage.

Clad in a black suit and carried in his wheelchair was the Avenger Games' third ever victor, Charles Xavier. He was a lot older than she was when he won his victory through luck, after almost being killed by another tribute called Azazel, who cut through his spinal cord, forever crippling the poor boy. To his luck, Azazel was viciously killed by a horrendous mutt, while Charles survived long enough to become the new victor. With his disability, his hairless, bald head, and his kind eyes surrounded by crinkles in the skin, you wouldn't ever feel threatened by Charles – who had been given the name Professor X for his preaching for peace among the districts, encouraging them to not to fight but to protest in a peaceful manner.

Raven gained a lot of respect for him after eavesdropping on one of his speeches two years ago. She was so moved by how beautifully descriptive Charles was with words in explaining their sad situation in the country Marvel. He had an appealing way with words to really make you think in a way that you had never thought before.

Professor X was being pushed aside by a much newer victor, Hank McCoy, nicknamed the 'Beast'. This thin, shy genius intrigued Raven a lot with his victory of strength in the arena, which brought him the name Beast. When Raven a lot younger she watched a repeat of Hank's Games and was so shocked by the transformation he made in the arena compared to the quiet, intelligent self he usually was whenever she saw him. From the rumours she heard, a lot of people said he reminded them of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde—whatever that was, Raven never knew—and believed he had a drug that helped him in the arena.

The mentors took their places on the stage, Hank sitting down with Charles next to him. Hank had a look of dread in his eyes for the approaching days to come, but Charles looked full of anticipation, ready to take mentoring on a full stride. There was a sense of aura surrounding him that indicated he always wanted to help people out, he cared so much for others.

A Sentinel came across Raven's vision, blocking out the mentors from her sight. She temporarily forgot the victors and registered herself – having to put down her real name – on a clipboard the Sentinel was carrying. After being given the thumb to where she was to be placed from the Sentinel, Raven made her way over to the sixteen-year-old section, where a crowd of frightened girls her age stood, some crying and some with stony faces.

Mystique prayed for the Reaping to be finished quickly, because she hated it every year, having to watch helpless victims crawl themselves up the stairs, sobbing and wailing as they were marched off to their deaths. In District Ten, you never got a volunteer, _ever_. They were all reaped, unlucky enough to be killed off like animals in the arena.

Time was slow as it ticked away on the large clock mounted on the face of the Justice Building. It all began to feel suffocating to Raven as she watched the parents wave goodbye to their kids. She never got the chance to say goodbye to her parents.

_Never._

Eventually, the square began to fill up to the brim until everyone was there for the horrendous Reaping. Sentinels took up their posts, stoic and motionless amongst the frightened families and children.

The mayor stood up and strode to the microphone, his voice booming down the end of it. "Greetings, District Ten," he said in a slightly sad tone. He then proceeded to the speech which was always annually recited every year, announcing the reason why they were all living in poverty and watching their children die because of the Districts rebelling against President Thanos' rule during the Dark Days.

A mixture of anger and fear filled Raven's head, the thoughts circling the walls of her skull, endlessly reminding her of how harsh the world is. She longed to scream, _'It's not the _kids'_ fault!'_

Gradually, the mayor concluded his speech with a "Good luck." He walked back to his seat just when the escort strode onto the stage.

There was a loud echo of J. Jonah Jameson trotting onto the stage with a gleeful smile gracing his taut face. His hair was shortly cropped and greying, his suit grey and pinstriped, and his eyes were fixated on the audience. As he leaned into the microphone, his accent was clipped and pompous, full of bold arrogance.

"Greetings ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide open. His thick eyebrows furrowed together in question, focused entirely on the cameras. "Shall we see if we can get a victor this time?!"

There was a weak response from the audience, and Raven chuckled in amusement at all of this silly nonsense Jameson was exaggerating.

"Right, ladies first, right?" Jameson spoke down the microphone, loud and haughty. He clapped his hands firmly together, as if preparing himself for a big turn of events. Turning around and reaching his hand into the females' glass bowl, his hand swirled and suddenly dipped, plucking a slip of paper out.

He unrolled it and shouted out the name. "Raven Darkholme!"

…_What?!_

_Oh shit._

Raven Darkholme stared straight ahead in shock.

Kids were glancing around in confusion, murmurs of relieved, curious voices filling the air. Nobody knew who she was.

Eventually the Sentinels would make sense of who she was and drag her to the stage, putting her in a position of embarrassment and humiliation and she didn't want that.

Grunting in bitter anger, the girl everybody knew as Mystique started her way through the crowd. _Stay calm. Stay calm._ She urged herself to retain a neutral expression on her face. The murmurs increased as the kids studied her as if they never saw her before.

She knew what she must look like to them. A thin, petite girl with flaming scarlet hair the colour of blood, with amber-coloured eyes shaped cat-like, with stark pale skin covered almost entirely in blue, swirling tattoos. She must have looked daring, brave and tough with an irritable pout on her full-lips above her long chin.

Well, she hoped she looked daring, brave and tough…

"So, you're the beautiful Raven Darkholme?" Jameson inquired as the girl sauntered up the stairs, her eyes full of bitter rage.

"Yes," she replied, not attempting to conceal her furious tone.

Jameson grinned broad; flashing white teeth blinded her, and shook her hand. His flesh was full of warmth, his veins pulsing with energy, whilst Raven's hand was cold like she was already empty and dead.

Jameson yelled out, "And now, for the boys!"

He went off to the male glass bowl, completely ignoring Raven for now. The girl stood there on the stage, glaring out at the audience. She was full of scorn for the lucky kids who had everything in their lives: families, friends, education, food, shelter and simply a future to live. Whilst Raven had nothing left.

Staring out at the audience, at the faces of relieved girls her age had left Raven wanting to scream out and punch the Gods for this horrendous fate of hers. What did she do to _deserve this?_ Why wasn't she given the freedom to enjoy life like others her age? Why did the Capitol have to do this to her?

Her thoughts were cut off by Jameson's bold voice echoing out: "Edward Brock!"

Raven glanced out at the crowd. All she needed to do now was to study her district partner, and see if he was worthy enough to an ally. She would have to be on guard all the time now; there was nothing for her to do but to fight for her freedom and survival even more than before.

There was silence in the square, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The fourteen years old section split apart to form a circle around two boys.

"Ah!" Jameson called out. "And which of you strapping young lads is Edward?"

The redhead one of the boys waved in the air, an ecstatic grin on his face. "Hello there, Jimmy! I got your boy right here!" He tapped a finger on the other, frightened boy's head. "But hey, he looks like he doesn't wanna go, doesn't he, why just look at that mug, eh? How about I take him off your hands for ya?"

To Raven's surprise, this boy with vivid red, dishevelled hair jumped into the air like an excited little kid receiving candy. "Me! Pick me! Pick me! I VOLUNTEERAH, AS TAH-RIBUTAH!"

Jameson's jaw dropped in shock, his eyes glazing over in wonder. This was the first time in decades they had a volunteer from District Ten. Raven's eyebrows shot up as she watched the lean and slightly muscular boy skipped up the stairs and bounding onto the stage, a grin plastered across his face. There was something very disturbing about the boy; his grin and eyes looked maniac and insane, the shine in his eyes resembling a shark's hunger.

"Hey, Jimmy! HiJimmypleasuredoingbusinesswithya!" the volunteer gushed in a stream of words cascading from his lips. He strode up and stood next to Raven.

Jameson momentarily stared at the new Tribute, his mouth wide open. He blinked and found his voice, spluttering, "So, uh…What's… What's your name?" Raven couldn't help herself but roll her eyes. _Get a grip, man and carry on._

The redhead leaned toward Jameson, grabbing the microphone and bellowing into it. "MY NAME IS CLETUS KASSADY! Remember it, Jimmy, 'cause I'm going places!"

Raven rolled her amber eyes_. I guess I'm definitely not pairing up with this lunatic who will probably stab himself in the eye._

Jameson gulped and grabbed their hands to shake together. Raven glared into the insane eyes of Cletus Kassady. For now, she was stuck with this strange dude, until she can kill him off in mercy…

She was going to have kill people like Cletus in order to survive. She had nothing left to lose, except for her life.


	12. Chapter 11: Family Matters

**(A/N) Hey guys, bet you weren't expecting an update today! Because I want to have all the Reaping chapters up and available before the end of the month, I've decided to post this chapter, written by myself and my wonderful girlfriend, InDeepDarkWood - the so-called "Dream Team", in her words (she insisted that I put that bit in). So, welcome to District Eleven, feel free to leave a review and let us know what you think! The last Reaping chapter will go up on Tuesday, as usual, but there may be a slight delay as we make the transition to the Capitol (nothing major, just need to evaluate my workload and work out what are timetable is going to be like across our range of fics). I am very excited to share what we've got with you all - there some very, very talented writers taking part here!**

**TheMetaReborn: We aim to please! And yes, definitely feel free to message us with any ideas you may have - can't guarantee anything, but I'd still love to here your thoughts regardless! While nothing's concrete, I would love to do a sequel if we get enough feedback on this fic, so fire away!**

**Created for Writing: Most the questions you've been asking will be addressed in future chapters, I'm sure, but there is one that I can answer, which is that Doc Ock and the Asgardians are together because they're in District Four, the fishing district. And where else are you going to put an octopus? Hope you're enjoying the fic so far, and we hope you'll stick with us. The answers are out there!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – Family Matters**

**District Eleven Reaping**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood &amp; NicKenny**

* * *

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

"_Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what." _

_– _Harper Lee,_ To Kill a Mockingbird_

* * *

She couldn't sleep.

It was always difficult to fall into the oblivion during the summer months, when the sun beat down hard on the land for the entire day and the ill-equipped buildings soaked up the rays until they resembled giant furnaces. The air was sticky and stifling with body heat and mugginess, and each breath felt clogged, like all the fresh air had been sucked out. She was inhaling other people's used breaths. The thought made her stomach clench up even further, and she lay as still as possible on the edge of the bed, avoiding contact with the sleeping and sweaty frame beside her. Her nose wrinkled up in undisguised disgust, though she convinced herself that it was her nerves and not true distaste, and the next night would be better.

"Psst," she whispered, wincing as her voice echoed in the room. "You awake?" She could hear herself in the quiet, feeling the rustle of sheets as her chest rose and fell in shallow motions. Tracing the wooden ceiling beams with her eyes, she waited for a response that may or may not be given, whether or not her friend was asleep. It was never fully dark in the house; the rotating beams of floodlights hit the window at regular intervals, blinding any awake and warning potential thieves away from the orchards. She smiled to herself, slightly forced but assured by the knowledge that performing a happy action would cause the emotion to spread over her. She had stolen contraband inside her pillowcase, jealously guarded and counted each night and morning to ensure no one else had decided to claim it.

"I'm awake." The reply startled her a little, though she tried not to show it, since any outward movement would just make things hotter in the room. She tilted her head over to glance at her bed sharer; she was not really fully aware of the surroundings, that much was clear. Ororo frowned at the sight of the drooling girl. "Why don't you sleep?" she breathed sleepily.

"Can't sleep."

"If it makes you feel better, I have less slips in the ball."

"How on earth is that supposed to make _me_ feel better, Misty?" The question didn't seem to have occurred to the other girl, who opened her eyes a fraction, contemplating the words. Ororo waited, as another spotlight flashed through the room, illuminating the bodies that occupied it.

"Huh. Well, it makes me feel better about myself. Goodnight." She frowned at Misty's logic, the expression deepening as her friend rolled away from her and moved closer to the other bed occupant. Flopping a bit on the bed, she tried to find a more comfortable position to fall asleep in, twisting her head away from the window and welcoming the slightly darkened result. There was no clock in the room, and she only had the sound of her heart in her head to count the time away. _One. Two. Three._ She liked to play the counting game in her head; Nanny had told her long ago that it was better to imagine something in her mind, like sheep jumping a fence, but Ororo had only ever seen the skinned leg of such a creature before, so she stuck to counting her heartbeat.

Her heart was slower than a clock face, so her time was distorted. If something happened, and she was called tomorrow, she would have to learn to speed it up and make real time match. _Won't happen,_ she told herself. "Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty_-_seven, fifty –"

"Wormy, you better _shut your trap_ before I close it for you!" The rotating beam of light brightened the room and Ororo found herself caught in the glare of a braid-sporting girl. At sixteen, Monica Rambeau was second eldest, and therefore was given the rights of sharing a bed with only one other person. The girl beside her gave a small groan of annoyance, tugging at the night shirt, though the other ignored it.

"I couldn't sleep and –"

"And you decided to wake everyone else up with your stupid counting?" She tried not to flinch under Monica's gaze. Nobody messed with Rambeau; she knew a thing or four about dishing out the law.

"Fine. Sorry I –"

"_Shut it!_" Ororo flopped back down on her bed, mirroring the loud sigh from the other bed. And, since counting her heart was out of question, the stifled girl traced the knots on the ceiling's wood each time the beam of light passed, and waited until morning.

* * *

She tried to keep a low profile at breakfast the next morning, her eyes feeling like they were sagging out of her face, though she knew that she had fallen asleep at some point, since she had jerked awake to find herself encased in a sticky and sweaty hug from a sleeping Misty. Ororo was good at keeping herself relatively cool in hot weather; it was one of her little talents, regulating her body with the aid of lukewarm tea. She boiled the water, and brewed a pot, and then filled and boiled the water again, since it seemed that all the residents in the house wanted something hot inside them, despite the nature of the weather. She pushed open a window while she waited for the pot to be ready, idling away from the unruly table behind her.

The conversation seemed too deliberate for her liking, staying away from the topic on everyone's mind, including her own. The girl took a small breath, trying to find and escape into the little island of calm she kept in her mind for days such as this. She smiled to herself as the serenity washed over her, balancing the pot with practiced ease and pouring out the hot liquid into any offered cup. She saved the strongest dredges for Nanny, nodding her head in greeting at the older woman, who gave a small thin smile in return. Misty had created a gap on the table's bench, and Ororo hastily made claim, elbowing Jericho on the other side to widen the space. The boy shot a hiss in her direction, but she kept her smile on her face, innocently reaching across him to grab a piece of bread and an egg.

"David had nightmares last night, Nanny," Tom was saying from across the table. The giant of a teenager took up a third of the bench, squeezing the smaller occupants together until they had little room to call their own. Ororo shot the boy in question a look; David was the youngest, at seven. Even as his name was mentioned, he dropped his eyes to the floor, not before she caught sight of glistening tears. They had brought him to Nanny, she and Tom, when the Sentinels had taken his father away, and the older boy had looked out for him. Nanny called the pair David and Goliath, and the name was starting to stick for Tom.

"Hush a-by baby, on the tree top," Nanny said soothingly in David's direction. Ororo tilted her head away, back to her own breakfast, examining it for a moment, before reaching over and clapping Jericho on the ear with the flat of her palm, her head turned to get a full view of him. The younger boy hollered slightly, earning the attention of the rest, and Ororo twisted her hand into a claw, clamping down on his ear. The yelling grew louder.

"Alright, Thief, where's the rest of my bread?"

"I ain't taken your bread. Maybe it was Brother?" She tilted her head to one side, smiling a little.

"You know as well as I do, Jericho, that Brother can't do much when he's stuck in the mirror," she said, her voice carefully detached as he scratched at her hand.

"Let _go_, Wormy!"

"Don't call me Wormy, Thief!" She sprang at him like a cat, knocking him clean off the end of the bench and squeezing into his shoulders with her fingernails. Strong hands grasped her in less than a heartbeat, bodily lifting her off the struggling opponent. She resisted, writhing in the grip for a moment, before taking a breath, and finding her little island again. As she exhaled, hands lowered her back down to let her feet touch the ground, though kept a hold of her for a little longer before Tom took a step back and went back to his breakfast. Eleven other pairs of eyes turned to look at her own one, and she gave a small frown. "He took my bread," she stated, sliding back into her spot.

"It might be the last time I get to taste it, you know," Jericho grumbled, plonking himself beside her and picking moodily at his leftovers.

"Don't worry, Jericho, your name's only in it as much as me," Misty commented helpfully, chewing on her egg. "Goliath's in there way more. So's Chord."

"Geez, way to make us all feel better, Mist," Chord snapped, bringing a hand to his forehead.

"Either way, you're out of here, Chord," she continued as she finished her egg. Ororo stopped eating at the words, and the quiet that descended over the table, teenager and child alike, trailed against her skin like some malevolent God, reminding them all of the near-future task. Misty seemed oblivious to the ill-ease of the rest of the group. Ororo didn't think she had been like that last year; she recalled sweaty palms and a continuous urge to vomit on the Sentinel that had pricked her hand to match blood samples. The extended pause was broken as the eldest boy began to eat again, his action a signal to the gathered. The girl finished her bread, sipping on her tea, observing her mismatched family.

Misty was right; Chord was leaving them today. His time was up, and Nanny wouldn't welcome him back after the Reaping. That was the rule, but she didn't think the older minded all that much. He'd started working full-time in the orchard, now that he had finished schooling, and he had two accidental mouths to feed once he left the security of their family. Ororo didn't know if Nanny was aware of his children; she herself had found out by surprise, and had kept her mouth shut.

_Can't let Nanny take them away,_ she had thought then.

The words stuck with her as she met Chord's eyes across the table, seeing the mixture of fear and hope on his face. The odds were not in his favour, after all, with two hundred and ten scraps of paper reading **Andrew Chord** in the bowl. The girl felt sorry for him, and gave him a kick under the table to show she cared. She saw Monica, sitting next to Nanny cut her a glare, and brought her leg back underneath her where it belonged. _She doesn't have x-ray vision,_ she told herself sternly, looking away to the other side of the woman and slipping into a conversation.

"You all better not get your clothes dirty," Cecilia was saying, a frown on her features as she took in the children around her.

"We're not even old enough yet, why do we have to wear nice things?" David complained.

"Y'all gotta dress up nice, or Nanny will send you into the orchard." Cecilia's threat hung over the four. Ororo sipped her tea to avoid a smile at the stricken faces. It was no laughing matter, and she knew the threat was serious since it had been issued to her before; she had been a lucky one, able to come back home. "And y'all over there," the girl spoke again, waving her hand at Ororo's end, "better not get dirty either. I don't have time to be cleaning up your shit, you he – Ouch!" Cecilia silenced her outburst quickly at the sharp crack she received from Nanny.

"Little children shouldn't swear, child."

"Yes, Nanny." In a split second, the girl was no longer a stern figure, but a sombre fourteen year old.

"Good. Now, y'all best get ready before them Sentinels cart you away and throw you over the wall. They no good at puttin' you back together 'gain." Nanny fell into mutterings, Ororo picking up half a name in the gibberish. She spent the time dressing trying to figure it out. _Hump...Humphrey? Humpyo? _She thought about asking Misty her opinion on the matter, but guessed she was occupied as she struggled to tame her hair into a respectable condition. The girl examined her own hair in the daylight; the sun made it glint more than usual, highlighting the silver quality it held. _White,_ her subconscious said helpfully. Ororo went to her calm island, before her Misty-like mind could cause her to throttle herself.

Once in her Reaping clothes, and her hair presentable, she made her way out of the girls' room and downstairs. Nanny was still in the kitchen where they'd left her, gazing out the window. Jericho and Tom were standing, looking like two awkward growing trees. The clothes they wore were nice enough, but it was clear that the latter had outgrown his apple-red shirt and badly needed to hand it down to the former. _He'll have Chord's stuff next year,_ she thought to herself, but kept the words quiet. _If he comes home._ It would be strange, if Goliath was pulled from the bowl.

"You look nice, Wormy," Jericho said grudgingly, after a not so subtle dig from the other boy. Tom gave a small sigh at the nickname, and Ororo forced a smile on her face, focusing her bad eye on him until she saw him twitch under the gaze and glance away. Cecilia had fixed up Monica's old dress for her. She despised it, thinking that the burnt yellow fabric would be more functional as culottes than an impractical dress.

"Thanks, Jericho," she responded as expected of her.

"And Brother," Jericho reminded her, tapping his shoulder and giving a small smile.

"Sure, and Brother," she said, matching his begrudged tone of before and suppressing a sigh as the rest of their family filed in, each inspected by Nanny from a distance. There was a long moment of silence before the older woman stood, fixing David's shirt and pulling the youngest girl's dress down past her knees. She stopped at Chord, the eldest and therefore the top of the line, and patted his chest in a motherly fashion.

"Safe journey, Andrew Chord. Time for you to grow up. You ain't a child no longer," Nanny said softly. Ororo saw the mess of emotions in his eyes again, blinked away in an effort to remain composed. He was so close, and yet, still so far away. Nanny took a step away from him, examining her charges with a critical eye. "'Member this, children, if it's your time to go, it's your time. Y'all be strong, don't let them see and don't let them know if y'all a tremblin' inside. You don't volunteer. You don't cry. And if y'all come home to Nanny, she'll keep you safe for 'nother year."

Ororo nodded at the words, but Nanny had already left the house, her family falling into step behind her. The girl squinted for a moment as the sun blinded her, adjusting to the light as her vision cleared. Once outside, the line of ages broke formation, Ororo catching up to Cecilia and Tom while the younger members raced ahead. It didn't matter to them that they knew what the day was, lost in the moment of friendly competition where winning didn't involving cutting off someone's head. She remained quiet, walking in companionable silence away from the house and towards the main square of the district. She was lucky, she supposed, that they lived so close to the area. Other families from the edge of the far orchards had to leave at the break of dawn. In the dry heat, most of their clothes had been dirtied and stained from the dust and sweat, and many were subjected to ridicule from the ever-perfect, ever-crisp Sentinels.

"'Ro! Wait up!" She turned at the sound of the voice back along the main road, searching for the owner. The foot-traffic was not especially busy, but was a steady stream of all the residents out for Reaping Day. The girl wrinkled her nose at the sight of a woman carrying a picnic basket, her children too young for selection. _Make a day of it_, she grumbled internally, before spotting who she was really looking for. It wasn't exactly hard to do; Forge stuck out like a sore thumb as he weaved in and out of the populace. She caught sight of a few angered faces directed at him, but if the boy noticed, he ignored them spectacularly. Ororo was not so moral; she sneered at the faces and stuck her tongue out, nearly biting it in the process as he reached her and pulled her into a moving hug.

"Forge, g'off," she muttered into his arm, pulling herself away. "Your armpit smells like feet."

"Yes, but _my_ feet smell great, which translates to my pit, don't you think?" She gave a small giggle at the words, and the boy took the sound in his stride, his smile growing a little wider. "Hey, that's a nice dress. Better than your one last year. That was _hideous_. All moth-eaten and...Oh, hi Cecilia," Forge trailed off, realising who they were walking beside, and scratched his head ruefully. "I meant it was hideous on 'Ro, not you of course Cecilia," he added rather hastily.

The other girl stared at him in stony silence for a moment, before walking on, her long strides extending the gap between them and dragging Tom along in the process. Ororo clamped her hand over her mouth to avoid a chuckle emerging, her eye darting from Forge to Cecilia's back.

"You know, for someone who wants to help care for people, she sure doesn't have a lot of tact," he stated, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. It was well-known in school that the other didn't want to spend her adult life in the orchards, and had already started creeping around the medicine house on the outskirts of the square instead of attending class. The boy's frown disappeared as he glanced Ororo's way, and he gave her a dig with his elbow. "You're not supposed to laugh at me, 'Ro," he complained good-naturedly.

"You were pretty stupid there," she countered bluntly. "What an excellent way to make Cecilia like you."

"I hear sarcasm."

"So do I." She grinned at him, giving a dig of her own. Her elbow had barely made contact with his side, but he jumped at her, catching her by surprise. She dodged his first attempt, and slithered away like a snake at the second, until she spun around, ready to run and he encased her in an interlocked bear-hug, raising her up off the ground and continuing the spin, the pair circling on the dusty road. She couldn't help giving a little yell as she wriggled in his grasp, struggling to find a weakpoint; Forge would never let go if she asked. It took a moment to gain any momentum with her feet dangling in the air, but the little bit she had to swing herself up and move his grip slightly was enough that he broke his ring around her, and she staggered free, barely avoiding falling over and ruining the dress. It would be hers for another two years, at least, and she didn't want to be covered in holes when she was eventually in the fifteen year-old section. She turned back around to him, bad side first, gasping for breath. "That was a low –"

"Apologise to Wormy." Jericho had caught up, and had his hand at the bigger boy's throat. The scene would have been comical, seeing the younger so dwarfed, were he not joined by Tom, the speaker, Cecilia observing with her arms crossed from a distance.

"S'okay, Jericho, we were just messing arou –"

"Shut it, ghost gum, and say sorry," the smaller insisted, his thin fingers closing around Forge's collar. Beside him, Tom gave a small nod. The white boy shot Ororo a look; the girl was frowning fiercely at the two, eying the elder darkly.

"Sorry, 'Ro," Forge eventually said, and Jericho released him and took a step back. Tom nodded, satisfied, but the girl wasn't, marching over and palming each of them sharply. The younger winced, the older shrugging it off.

"Forge wasn't doing anything, Jericho, and you know that," she snarled, unable to find the calm island. "If you humiliate him again, I'll kill Brother. Don't think I won't."

"Don't say that in front of the ghost gum," Jericho hissed, shooting Forge a look. "He'll rat you out to the Sentinels." Then, as his eyes widened, he backpedalled away to Misty. Ororo took her friend's hand, pounding ahead of Tom and Cecilia, and tossing a look over her shoulder at the latter.

"Don't think I don't know this was _your_ idea," she growled. Forge gave her a small pat on the shoulder, and she glanced back to him, ignoring the offended look the other girl had given her. She let out a breath, grasping at the island in her head until her breathing slowed and her heart rate matched their strides. The boy stayed silent for the time, occasionally glancing down at her entwined hand, until she gave a final sigh and was able to smile and be calm again. "Sorry," she eventually said. Forge shrugged.

"Don't worry about it," he waved off. "I'm used to it." She felt a small frown form at his words, but forced it away, replaced by a smile. "Besides, the day that's in it, they're bound to be uptight. I know I am." Ororo gave his hand a little squeeze of reassurance; her brothers had much more of a reason to be worried than Forge, who with his job in the mines and fair skin had little need of the tesserae, but it was still a poor excuse for insults to be thrown. There was a few moments of awkward tension, the topic of the day hanging in the air, but both refusing to venture into that territory, and then they relaxed and the girl listened to Forge's ambitious idea he wanted to put forward to Ebersol on a new method of mining. Years of listening to the technological boy had given her a grasp of what he was planning, though she just nodded when she didn't understand, confident that he would explain it at a later date, once Ebersol had approved it. The rumble of voices up ahead grew louder as they approached the gathered citizens, and they both fell silent as they joined the queue of teenagers.

"I'll volunteer for you," Forge said suddenly, starting Ororo and causing her to drop his hand. "If you get reaped. I'll do it." She had to turn her head to view him properly, unsure whether his face matched the serious nature of his tone. When it appeared to be the case, she let a look of shock pass over her, before breaking into a grin, a little too toothy to be entirely sincere, and punched him in the shoulder.

"I get it; if you wanted to wear the yellow dress so much Forge, you could've just said so," she responded, and he gave a half-hearted chuckle at the words, looking away. "I don't think President Thanos would be pleased if two boys appeared from Eleven. Or Ross for that manner." She jerked her head towards the front of the town hall, where the skinny escort sat with their only Victor, Sam, and Eleven's mayor.

"Guess not," he conceded, moving away as the genders were segregated into smaller lines. Ororo held out her hand to the Sentinel when she reached the woman, disconcerted by the inability to see her eyes through the visor. She gave a nod once her hand was returned to her, and made her way down the gangway and into the thirteen year-old section, crossing her arms and squinting up at the hall in an effort to find her calm island and ignore the murmurs around her. She thought she could hear the pounding heartbeats, the beads of sweat dripping from nervous foreheads. _Don't be stupid,_ she growled to herself. _That's just _your_ heart in _your_ head._ The murmurs stopped abruptly as Eleven's escort and mayor stood, the latter tapping the microphone and generating a harsh reverberation before moving aside.

"My, my, what a fine turnout we have today, and what a great effort _this_ year on outfits." Everett Ross was not an especially tactful man. Ororo thought it grieved him to see such hand-me-down clothes and a lack of finesse. His own suit was crisp and perfect. _Oh-so-perfect_, she thought with a little inward snort. She winced as the girl beside her stomped on her foot, and turned her attention back to the escort as he blithered away on glory and honour and rolled the film. It was always played on her bad side, and the girl had a creak in her neck by the time the Marvel President's smiling face faded from the screen. "Right, well, let's get to it!" Ororo could almost hear the collective wince at the chirpy man's expense, replaced by a collective breath intake as the two glass bowls were wheeled up beside him.

Relative to population size, a Capitolite would probably think that there had been an error in the number of slips per bowl. The girl stared grumpily at the almost-filled container, thinking about all her named slips. She was lucky, she supposed, to be as young as she was; Monica's one hundred and forty slips were far more daunting than her measly fifty. She knew others though, within the District, had even more than Chord. _Good odds,_ she told herself, feeling a little guilty as Everett dipped his hand into the left bowl and swirled the paper around for dramatic effect. "Boys first this year, I think?" he beamed out, shooting a look back at Sam. "Worked for you, Falcon." Ororo knew that somewhere in the surrounding crowd, Nanny was thinking that the escort had just brought down terrible bad luck on the male tribute. She held her own breath as the man withdrew a piece of paper and uncurled it.

"T'Challa...Um…no, there's no surname – _is there?" _he hissed, though Ororo couldn't tell who he was directing the question to. "Okay so, just T'Challa!"

A ripple of murmurs shot through the crowds, teenagers and adults alike. On the platform, Ororo thought the mayor was going to collapse, the Victor reaching a steadying hand towards him. The older man shrugged him away, and she followed his eyes to where the boy made his way out of the sixteen year-olds. The mumbling increased in decibel, most notably in the boys' section. She glanced towards the eighteens, wondering if one of them would sacrifice themselves and instantly found Chord. Her brother's face was a strangled mix of relief and fear. A quick scan of the rest and a similar emotion was found. _No, then._

"Alright! Alright, chill out, be _cool!_" The escort's voice rose in pitch, and the Sentinels flanking him took a synchronised, deliberate step forward. The murmurs ceased, and in silence, T'Challa shook hands with the escort. "Girls' turn!" he stated, moving quickly to avoid another eruption of noise. There was less drama, less flair, the escort's head glancing towards the dark boy beside him before whipping a slip out. Ororo could feel her whole body tense up and the short arm hairs rise, reaching out as though to touch the girls on either side of her.

"Ororo Munroe!" Everett called.

She thought about running.

She could get away from the Sentinels. She was small, and fast and knew the orchards. Forge had thought her about electrics. She could make it over the fence before they caught her. Her heart hammered in her chest, threatening to leap out, and she made to move away from the platform, away from her sentencing. _No!_ She snarled at herself. They would catch her, and frog-march her to the stage, and everyone would see the poor little girl on television that tried to run away and wasn't worth their time and money.

_Don't let them see,_ she told herself, forcing her body to straighten and move towards the hall. _Don't let them know, _she thought as she kept her movements strong, _and tremble on the inside._ There was a round of applause as she made it up beside T'Challa and Ororo swung her face out, unable to find the calm island inside. She was fairly certain they were cheering the fact she hadn't run. The girl would have done the same.

"Well, here we have it; T'Challa and Ororo, your District Eleven tributes!" The escort beamed at the disheartened clapping as the two shook hands before him.

"You can just call me Wormy. It's what everyone does," she told T'Challa, forcing her voice not to break. The older teen looked affronted, and Ororo walked away and into the Hall, led by a Sentinel, glancing back to see the mayor and boy walking side-by-side.

* * *

Forge came first to her. There was only one of him, and thirteen of her family, so he was quicker. His pale face was whiter than normal as he pulled her into a rib-crushing hug. She could hear his heart in his chest as she squashed up against him. It was a long time before he released her, grasping her shoulders and holding her tightly, his eyes roving over her face.

"The odds are in your favour," he said, "and I'll see you when you get back." His voice was strained, and lacked any sort of conviction, but she was grateful for the sentiment. _At least he didn't say 'goodbye',_ she thought.

"You can say it," she replied. "I'm too small, I'm too weak, I'm too young, I've no cha –" She broke off as the boy's hand cracked across her face.

"You have _every _chance." Forge's hand was trembling, and he stared at it for a moment before fumbling with his wrist. Ororo tilted to get a better view and realised it wasn't his body but an object on it that he was wrestling with. It slid off into his hand and he held it up to the light where it glinted slightly, its swirling pattern dancing. In one swift movement, the band slid over Ororo's hand, weighing down her wrist. She recognised the vibranium metal instantly. "Your token. You will come home. You won't be like Eric. You and I will –"

"Time's up, kid."

"Just a second," he told the white clad, ambiguously gendered Sentinel. The latter took a step forward, and Forge turned to Ororo and gave her a sad smile, before leaning over and pressing his lips to hers. It was over in a brief moment, and he pulled away, the girl reaching for the hand that slapped her and squeezing it tightly. "Safe journey."

_Still not 'goodbye',_ she thought, tasting the salt of his tears on her lips, and wondered why she couldn't cry herself. She sat in silence until the door opened again, and her pseudo-family piled in, Nanny at the helm. Ororo was picked up by the force of the many-handed hug, looking over the top of Tom's head to see Cecilia corralling the younger children, giving her a brief nod of condolence. Jericho, beside her, wiped his nose against the back of his hand, a smear of mucous following, and sniffled.

"Brother's sad you're going, Wormy. So am I," he admitted, sniffing again.

"Keep hidden, Ororo, don't trust those ghost gum Careers," Tom said, his voice low. Beside him, Misty spit on the ground to amplify the insult.

"Get an ally," Chord whispered to her as he pulled her into an individual hug. "Watch your back. Watch the height. Don't be like Eric and get picked off that way." Ororo nodded against his head, the movement restricted slightly. Eric, their brother. Eric, whom she was following. Eric, who never came home.

"When you come back child, them Capitol folk might-a given you an eye patch to match D'ector Fury," Nanny said, smiling as she pointed at Ororo's useless eye. "Nice, child, would it?" She gave a small nod at the question. "'Member what Nanny told you, child. You be strong. You don't cry. You don't let them know you a-tremblin'." She gave another nod, her stomach clenching inside as she was embraced once more by her family, as the Sentinel called for time once more.

"Don't go," Ororo whispered to Nanny, the woman she'd known longer than her mother.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Nanny's gonna buy you a jabberbird.

And if that jabberjay don't sing,

Nanny's gonna buy you a vibr'ium ring."

Ororo knew the words, and echoed the remaining verses in her head as Nanny walked out the door singing gently, her Lost Boys and Girls following their leader, leaving the girl alone.

* * *

**T'Challa of District Eleven**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

_"Honor is no phantom. Duty doesn't melt away, no matter how much we might wish it to." _  
― Claudia J. Edwards, _Taming the Forest King _

* * *

"What are you working on, Ebersol?" T'Challa asked, as he approached the older man, who lay bent over a table of blueprints, muttering under his breath. Paul Norbert Ebersol turned his head slightly, inclining it in T'Challa's direction, and sighed.

"We received the latest pneumatic rock drill designs from the Capitol – they're delivering several of them later in the week, and as the Head Engineer I need to know how to run proper maintenance on them. It'd help if we made them up here, but of course, they're manufactured over in Three, and those egg-heads can't write a comprehensive instruction manual for their lives."

He paused for a moment, and then looked up at T'Challa, blinking blearily in the harsh light of the room. "Wait, what are you doing here, T'Challa? Shouldn't you be home, preparing for the Reaping?"

T'Challa simply shrugged, and glanced at the blueprints with a keen eye, before mumbling a reply. "My father is showing our visitors from the Capitol around the district today – I felt that doing some work was an acceptable loss if it gave me a reason to get out of the house for a few hours. I have been down in the mines since dawn – Klaw has been working us hard."

Ebersol grunted and spat on the ground this his left, making his disdain clear upon hearing Klaw's name. "That sounds like him all right. Don't know what your father was thinking, establishing him as the steiger for this mine. We've got some prime loams of vibranium ore down here, and deserve a better foreman than that white gorilla."

"White gorilla? Really?" T'Challa asked sceptically, ignoring the slight on his father's judgement. "I did not think you were the kind to resort to racial slurs, Ebersol, especially given your apprentice...Forge, right? Where is he, anyway?"

"Not everyone shares your work ethic, T'Challa," the engineer remarked wryly. "He took the day off – he _is_ still of Reaping age, y'know. And as for Klaw, I'll call that rat bastard whatever I damn well like. Forge is a good kid, for a whitey, but Klaw's something else entirely."

"Still, Ebersol, spreading racial hatred doesn't help anyone. White gorilla, ghost gum, whitey…those terms are all part of the problem. Most of us already live from hand to mouth as it is – there is no use stirring up old problems."

The engineer snorted at the sound of the young man's reasoning. "Please. Did your father write that for you? We all know his whole 'reconciliatory' movement towards the…_white population_ of District Eleven is due to the Man-Ape's popularity with them," he said, pointedly emphasising the politically correct term. "Got those gorillas properly riled up, he has, and it doesn't take a genius to know that it's going to come to blows sooner or later."

"M'Baku's popularity in certain sectors _is _growing," T'Challa conceded, "but my father cares little for what people think, Ebersol, as long as he believed he is doing right. You, of all people, should know that."

Ebersol grimaced a little, the jab landing home – T'Chaka had recognised potential in the engineer when he was a younger man, and T'Challa just a child, elevating him to his current position over many others with more experience. Ebersol had certainly gained a lot from T'Chaka's favour, but it hadn't endeared the mayor to the miners, at least until the engineer managed to prove his worth.

"I just call it like I see it, kid," he replied, some of the fight going out of his voice, but a slight smile remained behind his eyes – their argument had been one they had gone through many times before, though with varying outcomes depending on the current situation, but there was certainly no anger in it. Despite Ebersol's tendencies to act the role of the bigot, T'Challa knew he supported T'Chaka's racial equality policies as much as any man, and he also knew that Ebersol knew he knew this.

"If only you, and everyone else, did not only see things in black and white, 'Fixer'," he replied smoothly, a smile making its way onto his face as he used the engineer's workplace nickname, "the world would be a better place."

"I see plenty of blue and purple, T'Challa," Ebersol replied cryptically, but T'Challa knew he was referring to the Sentinels, given that their armour was coloured purple with a blue trim, "but I'd give my right hand to be rid of _those _colours, I'll tell you that."

T'Challa frowned at the older man's words, and glanced around furtively, well aware of the possible consequences for saying what the engineer has just said. "It is as it is," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "You should be more careful with your words, my friend."

He shifted uneasily in his spot, waiting for the engineer to reply, but receiving nothing. "I should go now, while we might all wish otherwise, today is Reaping Day, and we cannot have the son of District Eleven's mayor turning up caked in dust and sweat."

Ebersol nodded absent-mindedly, having already turned back to the blueprints on his desk. "You coming back this week – I know you usually work the fields over the weekend, but if you feel like coming down when we get those rock drills delivered, I could use some help getting them ready. Might be interesting, I know Forge is dying to get his hands on the new tech."

"I would like that," T'Challa murmured, stopping by the door. "Unless I'm Reaped, of course," he added, almost as an afterthought, before ducking out through the doorway, almost missing Ebersol's sarcastic "May the odds be ever in your favour!" – complete with a perfect rendition of a typical Capitolite's accent.

He grinned to himself as he made his way out of the engineers office, and through the managerial complex on the edge of the mine, the noise of men, women and machinery at work ringing out all around him, almost deafeningly. However, his grin slipped slightly when he caught sight of the foreman, Ulysses Klaw, apparently arguing with a group of miners. For all his talk earlier with Ebersol, he privately harboured his own opinions on Klaw, and hadn't come to a favourable conclusion. Like the engineer, he wasn't entirely sure why T'Chaka had installed Klaw into this position, but he trusted his father's judgement.

"What's the problem here?" he asked, raising his voice so that it could be hear over the noise of machinery.

Klaw glanced over at him, his expression furious, though it softened slightly as he realised who had spoken. While T'Challa was only sixteen – still a child, really, and certainly still of reapable age – there was little doubt in the district's mind that T'Chaka intended for his son to succeed him, and as a result T'Challa held a certain amount of respect in the district. Enough, at least, for Klaw not to reprimand him immediately for interfering in his running of the mine, and that was enough for now.

"Just people trying to duck work, T'Challa," he replied smoothly, his right hand gently stroking his beard. "I know it's Reaping Day, but we've got another couple of hours before we have to shut down for the day, and I caught this crew trying to sneak off."

"_It's our children's first Reaping," _one the miners explained, snapping off a quick flurry of nonsense words, clicks and whistles. _"There's no one at home to talk them through it – they're terrified, and they need their parents. Please, help us."_

Klaw glared at him, the noise meaning nothing to his ears – that was another divide amongst the white and black citizens of the district, as the latter had what was essentially an entirely separate language, known in the district as Wakandan. Based partially on slang terms and dialects that had come about during the formation of Marvel, as various ethnic groups – in this case, mostly…African-American and Caribbean, if T'Challa was remembering what he had read correctly, having availed of the handful of history texts his father, as mayor, was allowed to keep – were mixed together, forming District Eleven. The Capitol disapproved of it, and the Sentinels had spent a lot of time and manpower in trying to stamp it out, to the extent that it was only ever really spoken in times of emergency, when information had to be communicated without non-speakers understanding.

And of course, to make divisions in the district that much more problematic, the language was kept an unspoken and guarded secret from the white community, though they, of course, realised this, and resented it.

T'Challa sighed internally, realising his quandary, and glanced up at the sun, judging the time of day. "What shift are they on?" he asked Klaw, ignoring the impulse to reply directly to the miner who had spoken, knowing full well that that would only enrage Klaw further.

The foreman looked puzzled for a moment, and then shrugged. "You know we run the shifts informally on Reaping Day – there's no point trying to maintain a timetable when you've got a handful of hours to work with."

T'Challa nodded sagely and then glanced back at the miners. "Then have them another hour, and then call let them go home. Today, of all days, should be free of discord. Let them home to their families, Klaw, but have them make up the over the rest of the week."

A moment passed in which T'Challa thought Klaw might disagree, as a variety of emotions crossed the foreman's face before settling into a calm, guarded acceptance, and he gave a curt nod, and told the miners to get back to work, but they could clock off in an hour.

Despite the grateful looks that the miners shot his way, T'Challa couldn't help but think that he may have mishandled that situation, judging from the black look that Klaw shot his way when he thought the teenager's back was turned.

_Oh well,_ he thought wryly, _it is not like he will be the first enemy I have made out here. Why, I may not even have to deal with it later – it is Reaping Day, after all. __Who knows what will happen?_

With that thought in mind, he made his way out of the mining complex, walking through the throngs of people who had come to work this morning despite what day it was, until at last he reached the train station, where the mined vibranium would be transported directly to the Capitol. The tracks themselves passed right by the main town at the heart of the district, only a few hours walk away, and next to it ran a roughly made dirt road, a testament to those who made their way here each and every day.

T'Challa made his way home, walking slowly alongside the train tracks – which, in a few short hours, would bear the train carrying off the two unfortunate souls selected as this year's tribute. He tried not to dwell on this, but it was hard to keep his mind from returning to the topic. After all, he doubted whether there was a single person in the district – indeed, in _any _district – who managed to think of anything else on Reaping Day.

The sun beat down on him, his t-shirt stained with his sweat, as his feet beat a constant thread on the dusty path leading back towards the main town. He began to meet others on the road with increasing regularity, nodding casually to each and every one of them, passing a moment to exchange some friendly words with those he knew personally.

After an hour of walking, he stepped off the path to give way to a packed truck, one of the few motor vehicles in the district, used to transport miners to and from the vibranium mines. After all, there was no point in making them walk to their work – better to save their energy for the mines.

Watching the truck as it passed by and disappeared into the distance, where T'Challa could now just make out the outline of the town, he briefly wished that he, too, could be sitting in the back of it, under the cool shade of the covering tarpaulin.

However, he quickly pushed such selfish sentiments aside, and increased his pace when he realised that he was running a little later than planned, judging by the position of the sun. He could feel it getting cooler now, too – barely noticeable for those who hadn't lived their lives in the district, but for T'Challa detecting such a change was second nature.

On normal days, without the Reaping hanging over their heads, labourers would now be returning to work, on the field and in the orchards. The miners, of course, didn't have to concern themselves about the heat of the sun, working beneath the ground as they did.

Today, however, families would be spending time together, savouring every last moment out of fear that one of them could be gone – or two, if they both a son and daughter of reapable age. It wasn't unknown for the Games to claim more than one from a lone family, even in a single year. After all, both Susan and Johnathan Storm from District One had been reaped, though both of them emerging victorious was a deviation from the norm.

Those without families, like Ebersol, usually worked on Reaping Day anyway, even though they weren't legally obligated to do so. Of course, they had to finish to attend the Reaping itself, but Ebersol still had plenty of time to make it down, and he'd probably make use of one of the trucks to take him back to the heart of the district – he may have even been on the one that had passed T'Challa earlier.

Conversely, this was normally the busiest day of the year for T'Challa's own father, T'Chaka, given that he was the mayor of the district. Today was a day for meeting the representatives of the Capitol, introducing the escort and his retinue to the quirks of District Eleven, for putting on a good show before the ever-present eyes of the Capitol, for speeches and false words.

T'Challa understood the need for his father to take on the role of the loyal Capitol supporter on Reaping Day, and he himself took care to guard his tongue all year round, no matter the company, but he preferred to stay away from his home on Reaping Day each year. At the end of the day, there was only so much he could put up with, and the cloying patronising of the Capitol escorts often pushed him close to his breaking point.

He soon came into the edge of the town, walking through what had become known as the 'Heroes' Gate', at least where the Sentinels and the Capitol were concerned. To the citizens of District Eleven, it was known more informally as the 'Memorial Gate', inscribed as it was with the names of those who had been reaped each year, in honour of those taken.

T'Challa ran his hands gently over the surface of the wood, tracing the name of last year's male tribute, 'Carl Lucas', his fingers pressed up against the etching, before glancing at the others in no particular order, his brow furrowing and an unfamiliar emotion falling over him.

_Mike Peterson, Eric Brooks, Lukas Bishop, Shard Bishop, Dwayne Taylor, Byron Macabre, Angel Salvadore, Bill Foster, Elvin Halliday, Claire Temple, Samuel Wilson…_

He stopped upon reaching Samuel Wilson's name, his eyes automatically drifting towards the direction of the Victor's Village, his thoughts turning to District Eleven's lone victor. The names of those reaped were immediately inscribed onto the Memorial Gate after the Reaping, regardless of the outcome of the Games themselves, instilling one very important lesson – no one really wins the Avenger Games.

Even though Sam Wilson had made it home, T'Challa knew enough about the victor to know that the young man, about his own age, never returned after his name had been called out that Reaping Day. T'Challa had only met him once or twice, when the victor would meet with T'Chaka, looking for permission to carry out his flight tests – since coming home from the Games, he used his time and wealth to experiment on creating a man-sized flight suit, allowing him to glide along on the wind. Outside of these requests, though, he didn't seem to have much of a social life. Like most victors, from what T'Challa had gathered, Wilson lived alone, keeping himself isolated from the rest of the district for most of the year.

On Reaping Day, though, that was obviously impossible. Like T'Challa's father, he had a role to play in the proceedings.

T'Challa didn't envy them – despite the fear that nestled deep down in his stomach every year as Reaping Day neared, he had seen the toll it had taken on his father with each passing year. It was far easier to deal with the fear of being chosen, than having to facilitate the selection and inevitable death of one of the district's children.

Even so, each year T'Challa felt a pang of guilt when the male tribute's name was called out. His father had long ago instilled in all of his children a sense of responsibility for their district. As the son of the mayor, every action that he had ever made over the course of his life was scrutinised by those looking for an excuse to remove T'Chaka from power, whether they disagreed with his policies or simply hungered to take his place.

M'Baku was only the most recent of these political opponents, gathering support from within the district's white community, who continued to feel ostracised despite T'Chaka's conciliatory measures in an attempt to blur the divide between black and white. While many of the claims M'Baku's supporters made were simply, well, unsupportable, T'Challa knew enough about the treatment of whites in the district to understand their anger against their society, and why his father, as the leading figure of Capitol control, was viewed with such hostility by many amongst them.

The Man-Ape was a dangerous man, by all accounts, as rumours abounded that he voiced rebellious opinions against the Capitol in private, and had gained much support in doing so. Of course, that could only ever lead to trouble – T'Challa was no fool, short of an all-twelve-district rebellion, like during the Civil War, they wouldn't have a hope in hell of meeting the Capitol in open warfare. M'Baku's war-mongering would only bring punishment and retribution upon the already-suffering citizens of District Eleven, and as a result T'Challa was fully aware of the situation his father found himself in. Losing power to M'Baku meant ruin – not just for T'Chaka, but for the entire district.

That _could not_ be allowed to happen.

As a result, he found himself making his way towards him home, knowing only too well that he would find his father wining and dining this year's escort and his retinue, along with Samuel Wilson and a handful of other leading members within the district, including the troublesome Man-Ape. He had a role to play – the Capitolites always loved the 'faithful son' approach, declaring his allegiance to the district and the Capitol, though it had become harder and harder for T'Challa to maintain his credibility in the role.

His younger sister, Shuri, was waiting outside their home, dressed in a flimsy black dress cut just above the knee. He grinned, much to her evident fury, amused to see her decked out in such clothes, knowing too well how much she hated such finery – indeed, he was fairly sure that was the part of Reaping Day that she hated the most, rather than the actual Reaping itself.

His sobered up, somewhat, at that thought, well aware that either of them could be reaped. While the odds were certainly in their favour – they were, after all, the children of the district's mayor, and never had to worry about the starvation that was constant threat to the majority of those in the district – you could still never depend on them. One chance in a million was still a chance, and in T'Challa's experience million-to-one chances tended to crop up nine times out of ten.

"Where's father?" he asked his sister, smiling.

"He's with the escort, Mr Ross, in the library. Showing off how the other side lives before the Reaping starts, no doubt," she replied somewhat bitterly, and T'Challa nudged her lightly after walking up to her.

"Don't be worried, little sister, we'll pull through," he assured her, but was shrugged off.

"I'm not worried about _us, _T'Challa," she said, her tone implying that this should be obvious to him. "But what would father do if our names were called out? What would _Hunter _do, for that matter? You know how he's been, ever since he passed his last Reaping."

T'Challa nodded, understanding his sister's fear, for his older brother's actions had been worrying him too.

Hunter had been the first of his father's attempts towards reconciliation with the white population of the district, when he adopted him after the Sentinels had executed his parents for stealing food – a capital offence in District Eleven, and one for which there was no appeal. T'Chaka had taken the young child into his home, to act as an older brother to T'Challa, who had just turned one at that point.

T'Challa and Hunter had been pretty much inseparable until the last year or so, ever since Hunter passed his final Reaping, and began to become more and more outspoken against the actions of the Capitol in the district – something that was noticed, and approved by, those in M'Baku, the Man-Ape's, camp.

While T'Challa was sure that his brother would never turn on his adopted family, he was also well aware that Hunter resented the casual, thoughtless assumption of the district that T'Challa would serve as T'Chaka's successor. Hunter was, after all, the elder of the two, and as much a part of their family as anyone.

T'Challa should have seen his brother's resentment growing, particularly when people started referring to Hunter as the 'White Wolf', to distinguish, but also separate, him from their family's status, as that of the 'Black Panther'. To those who supported M'Baku, any such oversight would only confirm that T'Chaka's attempts at reconciliation were mere distractions, empty promises intended only to appease them.

T'Challa, however, knew differently, and was fully aware that his father had given no thought to a successor, dismissing such a concept as undemocratic and dictatorial – what right had _he _to decide who would lead the people of District Eleven after him, when that decision was, and should always be, in the hands of the people.

Unfortunately, given that the vast majority of the people in the district looked down on those of white skin, Hunter's prospects were virtually non-existent, regardless of his claims to legitimacy. It grieved T'Challa to see his brother so conflicted and angry, but nothing he or Shuri did seemed to help – rather the opposite, in fact, as it generally only served to drive Hunter further away.

"We will deal with things as they come to pass, Shuri – we can do nothing until then. You let me worry about Hunter. Today, you should just worry about all the people going to see you wearing that dress."

He laughed as she squawked in outrage and punched his arm, causing him to cry out in mock-surrender before entering their house and making his way to his room. Using water left out for him, he washed away the worst of the sweat and dirt of the morning's work, before changing into better clothes – the kind fit for the son of a district's mayor to wear on Reaping Day.

He made his way downstairs slowly, hearing voices coming from the library, and not quite sure whether he should make his way over or else join his sister in avoiding their visitors outside. However, this decision was made for him a moment later, as heard the library open and the voices become louder, as his father entered the hall with an unfamiliar, pale-skinned man – evidently this year's escort.

His father smiled upon seeing him, and brought the escort over towards T'Challa with the proper amount of pomp and dramatics.

"Mr Ross, please allow me to introduce you to my son, T'Challa," he intoned solemnly, his smile never leaving his face. "T'Challa, this is Mr Everett K. Ross, District Eleven's escort for this year."

The escort beamed, proffering a hand towards T'Challa. "It's great to meet you – your father's told me that you're sixteen, still up with a chance for the Reaping! You excited for it?"

T'Challa shook his hand solemnly, but remained silent, unsure of how exactly to answer the pale man's question. After a brief moment passed, Ross's smile faded slightly, and he glanced over at T'Chaka, a little perturbed. "Well, nice to meet you, T'Challa. I'll see you out there!"

"Yes, you will, Mr Ross," T'Challa replied, nodding his head, and his father, after shooting a warning look in his son's direction, escorted the escort out of the room.

T'Challa sighed internally as they left the room, aware that, once more, he hadn't quite lived up to the expectations his father had placed on him. While he tried, he had never quite managed to match his father's tact with dealing with the Capitol's citizens – how could he, what frame of reference did he have in order to judge the best way to act around them?

He walked outside, to where Shuri was still leaning against the fence on the edge of their property, still looking uncomfortable in her Reaping Day dress, though she lightened up slightly when she saw him in his tight-fitting slacks and uncomfortably over-starched white shirt.

"You meet Ross?" she asked, and T'Challa nodded slowly.

"He seems like an…interesting man," T'Challa murmured, and his sister snorted. "Do you think they get whiter each year intentionally, just to see what'll happen?"

Shuri giggled, and for a second T'Challa could see the child that she should have been, if fate hadn't made her the daughter of a district's mayor. He smiled to himself, glad to have done something right, at last, and leant forward upon the fence with her, waiting until it was time for the Reaping.

* * *

T'Challa watched as his father tapped the microphone, smiling a little awkwardly as a harsh reverberation echoed through the square, and stepped aside to let the escort speak.

"My, my, what a fine turnout we have today, and what a great effort this year on outfits," Ross gushed, and T'Challa frowned to himself, momentarily puzzled. After a second or two spent glancing around at the rest of his district, clad almost uniformly in browns and greys, he realised that the Capitolite must have simply been patronising them. It must be something of a shock for him to come here and see them assembled, devoid of the variety of colours and shades that he would be accustomed to seeing back in the Capitol.

"It's such an honour to be with you all today, as we make history by choosing your lucky tributes to go and represent District Eleven in this year's Avengers Games! But, before we get down to it, we have to play a video for you all, brought to you all the way from the Capitol!"

A screen lit up behind him, and the purple features of President Thanos dominated the video, solemnly intoning the standard message of loyalty, obedience, justice, punishment and forgiveness. Same video as last year, and the year before that, etcetera. T'Challa could just about act it out by memory at this point – in fact, he _knew _he could.

_Justice through punishment, forgiveness through justice, prosperity through forgiveness._

"Justice through punishment, forgiveness through justice, prosperity through forgiveness," the video informed the crowd, a moment later.

He drifted a bit then, until the video ended, and then refocused as Ross exclaimed, ""Right, well, let's get to it!"

Two glass bowls were wheeled out in front of him a moment later, and the yearly sense of dread began to settle in T'Challa's stomach at the sight of them, well aware that several slips within the balls bore his name.

"Boys first this year, I think?" he announced, looking back at Samuel Wilson, who looked genuinely uncomfortable at this point. "Worked for you, Falcon."

T'Challa sighed, knowing that inevitable comparisons would now be drawn between Wilson and whoever's name was drawn, back in the Capitol. Of course, that could actually work out well for the tribute, as it would probably help keep them in the viewer's mind, and indeed, that was probably what Ross intended.

At the same time, extra attention from the Capitol also meant extra attention from the other tributes, and Mr Ross may well have just drawn a target on the unlucky young man's back. Like many others in the crowd, his breath caught slightly as Ross dipped his hand into one of the balls, fingers clutching at a single piece of paper, which was withdrawn and read out with gusto.

"T'Challa!" the escort proclaimed, and then paused in confusion as he looking in vain for a surname. "Um…no, there's no surname – _is there?!" _he hissed to someone offstage, and then shrugged as the reply came through over his earpiece. "Okay so, just T'Challa!"

T'Challa barely noticed the murmurs that rippled through the crowd as he began to walk forward, a sense of sadness overriding his earlier fear. _I should have volunteered years ago, _he thought mournfully. _I could have used my life to save another's, fulfilling my duty to the district. Instead, this is how it ends…on a whimper._

He couldn't meet his father's eyes as he made his way onto the stage, and he only barely heard Ross trying to settle the crowd down, who were apparently somewhat perturbed by T'Challa's reaping. _You and me both, _he thought wryly, and caught the eye of Samuel Wilson, who nodded slightly to T'Challa, no doubt fully aware of how he was feeling at that moment.

"Girls' turn!" the escort stated, evidently trying to move on with the Reaping – a smart move, in T'Challa's opinion. People dreaded these enough, no point in dragging them out longer than necessary.

Ross glanced over in T'Challa's direction while drawing the name out, and there was less enthusiasm in his voice as he called out the name of the female tribute.

"Ororo Munroe!"

_Not Shuri, thank the gods, _was his first thought, as he scanned the crowd for the girl who bore the name, spotting her a moment later as she began to come forward.

_She's just a child_, was the second thought that came into his head, as small, white-haired girl detached herself from the thirteen-year-old section, and came forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson begin to clap his hands together, and around the girl, scattered applause broke out as others followed suit, well aware of the courage it must have taken to fight the urge to flee. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time an Eleven tribute had tried to run off, or fight their way out – those were the easy options, those who did so were giving in to their fear.

"Well, here we have it; T'Challa and Ororo, your District Eleven tributes!" Ross yelled out to crowd, when Ororo had made her way onto the stage, and T'Challa took the small hand that was proffered to him warmly, noticing, with a small shock, that one of the girl's eyes was clouded white – she was obviously unable to see out of it.

"You can just call me Wormy. It's what everyone does," she informed him, doing an admirable job of keeping her voice even, and turned away a moment later, while he continued to struggle with his feelings.

_She has to die for me to live, _he thought, and for the first time the true horror of the Avenger Games made itself clear to him. _How could I live with that? How could I come back and face everyone when they'd all know that let I let her die?_

His father fell in beside him as the Sentinels escorted them to the Justice Building – Ororo striding several feet ahead of them – but remained silent as they made their way there. _If he had let me take tesserae, I could have helped a lot of people, _he mused silently, surprised by the sudden anger growing within him. _All of the good I could have done, but instead I allowed him to convince me otherwise, and for what? How many starved so I could hide from my responsibilities? _

_I should have done _more_, with the time I had._

Lost in thought, he barely noticed when they entered the Justice Building, only snapping out of his thoughts when he was ushered into a room, his father closing the door quietly behind them. T'Challa sat down on the lone chair in the room, placing his head in his hands, not able to look at his father.

"So…" T'Chaka murmured, after a few awkward moments of silence passed, and T'Challa looked up at him, his brow furrowing. "This is…unfortunate."

T'Challa snorted, and shook his head tiredly. "I do not know what to do, father. All those years, I allowed you to convince me that no good could be done if I took tesserae on others' behalf, and here we are now. My cowardice led me to fail this district – I am sorry. I am not the son I thought I was."

His father stared at him for a moment, his features unreadable, before he sighed and rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "_I _am sorry, T'Challa. I thought I could protect you – and Hunter, and Shuri – but it seems that I failed in that regard. We are all subject to the whims of people far more powerful than us, and there are no words to express my sorrow. I have failed you, son. I could live with the deaths of any number of children on my conscience, if I was able to protect my own. Now…now I am less than a man – I am nothing. For all my life's work, I could not even save my own family."

Both were crying now, mutually embarrassed by their lack of self-control, but knowing that this moment was more important than the facades that they had displayed over their lives.

"I won't be coming back, father," T'Challa croaked out through his tears, and his father met his gaze, his eyes expressing his understanding. "That girl – Ororo – if either of us come back, it must be her. This is the only thing left that I can do. We are of the Black Panther – our lives are pledged in service to our district. You taught me this. She _must _come back. She must."

T'Chaka nodded and pulled him close, lifting him out of the chair and embracing his son in a warm hug, trembling slightly as held T'Challa in his arms. Such a display of affection was unheard of for both men, but with T'Challa's sentence lingering over his head, convention had been thrown out.

"I am proud of you, T'Challa. If I can leave you with anything to take away, let it be that. Your mother would be proud too, if she were still with us. Remember that. Remember who you are."

With that, he let go of his son, and reached around his own neck, removing a thin cord necklace. Dangling from the cord was a piece of dark wood, carved in the likeness of their family's emblem, the Black Panther.

"I want you to take this, T'Challa. Wherever you go, whatever you do, remember that your family is with you – your ancestors watch over you, as will I, and your mother, and Shuri. You, like every one of us, are the Black Panther, and that is something no one can take from you. You are a leader, a warrior, a survivor. You _are _the son I always knew you were."

"Father…I…I cannot accept this. I have not become a man, yet," T'Challa insisted, aware that the totem was only based on when a child became of age, and T'Challa was still almost two years off his eighteenth birthday.

"Today, my son, you _have _become a man. A better man than me, I think. This is yours, there is no choice. You cannot refuse your own identity."

With that, T'Chaka placed the totem over T'Challa's head, and smiled. "Now I must go, my son. There are others, no doubt, waiting to visit you. Good luck, T'Challa."

He turned, and, with tears in his eyes, left the room, and T'Challa sagged back into the chair, fighting back his own tears, preparing himself for his other visitors. Seconds later, both Shuri and Hunter entered – the first bursting in, the anger plain on her face, the latter casually sidling in, his anger lurking, hidden, and therefore so much more worrying.

"I can't believe it was you," Shuri moaned, before wrapping her arms around her brother's neck, bursting into tears that were as uncharacteristic for her as they were for her brother and father. "Your name was only in six times, how could it have come up? It's not _fair!_"

"Hush, now," T'Challa whispered into her ear, soothingly, stroking her hair. "You have to be brave for me, okay. Father will need you to take care of him now; he will not have me to look after him."

Shuri broke off the hug, and stared back at him in outraged disbelief. "Look after him _now?_" she exploded, indignant. "What do you think I've been doing the last few years? _Your _work will add about fifteen minutes to my day."

T'Challa laughed, and hugged her once more. "I'll miss you, little sister. Make me proud."

"But you'll be back, right?" she asked, and T'Challa had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from assuring her he would be. This was no time for lies, after all. He didn't want his last words to his sister to be false.

"The odds aren't in my favour, Shuri," he murmured softly, and her eyes welled up again at his implication. She nodded slightly, understanding, and broke off, not speaking for fear that her voice would break, and left the room.

From the back of the room, Hunter snorted at his words, and T'Challa turned his head in his older brother's direction, and stood up slowly.

"Thank you for coming, Hunter," he said quietly, as the older man walked forward into the light. His white skin had ceased to catch T'Challa's attention long, long ago – Hunter was his brother as much as Shuri was his sister, regardless of his biological parents and skin tone.

Hunter snorted again, and looked away, unable to meet T'Challa's gaze.

"They'll burn for this," he said in a low voice, an almost guttural edge to his words. "The district has always been on a knife-edge, brother, and this will push them over. We will light a fire that will blaze its way across the districts in your name – they have gone too far this time."

T'Challa frowned at his brother's words, and shook his head voraciously. "You cannot do that, brother. I will not allow my life to be used to justify the deaths of others. That is _all _I have left, and you _cannot _use it to commit this…this abomination! You are my brother – listen to me. You do not need to hate in my name – I give up myself willingly for in doing so I take the place of another. Let go of this anger of yours – help our people, do not bring ruin upon them."

Hunter looked visibly dissatisfied at his brother's words, and gritted his teeth. "You would let them murder you, and defend their tyranny?" he asked, growling.

"If my death prevents the death of others, then _yes_, Hunter, a thousand times over. We are given by one life to live, and you wash away countless others in the name of _one. _I understand how you feel, but I am _not _worth such suffering." His eyes teared up again in his attempt to make his brother understand, but Hunter simply shook his head slowly, making his way towards the door.

"Then you die a fool, T'Challa. You are my _brother_, your life_ is_ worth more to me. I love our district as much as you do, but I see clearer – the lives we live are not free, and worth little as a consequence. To die free is the only cause worth living for, and there is nothing you can say to change my mind – not now, not after _this_." The last word was spat out with such ferocity that T'Challa only ducked his head and sighed, only aware now how far his brother had gone in his extremism.

"I understand, brother," he murmured mournfully, looking Hunter in the eye. "Then may I ask one last, unrelated, favour of you?"

Hunter inclined his head slightly, before looking away, but T'Challa had seen enough to glimpse the sadness and anger raging inside him.

"Don't blame our father for this. He loves you, and misses you. In losing a brother, reclaim your father. He'll need you more than ever."

A moment passed, and Hunter sighed, inclining his head once more. "I will miss you," he confessed, stepping forward and clasped his brother in a quick, fierce hug, before breaking it off with a certain sense of embarrassment. "Live free, Black Panther."

"Live long, White Wolf."

* * *

After Hunter had left, Ebersol made his way in, frowning solemnly. The engineer was clearly at a loss for words, and simply murmured, "I guess I won't be showing you those new drills."

T'Challa smiled sadly, and shook his head. "I guess not, my friend. I am sorry."

A moment passed. "I'm sorry too," Ebersol murmured, and extended his hand for T'Challa to shake, which the young man did with a sense of finality. "I'll see you on the other side, kid."

"On the other side, Paul," T'Challa agreed, the engineer's first name feeling strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. "Go easy on that apprentice of yours for me, will you? Someone will need to humour your interests, after all."

Ebersol snorted, and smacked T'Challa's head softly before leaving the room, but not before getting a good eye of T'Challa's totem, and smiling to himself.

T'Challa sat back down once more, convinced that he had seen the last of his visitors, when the door opened once again, and a small figure slowly made his way into the room, looking somewhat unsure of what to do or say.

"Can I help you?" T'Challa asked patiently, and the boy seemed to jump as he spoke.

"I…I just wanted to see you, before you go," the boy stammered, his eyes red and puffy. "You…you know the man I'm apprenticed to…Mr…Mr Ebersol?"

"Ah!" T'Challa said, smiling. "You must be Forge, then. Mr Ebersol just left before you, I'm afraid. If you leave now, I am sure you would be able to catch him before he gets too far."

Forge shook his head, his eyes locked on the older boy. "I…No, I'm here to talk to you. I…Ororo…she's my friend," he explained slowly, struggling to find the words. "I just wanted…I…Please take care of her! I need her to come home; I don't know what I'll do without her. I just can't lose her…I can't."

This was all said in a rush, a torrent of words flowing rapidly and with little consideration for the ones before or after them – an overflow of pure emotion, of grief, despair, sadness and overwhelming fear.

T'Challa stood up, and placed both hands on the now-crying boy's shoulders, looking directly into his eyes.

"I promise, on the name of my family, my ancestors, and my totem, that I will do everything I can to bring her back, even if it means giving up my own life for hers. I promise, Forge, that I will do this. I _promise."_

The boy nodded, still sniffling, meeting his gaze, but couldn't help but looking confused. "Why, though?" he asked, torn between his relief that T'Challa had agreed to his request, and his hesitancy to believe him, when T'Challa's motivations were so unclear.

"Because you love her," T'Challa stated simply, reading it in his eyes. "It is a beautiful thing to die for love, but more beautiful still to live for it. My family will mourn for me, but you will die inside without her – I can see this. It is the least that I can do, my friend. Your life, and hers, for mine. I can die free, this way."

Still not understanding fully, but more hopeful that T'Challa would keep his word, Forge nodded, and left a moment later when a Sentinel informed him that his time was up, leaving T'Challa with a half-hearted, broken wave.

As the Sentinels came in, and escorted him towards the train that lay waiting to take him to the Capitol, a sense of tranquillity fell upon him, and he smiled happily, genuinely at peace. Ororo glanced at him with tired eyes as they reunited, looking drained after the day's events, and his sense of determination only grew stronger in that moment.

One way or another, she would be the one coming home.

He'd stake his life on it.


	13. Chapter 12: Last But Not Least

**(A/N) Hey guys, look like we're finally here with our last Reaping chapter, and by the end of it you'll have been introduced to our full list of cast and characters, along with all the fantastic writers who'll be taking part – introducing robbiepoo2341 and reintroducing Taila-tai as the writers of this fantastic chapter! Also, since we're currently opening up our 2015 Awards for voting today, feel free to drop me a PM and let me know your favourite Reaping chapter (that's the only award going for ITEYAK, given that we've just started, but I think we have some fantastic options to choose from). **

**Of course, if you've read any of our other fics, there's a range of options to vote for on our forum – The Freelancer Collaboration – so feel free to head on over and make your vote heard!**

**So, now that we've introduced you to all our characters, who do you think will be our winner? Feel free to let us know in the reviews!**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – Last But Not Least**

**District Twelve Reaping**

**Written by robbiepoo2341 &amp; Taila-tai**

* * *

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"There are a good many real miseries in life that we cannot help smiling at, but they are the smiles that make wrinkles and not dimples."_

– Oliver Wendell Holmes

* * *

"You _sure_ we're good?"

"Look, I haven't seen a Sentinel for at least ten minutes. We're good."

Kate set her jaw and stared at the fence. She and America had done this a hundred times over, but she still felt a rush of pleasure, of forbidden excitement, every time. Also terror. There was terror, too. But that wasn't as awesome as excitement, so she pretended to be 'just double-checking'.

America knelt down and locked her fingers together, giving Kate a foothold. Kate set her gaze on the tree branch, the one that was just close enough to the fence.

It was a very, _very _good thing Kate was as flexible as she was. Not many people could make the jump, even with America Chavez the Super Woman on their side.

Once America had hold of Kate's foot, she flung Kate over the fence with a grunt. Kate's fingers caught the branch, and she hauled her legs up beneath her before they could brush up against the electrified monstrosity beneath her.

"Okay, I'm clear," Kate breathed, steadying herself.

"Meet you there," America whispered back, running for another spot in the fence.

Kate didn't really know what America did to get around the electricity, and America wasn't telling. The one time Kate did get an answer, it was a glib, "I decided reality needed a good kick in the pants, and then I jumped through the hole I made kicking it."

So Kate didn't really try to press the matter. All she knew was that she'd meet America over in a clearing, and they'd get some hunting done.

Kate's quiver and bow were hiding in the branches of her tree—she'd tied them to the trunk herself. She wasn't all that good at knots, but a double knot and some good overgrowth were all she really needed anyway, so her stuff was safe. Not that she'd take chances with her bow. She loved that thing.

Kate climbed carefully down from her perch and glanced up at the sky, checking for S.W.O.R.D. hovercraft.

She was just waiting for it to happen. The day they got caught. It wasn't like America was all that subtle, and they were bound to get noticed, and it wasn't like Kate was a pro at this whole sneaking around thing. She was still new at the hunting thing. She was still new at the adventuring thing. The whole danger thing. The whole _everything_thing.

It had started two years ago. Well, two years ago almost to the day—it was two years as of the day after Reaping Day, which was tomorrow, but Kate figured close enough was, well, close enough.

Kate's sister got married. Day after Reaping Day. She and this guy she knew from school waited until the day they were both out of Dodge with the whole dying in the Avenger Games thing (though really, Kate didn't know why they bothered —they were both from merchant class families, and it wasn't like their names were in there more than the bare required minimum amount of times) before they got married and had a huge celebration.

It was a great day. Also, it sucked.

Kate really liked Susan. They were close. Closer than Kate was with Dad, anyway. And it was nice to see her so happy.

Kate really hated the Sentinel who attacked her outside the wedding when they were alone. Kate had only been thirteen. But she let the hate turn into a weapon, and then she figured out how to never ever never be helpless again.

But the highlight of the whole day was meeting the little band of thieves that got caught by the Sentinels trying to 'liberate' some food from the wedding. They weren't so good at the whole thieving and danger thing back then, either, and Kate had stepped in and got them out of a jam, said they were friends of hers and they couldn't be _stealing _food from the wedding if they were _invited_.

Kate found them later and basically demanded to be their friend. Because they seemed pretty cool, and because she thought maybe the whole danger thing could be fun.

It was fun. Like, a lot of fun. Everyone should try it.

Flash forward to two years later, and that was basically how Kate ended up hiding in a tree and sizing up a big, fat turkey. It was gonna taste _so _good when she brought it back and made Eli cook it.

Not that she'd get much. Like a bite, maybe. Eli made sure anything Kate brought back found its way to the right people, the ones who needed it, and Eli was good at figuring that kind of thing out. It wasn't like there were many people willing to deal in underground goods. Not much of a black market, what with the Sentinels and everything.

And it wasn't like Kate minded. It wasn't like she didn't have plenty at home. Her dad was a merchant, one of the very few well-to-do in District Twelve, and Kate had never worried about starving until she met her new friends. Then she worried about _them _starving.

And then there was a loud, "Gonna make the shot or not?" and Kate _tsk_ed under her breath as the turkey fluttered away.

"America," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Always gotta make an entrance, huh?"

America grinned, dropping down out of the tree. (Kate still had no idea how she even got there.) "'S okay," she said. "Richards' traps got plenty of food."

Kate grinned. Nathaniel Richards may have been a bossy know-it-all, but he knew how to get things done. He was the real brains behind the whole operation — or at least, that's what they let him think, to keep his ego intact. They even teased him that he could have been the next Mister Fantastic if he wanted. Had the same last name, after all.

"Besides," America said, more seriously, "there's lots more Sentinels. Guess the security's beefing up for the Reaping."

Kate sighed. She hated Reaping Day. It was inconvenient — and so was the heart attack she had every time Ian Boothby, the escort assigned to District Twelve from the Capitol, reached his hand into the bowls for the boys' and girls' name.

But in the meantime, she was annoyed with America for scaring away her turkey, so she fitted an arrow and fired.

"Hey!" America shouted as the arrow hit the tree so close to her head that it actually took a couple strands of hair with it.

"That's for scaring my turkey," Kate said with half a grin.

America's grin was much bigger and more malicious, and she pounced before Kate was quite ready. The wrestling match that followed was short and very one-sided, since America was so much stronger than Kate was, but hey, they both came out sporting some pretty nice bruises, so Kate considered it a win. She was improving.

That was the fun thing about America — she was always good for a fight. And Kate liked to stretch her muscles, try new things. She'd love to have been born in a Career district — she was just itching to get her hands on half the weapons they were rumoured to train with. She'd like to learn how to fight with swords (those looked like fun), though for now she'd just have to settle for sticks and a bow. Whatever she could get her hands on.

But actually, no, now that she thought about it—and so close to Reaping Day—Careers _sucked _and they were usually bad guys so nah, she'd prefer being good to being deadly.

Not that she couldn't do both.

She and America picked themselves up and pulled the leaves out of their hair, grinning stupidly. They made their way back to the fence, and Kate was pretty sure America threw Kate unnecessarily hard, because she almost couldn't keep her footing.

It was a _very _good thing Kate was as good as she was, because falling into the fence would have _sucked_.

They met up with Tommy and dropped their catches off with him — he could always be trusted to hide things quickly and quietly; kid was the speediest guy she'd ever met — before they headed to Kate's house.

"See you in the morning," America grinned.

"Just try not to get picked, okay?" Kate laughed, but it was only half a laugh. "Kick reality's butt and remove your name entirely, huh?"

"Yeah, and while you're dreaming, would you like a pony?" America teased. "C'mon, you know me. You know all of us. We'll be fine." She grinned carelessly. "Besides, you and I both know if I got sent to the Games I'd win."

"That's true," Kate laughed. She reached for her front door, paused, and tossed back her usual goodbye, "Try not to do anything stupid before the next time I see you, okay?"

"Honey, that's never gonna be a promise I can keep."

* * *

Kate examined her reflection in the mirror. "Not bad," she told no one in particular. Then, with a bigger grin, she laughed and said, "Oh, who am I kidding. I look fantastic."

Kate actually liked the dress her sister got her. The ones Dad got her were always too frilly, but Susan had good taste. This one was nice, with little holes cut out of the shoulders. Sort of like the thing the last victor from District Two wore on her tour, only more purple. But then, Susan loved fashion, so it wasn't surprising she came up with something like this.

She didn't see Dad as she left the house, so he must have already left. That was fine. He was probably meeting up with Girlfriend Number Kate-Had-Lost-Count.

The wind on her bare shoulders surprised her, but it wasn't cold or clammy. It was a welcome breeze in an outfit that, Kate saw, could have been a bit tight. She seriously considered cutting holes in every shirt on the shoulder from now on.

She rushed through the merchant's quarters, which were mostly empty, and didn't pay attention to the people who were coming up with excuses to drag their feet. Looking in windows of shops that weren't even open. Tying shoes that were already triple-knotted. They probably had kids. Kate didn't know for sure, though; she didn't check.

She didn't scan the crowds of other kids as she made her way through. She didn't like the looks of desperation on half the faces, and she didn't like the looks the other half gave her — the kind of looks that clearly said they knew who her dad was and why she probably wasn't going to be a tribute. Her name was only in four times.

She felt an arm snake around her waist and pulled away, laughing with surprise and because America always knew where to tickle her. "Stop that," she laughed.

"You looked like you just ate a whole bowl of sour grapes," America explained with a shrug. "Besides, what makes you think I was going to let you out of my sight today?" There was something just behind America's gaze as she stared at Kate — and as she stared over at their other friends. A fierce protectiveness but also something else, a kind of softness that America would of course deny if anyone even came close to suggesting it.

Kate took her place in the crowd of kids and kept her eyes trained forward, on Ian Boothby and his freckled face. They were perfect freckles, and she was pretty sure they were painted on, because no way were any naturally occurring freckles that evenly spaced.

The Marvel anthem played. The movie played. Same thing every year. Kate tuned it out and instead finally allowed herself to survey the crowd around her.

She found Eli first. He caught her gaze and grinned at her. "You okay?" he mouthed at her.

She grinned and then jerked her head at the screen. "Bored," she mouthed back.

He chuckled but hid it with his hands. Kid was always trying to convince people he was better than he actually was. The secrets Kate could tell...!

She saw Teddy and Billy, hands clasped tightly together, and Tommy with his arm tightly looped through his brother's.

She hated this. The tension she could feel in the air as Ian gave the usual speech. Nobody was listening. They were all just hoping beyond hope.

"Please don't let it be me."

Nobody said it out loud, but Kate could hear it like a whisper.

But that was okay. That was what Kate could handle. It was the _Please, don't let it be him. Don't let it be her_. That was the part that broke her almost every year.

The shout, the cry when a tribute's name was called. The kids afterwards who lost a brother, a sister. The silence of the families. The silence _around _the families.

Kate hated it, because it wasn't something she could shoot. It was something intangible, so she couldn't fight it.

She usually disappeared for at least a few days after the Games were over. Didn't come back until she'd shot enough stuff to feel at least a little better.

"Well," Ian said in his nervous little way, shuffling toward the bowls with all the names. "Shall we?" He clearly felt out of place in District Twelve, probably couldn't wait to get back to the Capitol. Everyone who watched the Games and all the lead up stuff in the Capital knew he'd probably signed up for his job for the District Six escort, Darcy Lewis. To work with her, at least a little bit. Guy had a huge crush, and everybody could see it.

Darcy was reputably kind of clueless, but hey, that's what happens. Or maybe she was just wilfully ignoring him. Susan had all sorts of theories, mostly involving bets with her husband about how long it would take those two to hook up. Susan was losing, but she didn't mind. She usually bet small things, like kisses or dishes.

Kate knew all this in the back of her head, and she focused on that, on the gossip that her sister was always telling her as she sat with her husband glued to the screens and watching every second of the glamorous life she could have had if she'd been born into someone else's family.

Susan seriously could have been a Capitol darling. She'd fit right in.

"Ladies first, then?" Ian shuffled nervously again. It would have been adorable if it wasn't Reaping Day.

He reached into the bowl and unfolded the little slip of paper. Kate could actually feel the intake of breath.

"Katherine Bishop?" Ian called out.

Kate froze. She could actually feel her hands instinctively reaching for a bow, for her quiver, for anything. She felt exposed. She felt numb. She felt helpless, and she'd sworn she would never feel that way after two years ago.

But she also felt her feet walking forward, and she remembered at the last second that she wasn't supposed to look scared. She heard a gasp, and she wasn't sure if it was Tommy or Billy but it was _that sound_, the one that she hated, the one that lingered in the air.

And it was weird, because she was actually _smiling_. It was kind of this disbelieving smile, a weird thing that her face did all on its own because for some strange reason she couldn't help but think how _impossible _this whole thing was, how she shouldn't have been picked because wasn't she a merchant's daughter?

She heard her footsteps suddenly become a little louder and realized she'd reached the platform. She reached out and took the hand Ian offered her as he helped her up, and then she turned to face the crowd of people.

Dad looked surprised. He looked hurt. He looked a lot of things, but they were superficial, and she could see past them because Dad was good at acting and she'd learned long ago to figure out what was _really _going on in his head. The surprise was genuine, but the hurt was more wounded pride — to think that _his _daughter could have been reaped!

Susan was already crying. Her husband's shoulder was soaked. Kate would make sure when she said goodbye to tell Susan she'd win. It was a lie, but hey, it was Susan, and Susan wasn't exactly made of steel.

No, America was the one made of steel, and she had her hand half up like she might volunteer for Kate, but her mouth was open, and the words weren't coming out.

Kate couldn't believe it when she shook her head at her friend. _No, America. Don't volunteer._ But why stop her? Of course it should have been America up there, because America would win in twenty-four hours, come home with a trail of Capitol lovers, and then spend all her newfound money on the stupidest things imaginable.

Kate smiled at the thought, and she could only imagine how she must look to the cameras, standing there smiling like an idiot when she should have been upset.

And then a thought struck her, and her smile widened.

She could use that.

She grinned even wider and threw her hair over her shoulders, looking right at Ian and beaming. Yeah, this was it. She'd be the tribute who _enjoyed_the Games. She'd enjoy every second of her fame and her heroics, and she'd prove it to everyone — the whole danger thing? It was _fun_.

_Not terrifying. Nope._

So she crossed her arms and squared her shoulders and smiled at the whole world as Ian moved on: "Now, for the boys."

* * *

**Loki Odinson of District Twelve**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

_"There are no unwanted children, just unfound families." _

\- National Adoption Centre

* * *

"One hundred and ninety-four..."

Groaning loudly, Loki closed his eyes; hoping sleep would take him in its blissful oblivion, but it appeared his luck had run dry. He had tried every trick in the book, including the rather tedious task of counting sheep, which, as he could now see, was not only tedious but useless.

But he continued nonetheless, if only for something to do while sleep continued to evade him.

"One hundred and ninety-five..."

It was his second visit to the orphanage, signalling two years since his first Reaping.

Two years since it all clicked into place but fell apart at the same time.

It had been a shock initially, what else should it have been to a mere twelve-year-old boy? But once the shock had passed, the emotion had turned somewhat darker, resembling bitterness and unshakeable fury.

All directed towards himself.

Who else was there to blame? His dark raven locks and brilliant emerald green eyes didn't exactly seem to run in the family; neither did his lithe form and height; so how come it had all flew over his head for twelve years? How come he had blissfully ignored it until it was spelt out before him in harsh words?

"One hundred and ninety-six..."

The only upside to the whole thing was his curiosity becoming happily sated. He was a naturally curious child, and the question of why he looked so different, was treated different, _performed_ _differently_ was often at the front of his mind.

His fath—Odin was often cold towards him and that should've been what tipped him off. But from what he could remember of his mother, she was warm and kind, loving him like there was no tomorrow. Her kindness outweighed the cruel demeanour of her husband.

"One hundred and ninety-seven..."

Then there was Thor...

Tall, blond, and perfect for lack of a better term. And he had tried to find a less flattering show of words, but he failed every time.

Loki wasn't a fan of failure, in all honesty.

"One hundred and ninety-eight..."

But still the blond oaf had been nothing but the model brother, as much as it peeved him to admit. He was always kind to his younger sibling, playing along with any games or gently blowing his friends off when Loki demanded his attention.

He took the part of being Loki's older brother in hand, passionately playing his part and being none the wiser to the fact his _brother_ had been born districts away from him.

_I found you in the street, abandoned, suffering... left to die._

Loki ground his teeth together.

"One hundred and ninety-nine..."

The usually smooth voice he recognized was slowly growing bitter, an emotion he was slowly beginning to call a friend. And the anger, the pure fury radiating from his core, was a better friend than he thought.

He was able to confide in his own rage. It never argued, never laughed at his weaker emotions; it only fuelled them into something else. He had tried to confide in Thor once, and what a fat lot of good that had done him. Thor had brushed him off, hoping to meet a certain dark haired warrior woman before the morning grew older.

Loki never brought it up again, for fear of the same rejection.

"Two—"

"Hundred!"

Jerking slightly from the shock of another voice joining in his chorus, Loki snapped up, eyes glaring across the room. A young boy with features eerily similar to his own was perched on his bed, bright grin in place as he stared right back unflinching.

"You should be asleep," Loki stated after a few tense seconds of silence. "It's a big day for you tomorrow."

The child in question let out a loud groan, falling back against the bed dramatically. "I can't sleep because of said big day," he complained, suddenly shooting up again, his energy only rivalled by someone younger than him. "You can't tell me to be asleep when you're not!"

Loki sighed, turning over so the child could only see his back. "I'm older than you, Fenrir," he said simply. "If I don't want to sleep, I don't."

"Why?"

Loki closed his eyes, hoping to rein in the annoyance he felt blooming. "Because I do what I want," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"Why?"

"Fenrir," Loki hissed. "Go to sleep."

He heard another overly dramatic sigh, followed shortly by the creaking of an ancient bed. "I can't..."

Rolling onto his back, Loki allowed his emerald gaze to burn some holes in the ceiling. "Why can't you sleep?" he finally asked, realising the boy was waiting for his voice.

He didn't expect the child to chew over his words for a few seconds before moving off his bed, climbing up beside him on his own. Resisting the urge to push the boy off, Loki looked up, cocking a delicate brow mockingly.

"I could get called tomorrow..." Fenrir whispered, lines littering his young face as his brow drew together in thought, fingers picking at the thread bare blanket.

Loki closed his eyes, not feeling in the mood to deal with his young admirer. "Fenrir..."

Deciding to take a different route from what was expected, he sat up suddenly, the young boy practically falling off the bed at the sudden movement. "You're right. It could be your name drawn tomorrow, and you know what? Even if it was, there's nothing you can about it by whimpering now."

Fenrir stared up with large eyes, the colour the same as mist rolling over a green field. Loki could see his thoughts swirling in the strangely coloured irises, the boy trying to mull over what he said.

"Didn't you hear me? Get to bed, fall asleep and worry about this tomorrow when the date calls for it," Loki snapped again, dropping back against his pillow tiredly.

He could hear some movement, the boy no doubt going back to his own bed. "Thank you, Loki."

Loki frowned, unable to help himself. "What?" he demanded, sitting up fully once again. "Why the hell are you thanking me?"

He had yelled at the boy, offering no reassurance but only more worry to add to his growing pile. Why was he being thanked for being, for lack of a better term, an arse?

"You made me feel better." He could faintly see bright teeth showing in a smile. "I wish you were my older brother and could stay here all the time instead of only once a year," he mused quietly before tucking himself back in, oblivious of the shock on his idol's face. "Night Loki, I hope you get to sleep as well."

Left in silence, Loki continued to gape at where the boy's face had been seconds before. His mind was at a standstill, still struggling to process the words it had heard leave the child's mouth.

_I wish you were my older brother..._

He had heard the rest, staying with him and the hope that he'd finally gain an hour or two of sleep, but it was those words that haunted him. Who in their right mind would long for him as a brother? He was rude, obnoxious, and often entertained himself with petty tricks, usually ending in tears or blood for the party he chose to crash.

When he registered Fenrir's breathing evening out, he slumped back against his bed, arms aching from holding up his weight for so long.

"Goodnight Fenrir."

* * *

_Thor's laugh was loud, almost too loud as it echoed across the courtyard. "Oh brother, I shall never understand the way your mind works," he decided, blond hair flying as he shook his head._

_Said brother folded his arms, thin lips drawn into a pout. "You shall never understand anything remotely complicated, you oaf," Loki grumbled, brows pulling together. "And you did not answer me!" he added almost absently, resisting the urge to stomp his foot._

_Thor looked thoughtful before the smile took over once again. "We've already talked about this if I remember correctly," he pointed out, placing a large hand on his brother's thin shoulders._

_Loki felt his cheek twitch in annoyance. "We have yes but—"_

"_Then we don't need to speak of it any longer!" Thor practically yelled, straightening up and towering over his younger brother._

"_But!" Loki cut in once again, irritation shining in his eyes at being interrupted. "You did not answer me!"_

_Once again his brother looked thoughtful; face screwing up with the effort it seemed to cost him. "Do not think too hard, Thor, you may break something," he quipped, rolling brilliantly coloured eyes._

_Thor tsked at his sibling, going back to his thoughts before nodding. "You are right, I did not." He seemed to remember. "Why is this so important to you?"_

_Time to bring in the big guns, Loki mused, slowing unfolding his arms and letting them clasp in front of him. His green eyes widened, long lashes granting them an essence of innocence as Loki let his lower lip quiver. "Because! Now do you promise?"_

_Despite his now pure appearance, his voice still held a commanding tone. Thor seemed to melt at the precious expression on his younger brother's face, all argument leaving him. "Very well. I promise to come with you to your first Reaping."_

_Loki beamed, reaching up to signal he wanted to hug the older boy. Thor leant down so his neck was within reach and wrapped his arms around the boy's thin waist. "I do not see why I had to make such a promise," he said gently, resting his large head on the bony shoulder beneath it. "I will be there anyway, remember."_

_Loki pulled back, once again looking thoughtful. "So?"_

_Thor chuckled, patting his brother's head fondly. "So nothing," he agreed, wrinkling his nose playfully when the young boy pecked his cheek. "Off you go now, I believe you have some studies to complete?"_

_Loki rolled his eyes. "I finished them weeks ago, Thor," he said, like the fact should be obvious. "Not all of us are as daft as you."_

_Narrowing his eyes teasingly, Thor leant forward. "And not all of us are as ticklish as you." Resisting the urge to snort in laughter when his brother's hands defensively flew to his sides, he continued, "So who here is going to be running home now?"_

_Pursing his lips, Loki answered. "Me, I suppose." He looked over his brother's shoulder, the older boy still kneeling before him. "You better get back to your training; your friends don't look very happy with me for stealing you." He sighed._

_Thor smiled over his shoulder before looking back into abnormally bright eyes. "Nonsense, they love you as much as I do."_

_For the sake of his brother, Loki smiled, nodding in agreement. "Of course they do..." He hated lying to the oblivious blond, but he had no choice. "I better be going," he said carefully, trying his hardest not to show how guilty he felt from the lie that had left his lips._

_He could lie to anyone; his tutor, his father... Thor's friends..._

_But Thor?_

"_Of course, I'll be seeing you." Thor clapped him on the shoulder, rolling his eyes when the boy jerked forward with the force behind it._

_Loki waved once more before he was on his way, long limbs eating up the distance between the training grounds and their home. Thor watched him go, making sure he turned the corner safely with no horses trampling his thin form or men stopping him with the intention to tease or hurt._

_Little did he know, it would be the last time his brother willing embraced him or lied for his benefit._

* * *

"How did you sleep?"

"Hmm," Loki replied, pulling a warm green tunic over his head, the dark colour contrasting with his hair. Fenrir was across the room; wearing a similar shirt that had once belonged to the fourteen year old he adored.

"What does that mean?" Fenrir asked, smiling brightly. "Hmm?"

Loki sighed, the nightmare from the night before weakening his usually sharp tongue. "It means whatever I want it to mean," he quipped dryly. When he saw the boy roll abnormal eyes he cocked a brow. "That's not a problem, is it?"

Fenrir shook his head. "No..." He looked thoughtful. "So what do you want it to mean then?"

Loki felt his shoulders sag. "I want it to mean; shut up and leave me alone." He snapped, frowning over at the other boy with hollowed eyes.

"Oh..." Fenrir looked defeated, like someone had taken something from him. "Of course you want it to mean that." He added quietly, moving towards the door.

Frowning, Loki narrowed his eyes. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded, moving forward to roughly grab the boys shoulder. Fenrir just looked at the hand before meeting his eyes, absently shrugging the firm grip off.

"Whatever you want it to mean."

Having said the final word, the boy went out the door, shoulders seeming to hold a weight as he walked down the long, rickety hallway. Loki felt annoyed at being brushed off, but a small voice told him he should be used to it.

Growling to himself, he moved back into the room, intent on taming his wild tuft of hair. "The damn boy used my own words against me," he muttered, snatching a thin comb on his bedside table. "Clever brat," he added somewhat dejectedly.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to force his raven hair into submission, and by the end of the ordeal his lips were firmly set in a scowl. It was hard of course, to force the scowl off once it had settled and he stormed out into the eating area, usually bright eyes dark.

He ignored the foster mother when she held out a bowl to him, instead stalking past her and heading out the door without so much as a second glance.

He missed the worried and hurt look shot at his back as his legs carried him far, far out into the fields, his fingers itching to reach out and trace the wires of the fence. A quiet hissing stopped the thought short and he forced his hands to stay at his sides; he didn't need to be electrocuted, not with so many things unsettled.

And not when he spent the better part of twenty minutes doing his hair.

Moving further away from the wired fencing, he trekked up a small green hill, the colour almost the same as his shirt. Once he reached the top, it was only a matter of dropping his body down and leaning back, disappearing into the long strands of grass and being granted a weak moment of privacy.

Snorting quietly at the thought of privacy, Loki sat back up, looking keenly around for a small black head. He expected to find it hiding, maybe behind one of the thick trees to his left, or maybe in the bushel to the right. He didn't expect to actually be left alone.

"Surprise, surprise..." he muttered, slumping back and blinking lazily up at the sky.

Fenrir was someone that Loki couldn't seem to wrap his head around. With his large strangely coloured eyes, and raven hair he had caused Loki to do a double take when they first meet, a strange sense of hope running through him.

But the boy was just another orphan.

Just like the rest of the children, currently happily eating their breakfast under the watchful eye of the maiden who ran the orphanage. At the thought of the woman, Loki snorted again, rolling his eyes. Farbauti was a treat, so to speak, equipped with a kind smile but a wicked sense of humour similar to his own once again.

Of course though, her meek demeanour was a clever cover for a temper hotter than a wild fire. Loki had, regrettable, learnt that his first day at the home. Hurt by the betrayal of his family, he hadn't taken well to being forced to the district of his birth for the Reaping and, understandably, lashed out.

Farbauti had lashed back and Loki had learnt to keep his mouth shut...

To a certain degree, of course...

Hearing the tell-tale sound of grass snapping underweight, he carefully sat back up, waiting to be met by a cheeky grin and bright eyes. When he saw nothing but thin air, Loki frowned, checking to make sure the brat wasn't sneaking up on him. Freezing when he saw movement, Loki's frown deepened until he saw what had rattled him.

_A brown hare._

He chuckled quietly, amused at his nerves as he settled back down, the beady black eye of the animal watching closely. "You know..." he began softly, smiling weakly when the small creature jerked with the noise. "The orphanage used to have a pet rabbit..."

The mammal was calm, nose working furiously as it watched him.

"It was delicious."

When the animal bolted, Loki couldn't stop the loud laugh that left him. He knew the creature couldn't understand him, but the irony of it choosing then to leave his presence was rich.

"So that's what happened to Professor Cuddlesworth?"

Loki sighed, his smile dissipating. "Am I not allowed an hour or two of peace?" he questioned, turning around. "Fenrir?"

The young boy blinked before dropping down next to him, shrugging helplessly. "I gave you just under an hour," he said, defending himself before looking Loki up and down. "You're not mad, are you?"

Loki felt his cheek twitch. "Yes." When the boy before him deflated in on himself, Loki rolled his eyes. "Because who calls a rabbit Professor Cuddlesworth?" he asked, stoically telling himself he didn't feel better that the boy was now smiling again.

"I didn't choose it..." Fenrir argued passionately. "Vali did!"

Loki wrinkled his nose. "Of course he did," he murmured before bringing his knees up to his chest. "Was there something you wanted?"

Fenrir was nodding before he'd even finished the question. "Mother told me to get you," he stated simply, referring to Farbauti. "She said we're heading over for the... uh thing now."

Loki stood, brushing the dust of his dark pants. "The Reaping?"

Once again, Fenrir nodded like mad. "Yeah... that..."

"You will not get called, Fenrir," Loki snapped, gesturing for the boy to follow him with one hand. "Now stop acting like someone kicked your puppy."

Fenrir blinked before running to catch up with Loki's long legged strides. "I was not acting like that!" he pointed out. "I was acting like someone ate my bunny."

Loki's lips twitched up into a smile. "I did not eat your bunny," Loki shook his head, sighing quietly before pursing his lips. "I ate Vali's bunny."

Fenrir laughed loudly, the sound almost like the tinkling of bells. "Don't let him hear you say that!"

"Why not?"

Fenrir laughed harder. "He'd kill you!"

Loki nodded once. "Good, I could use some exercise," he replied, carefully catching Fenrir's shoulder before he tripped. The hand didn't remain for long, and Loki ripped it back before the boy even registered the touch.

"You walk every day," Fenrir noted quietly. "And always so far away... You don't need the exercise," he added, smiling weakly up at the taller and older boy. Fenrir didn't give Loki time to think up a witty response before he continued. "Why do you always go so far away? Do you not like the orphanage?"

_I do not like my own thoughts..._

"It's a little too loud for my tastes," Loki chose to say instead, effectively ending the conversation. "There's Farbauti, now run along."

Fenrir went to follow his elder's orders before jolting in place, turning a small guilty look over his shoulder. "Actually... Loki..."

Rolling his eyes, Loki breathed in through his nose. "Actually what?" he asked airily, looking around at the bustling crowds.

Fenrir was shifting on his feet, eyes darting around before they settled on Loki's sharp chin and jaw. "Mother, she wanted me to tell you about..." He cleared his throat, smiling weakly before dropping his gaze once more, biting his lower lip.

Grinding his teeth, Loki pushed back his annoyance. "About what Fenrir? Come on, out with it."

"We, well mother and some of the other children, we were watching the live Reapings? You k-know how they do it in time spaces so everyone can watch them live? Well, we were there, and as usual people got c-chosen and—"

Loki cut off the child's ramblings with a sharp bark. "Spit it out!"

"Your brother!" Fenrir yelped, before deflating, lower lip jutting out again. "Thor... he was..."

Loki didn't need to hear anything else, his chin subconsciously lifting. "Thor was reaped, was he?" he demanded, his tone making it sound like a statement rather than a question.

"Yes," the child whispered.

Loki blinked once. "Thank you," he said gently before his eyes hardened again. "For wasting my time, now I said run along."

Shooting Loki one last look, the Fenrir ran off, going to join the children who were undergoing their first year in the Reaping. Aside from Fenrir there was only Vali, the boy who they had spoken of before, both recently turning twelve and becoming new chew toys for the Capitol.

Loki sighed and began the lonely walk into the town centre, occasionally feeling someone jolt his shoulder or push him aside as he forced all thoughts of his brother from his mind. He never seemed to dread this day... for some reason the effect it once had on him was lost when something worse came around.

How can a child fear the corrupted government when he fears his own family?

With a startled realisation, Loki remembered...In his eyes Thor was the closest family he had…And he'd just lost him too.

"Dammit..." he muttered, forcing back the lump in his throat as he looked up.

He was waiting in those ridiculous lines now, lost in thought as he trudged forward like cattle for the slaughter. Offering his finger lazily, the woman seated grabbed it roughly, jabbing it with a strange pen like item before pressing the now bleeding wound against a piece of stark white paper.

He was led to the side next, clasping his forefinger and thumb together absently. He could faintly remember wincing when he would see Thor head towards the DNA registering, always reminding himself to find his older brother a plaster when they returned home. Back then, Thor would let his young sibling fuss over him, making sure the wound was clean before he bandaged it more than the tiny pinprick needed.

Shaking his head, Loki stood neatly next to other boys his age, already praying for this to be over. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could go home... For the life of him he didn't know why he even wanted to go back. The Victor's Village wasn't home anymore, not since his the only person he'd considered family was gone... But, he could never call the orphanage home either.

He was trapped.

Loki growled mutely in frustration, closing his eyes when he noticed the chatter die down. The freckled boy on stage looked confident but wary at the same time, perfectly postured as he walked to the centre of the stage, head held high.

He said something that Loki didn't bother to hear, before the stupid video played. Loki suppressed a groan at the overly bright images and loud talk. This was his fourth time seeing it, but once had been enough in his eyes. It was the same talk of how the districts fought back, murdering thousands...

"Welcome to the annual Avenger Games."

Loki jerked at the voice, frowning as he glared up at the stage with muted green eyes. Ian something-a-rather was speaking, his tone crisp as he smiled, falsely, down at the audience of children currently fearing for their lives.

"Today we shall see who as the honour of competing for our district," the man continued, eyes roaming. "One boy and one girl shall fight for our district, to the death, sacrificing themselves so we might continue."

_Continue living like cattle... oh joy_, Loki thought bitterly, looking vaguely to his side. It was always girls first, for reasons unknown, and currently every single one he laid his eyes on were fidgeting and pale faced as they muttered things under their breath.

"Well..." Loki took his eyes off the female children of the district, looking forward as their..._escort_ shuffled nervously. "Shall we?"

No one answered him as he hesitantly walked over to one of the bowls, looking every bit as frightened as the children before him were. _What happened to your courage..., _Loki wondered silently, curious as to if he found someone from the Capitol who didn't agree with what was happening. _I'll get it out of him later, one way or another_.

"Ladies first then?" His manners, as always, were impeccable, Loki noted as the man cleared his throat, reaching into the bowl with shaking hands.

Squinting down at the small writing, he held up the slip, looking over his audience before breathing in. "Katherine Bishop?" he called out, his voice breaking on the last syllable of her name.

Frantically people started looking around, but Loki had already spotted the innocent soul. She had dark hair, the colour quite striking against her skin, but it was her eyes that caught his attention.

She was terrified.

The swirling colours were confused as she walked forward, her movements awkward but still managing to hold grace. Loki opened his mouth to offer up some sort of apology, for a reason he didn't understand but stopped short when he saw her face.

Was... was she _smiling?_ The action looked shocked, but the smile was there nonetheless, holding a bitter edge Loki recognized all too well. She hadn't expected this; something in her mind had told her that this wasn't something that would ever happen to her...

But now it had, and now she was on the platform, legs trembling as she shook Ian's hand. With the task done she was sent to stand parallel to the bowl that had called her out, her expression strangely calm before once again she shocked him.

She was beaming on stage, her arms crossed firmly as she practically soaked up the attention. Loki snorted at the idiotic facade, she could fool everyone else with that but not him.

Hell, he used that same face on multiple occasions.

"Now, for the boys." Loki was thrown from his evaluation of the female tribute and back into reality. Ian was already at the bowl, hands digging around instead of taking one from the top. "Right... uh..."

Once again his eyes narrowed in their attempt to read, his freckled face scrunching up. "Lo... Lo-key?" he called out. "Loki Odinson?"

_Well..._

_Irony thy name is fate._

Blinking back the slight shock of hearing his name, Loki carried himself forward; oozing a confidence he didn't feel. Out of all the names that could've been called, it was his that left the idiot's mouth. There were thousands of boys watching him now, yet his name was called.

The irony of it all almost made him laugh as he climbed the stairs. Well, at least he would be joining his brother in battle...

He automatically held out his hand as the escort approached, shaking it quickly before dropping it as if it had burnt him. Ian leant closer, almost making the raven haired boy back away. "You need to shake her hand as well," he whispered, moving back so he no longer blocked Loki's view of the girl.

She moved towards him, hand outstretched and he took the time again to study her, this time up close. She looked young, but older than him at the very least. Her smile was still wide, but easily brushed aside.

"May the odds be ever in your favour..." he said quietly, finally clasping her hand in his own. His long fingers seemed to swallow her dainty hand and he vaguely noticed a softness that was interrupted by gentle harshness.

Her smile faltered and she squeezed his hand gently before letting it go altogether, her shoulders being harshly grabbed as she was led off stage. He registered coarse hands on his arms as well, dragging him into the impressive building cowering behind the stage.

* * *

The room was lush, there was no denying that, but it was cold. "Family visitations are for the next ten minutes only." The gruff man behind him spoke quickly, like he was trying to lessen the time he spent with the lean boy.

The door slammed as Loki muttered under his breath. "What family?"

Dismissing the strange actions of the man he looked around, green eyes landing on each item curiously. There were stupid trinkets; candles, gold lined candelabras and the like...Loki briefly entertained the thought of damaging the expensive items before the door, once again, slammed open.

"You've got five minutes," the same man snapped.

Loki cocked a brow. "What happened to ten?" he questioned before two people entered the room, one young, and the other old. "Fenrir?" Loki asked when the door shut.

Misty eyes were boring into his own before the child let out a choked sob, rushing forward to wrap his arms around Loki's waist. The warmth of tears quickly soaked through his shirt, the boy in his arms mumbling incoherent words.

"Fenrir, I need you to slow down for me," he said gently, looking up in confusion to the woman watching him.

Farbauti looked heartbroken, her lower lip quivering as the child attached himself to his hips. "Fenrir, sweetie," she cooed, moving forward. "He can't hear you."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Fenrir cried, holding on no matter how hard Loki tugged at his hands.

Loki forced a chuckle. "And why are you sorry?" he asked, making sure not to meet either of his guest's eyes. One look of pure sorrow was enough to haunt him.

"I didn't want it to me called..." Fenrir sniffed, pulling back to look up. Loki's eyes were just to his left, and slightly glassy, like he was pulling himself back from the situation. "I wanted it so badly to be someone else... and because of that it was you instead!"

Loki snapped back with a frown. "What?" he asked sharply.

"It should've been me... not you!" Fenrir decided, tear tracks on his plump cheeks.

Loki shook his head, feeling resigned to the situation. "Fenrir, there was nothing you could've done to choose who was taken. The gods heard your plea and let you remain safe," he said softly, eyes still distant.

"But I wanted you safe as well!" he argued, brow scrunched as his eyes watered again. "You don't deserve this, please don't go!"

"I have to go, and we both know it," he said with a sense of finality.

Fenrir was biting his lip. "What if I volunteer now? Can I do that? I'll go tell them and then..." He was cut off by a firm grip on his shoulder ripping him away from the cool body he was latched onto.

"No," Loki stated.

"But..."

"I don't care Fenrir. I do what I want, and I want to go into these games," he said, the lie falling off his tongue. "And I want you to leave. Now."

Fenrir jerked back, eyes radiating hurt. "What?"

"Get out," Loki grunted, straightening and glaring down at the boy before looking over to Farbauti. "You as well," he added, flinging his hand in the direction of the door.

"No, we still have time and I don't wanna leave you—"

"Fenrir," Loki barked. "Get. Out."

The boy ran, leaving his foster mother in shock behind him as he wailed. The green eyed boy's harshness had shocked her but she nodded to him nonetheless, reaching out for a one armed hug she pretended he didn't lean into. "Goodbye Loki."

The boy nodded. "Goodbye Farbauti..." He finally met her eyes, confusion at what he had done dancing in the bright orbs. "He'll get over it," he assured her.

Farbauti shook her head. "It will take him a while...He looks up to you."

"For reasons unknown."

"Loki." She sighed heavily, cupping his face and delighting when he didn't pull away. "You are nothing but a lost soul... maybe these games will be what you need to straighten your thoughts out," she whispered, kissing his forehead.

"I'll keep your bed made," she told him before leaving the room.

Loki closed his eyes, gritting his teeth together. The door opened, but he refused to watch as the man came in, roughly grabbing his arm and leading him from the room and down the long hallway. He barely felt his feet hitting the ground, or the nails biting into his skin.

He didn't really notice when he was pushed into a seat, the chipper Katherine Bishop at his side. Or when she began to talk, her mouth moving quicker than he thought humanly possible.

When he opened his eyes once again, there was fierce determination burning in the emerald.

_I will win these games. And nothing in heaven or hell is going to stop me._


	14. Chapter 13: The Path We Tread

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after our little break with our first Capitol chapter! You may have been wondering why we dropped off for a while, and there's a fairly simple reason for it – my end-of-year college exams are going on, and I needed to take a short break to get everything in order and make sure that we could run a uninterrupted update schedule. Now that we have that sorted, expect our updates to increase to three times a week – Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Here we have our first Capitol chapter, but rather than going with our tributes, we're jumping back into our sub-plot, set up in the prologue, and seeing what's going on with S.H.I.E.L.D.**

**Also, just as a quick note, we've set up a new companion fic for this fic, containing one-shots written for these characters by our writers, further expanding the characters and universe – it's called Before You Kneel. Check it out, if you're hungry for more!**

**sailorraven34: Well, we're definitely getting closer and closer to that day. Sadly, people are going to die, it's the nature of the Avenger Games. Doesn't make it any easier, for us or you, though.**

**Created to Write: For Brother, check out the character Brother Voodoo, and as for Kate's visiting time, not everyone had one! But hey, check out Before You Kneel – maybe it'll come up in there at some point!**

**... ..- .-. ...- .. ...- . / - ... . / -. .- ..- -. - .-.. . - .-.-.- / . - -... .-. .- -.-. . / -.. . .- - ... .-.-.- / .-. .. ... . / .- -. / .- ...- . -. -. . .-. .-.-.- / .-.. . - / - ... . / - .. - .- -. / ..-. .- .-.. .-.. .-.-.-**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – The Path We Tread**

**Skye &amp; Director Nick Fury**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_To say you have no choice is to relieve yourself of responsibility." _

― Patrick Ness, _Monsters of Men_

* * *

"I have to say, Skye, I'm impressed," Coulson informed his companion, as they walked through the streets of the Capitol. "More importantly, my superiors are also impressed, which is why they ordered me to bring you here. Are you familiar with the Triskelion?"

Skye shrugged slightly next to him, unfamiliar with this part of the city – she may have been Capitol-born-and-bred, but she was child of the suburbs, unused to the same amount of wealth and affluence that was abundant here, in the heart of the city.

"It's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main base of operations, right? Director Fury runs the Avenger Games from there, and the head officers of the Sentinels, S.W.O.R.D. and the Nova Corps are all based there too, right?"

"That's about the gist of it," Coulson replied, nodding. "Of course, that's really just an overview. The building's over a hundred storeys tall, and even I don't know how far down into the earth it goes. A lot of good work goes on in there, and unfortunately, a fair bit of bad work too. It's something you'll have to get used to, if you plan on sticking around for long."

"It was either sign-up or die, it wasn't really like you gave me much of an option. Is _not _sticking around for long really on the table?" she asked wryly, and Coulson stopped walking and turned to her, removing his sunglasses and placing them in the breast pocket of his immaculate black suit.

"You can back out whenever you like, Skye," he informed her, his face grave. "Of course, that means that I'll have to have you killed, but you still have that option. Just because it's not _great_ doesn't mean it's not _there_."

"You'd be surprised at how many people choose it," he added, after a moment of silence had passed between them, "but some people simply aren't able to adapt to change. Their beliefs are too rigid, and unable to accept that the information they have mightn't be everything worth knowing. There's always a choice."

"You mean I could _choose_ certain death?"

"A choice nevertheless, or perhaps an alternative. You see, I believe in freedom. Not many people do, although they'll protest otherwise, of course. No practical definition of freedom would be complete without the freedom to take the consequences. After all, it's the freedom upon which all the others are based."

Another moment of silence passed, and then Skye shook her head.

"That's pretty messed up," she muttered, and Coulson chuckled, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I assume you won't be choosing the 'certain death' option today then, right? Shall we continue on?"

* * *

"Wow."

That was the first word to come out of Skye's mouth as they came up to the Triskelion, and Coulson had to agree with her, despite having seen the building more times than he could count. It was easily the tallest in the Capitol, dwarfing even the president's mansion on the other side of the city's centre, but then again, Thanos' home encompassed far more land than the Triskelion, not even counting the gardens that surrounded it.

"Yeah, pretty sure I said the same thing," Coulson joked, before moving on towards the line of Sentinels who had established a perimeter around the building, and were checking the I.D.s of those who wished to enter.

"Coulson!" one of them called out, smiling widely, his purple helmet in his arms. His grey hair had begun to recede slightly, even though he couldn't have been much older than Coulson himself. "It's been a while – heard you were off gallivanting in the suburbs."

Coulson frowned. "Agent Blake, I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied indignantly. "I _never _gallivant. I don't know _how_ to vant. I've never even _had _a galli. You need to check your information, or else you'll end up tethered to a floating desk-job like Sitwell. How's he doing, by the way?"

"Still seasick, last I've heard," Blake said. "Gonzalez is working him hard, apparently, though you know how Sitwell likes to whine. New agent?" he asked suddenly, nodding in Skye's direction, and she bristled, not happy with being talked about, rather than to, as though she was a piece of furniture.

"We've still to see – isn't that right, Skye? Option Two is always on the table."

"Yeah," she replied. "I think we'll go with a tentative 'yes', for now. And I _still _don't think it's fair to call it 'Option' Two. Dying isn't an option – it's not really something you can come back from, after all."

"Of course not!" Blake said quickly, laughing and clapping Coulson on the shoulder. "Seems like you've got your hands full with this one, Coulson. Anyway, best that you head in, I've delayed you long enough."

With that, he waved them through the checkpoint, and Skye pulled slightly closer to Coulson as they entered the building. Inside, dozens upon dozens of suit-clad agents walked to and from their destinations, some on their own, and others in small groups, talking quietly to one another. Skye suddenly felt more than a little out of place in her jeans and purple lace top, and folded her arms, uncomfortable.

"Jeez, would some colour kill you guys?" she asked, but Coulson only chuckled in reply, and walked on.

She paused for a moment and looked around, noting the huge metal shield symbol in the centre of the room, which caught her eye for a moment before she shook her head and hurried after Coulson. He led her through two further security checks, being waved through each time as the guards on duty recognised him and welcomed him back.

"Do you know _everyone _that works here?" she asked, as they clear the third checkpoint.

"Not _everyone_," Coulson replied with a smile. "I've been here a long time, and I'm good with people. That's always an asset, in our line of work."

"_Your _line of work," Skye corrected, and Coulson nodded in acquiescence.

"Speaking of people in my line of work," he said, as they neared a group of lab coat-wearing scientists, "there's someone who I'd like you to meet. Dr Zola!" he called out, and one of the scientists turned around – the shortest one, with receding brown hair and glasses – and smiled in recognition.

"Ah, Agent Coulson. I vas vondering vhen I'd see you again."

"Skye, this is Doctor Arnim Zola. Dr Zola, this is Skye, the new agent who developed those algorithms that I had sent on to you."

The doctor's face lit up. "Miss Skye, it's a pleasure to meet you! Vithout your vork ve vouldn't have ever thought to extend the parameters of our search to include those already incarcerated in the districts. I must confess, Miss Natchios and Mister Kasady owe their involvement in this year's Avenger Games directly to you."

"Yeah," Skye began hesitantly, not quite sure whether or not that was a positive thing. "I was still wondering about how the algorithms I worked on were implemented. Am I right in guessing that you have some sort of system in place to select each year's tributes?"

Zola clapped his hands together dramatically. "Oh, vere _are _my manners? If you vould just follow me for a moment, I can show you exactly vhere are your vork has been put to use."

With a wave of his hand, he motioned for Skye and Coulson to follow him. He led them past yet another checkpoint, and then paused before a huge set of doors.

"Now, you have my permission to be impressed," he murmured, and punched a code into the panel next to door, submitting himself to a brief retinal scan. "Allow me to introduce you…"

He trailed off, just as the doors pulled back and revealed a room positively bustling with scientists, the walls on all sides covered by stacks and stacks of servers. In the heart of the room lay a single, giant monitor, on a metallic table that dominated the heart of the room, hooked up through hundreds upon hundreds of cables to just about every server in there.

"To Cerebro!"

"Cerebro?" Skye asked weakly, feeling as though Zola's tone had suggested that the name should mean something to her, and hesitant to betray her lack of knowledge.

"Cerebro is the system vhich selects the tributes from the pool of possible candidates. It vas first established to select the tributes for the second Avenger Games, though, of course, vas far less efficient than it is in its current form."

"Why only the _second _Games?" Skye asked. "What happened with the first?"

"Vell, for the first Games, the Director at the time – Arthur Cadenski – allowed selection to be decided by chance, as those in the districts still believe it is done. Unfortunately, the tributes vere…sub-par. Odin Borsson emerged as victor after six days, and President Thanos, displeased, ordered Mr Cadenski's execution. Every Director since have come to the conclusion that a fair draw vasn't necessarily in their best interests – hence, ve have Cerebro."

"So it selects the best possible pool of tributes?"

"Yes, in a vay. Generally, ve factor in mistakes made in the previous year to try and improve for the next time round – ve must alvays seek perfection, and vhile ve are still a long vays off achieving this, the quality have steadily increased year by year."

Skye nodded slowly. "So, if the Games ended too quickly one year, you'd make adjustments to the algorithms in order to find tributes capable of surviving longer."

"Exactly!" Zola gushed. "Last year, in fact, vas such an example. Vhich vas vhy ve have laboured so long over the past year on Cerebro – it has become increasingly difficult to continue the yearly improvements, vhich is vhy your vork has been of such assistance."

"So you created Cerebro?" she asked tentatively, and the small scientist laughed out loud.

"I vas only vun of the team vorking on it – myself, Abraham Erskine, Samuel Sterns, among others – but since ve have used the works of psychology, politics, philosophy and sociology of past victors, men and vomen who truly understand the mind and conditions of the districts. Believe me vhen I say that vithout the works of Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Hank McCoy, Otto Octavius…vell, ve vould have nothing. All of our success, really, has come through their minds, though of course they vill never learn vhat uses their vork has been put to."

"Huh," was all she could say in reply, not really sure about how she felt on that sudden revelation, before Coulson nudged her slightly in the ribs, and passed a small handheld device over to her.

"This is your comm receiver, Skye. If you take _that _door," pointing to the far side of the room, "and continue down the corridor until you reach the end, take a left, and then, on the third room to your right, you'll find Fitzsimmons, who run the science division of our team. They're the only ones you have left to meet – Ward and May should be joining us soon."

"Are you not coming?" Skye asked, somewhat nervous at being left to navigate the corridors alone, but Coulson simply smiled and shook his head.

"In a bit, I've got some things to discuss with Dr Zola first, but I'll catch up. Go on now."

She nodded, and left, running his directions through her head as she made her way through the sea of lab coats, weaving her way through the corridors until she finally came across the room this Fitzsimmons person was supposed to be in.

However, to her surprise there were two people in the room, neither of whom she had ever met before – a young woman with long brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a guy with short brown hair. They must have been near enough the same age as Skye herself, and were busy unloading equipment from a set of travel bags, until the woman dumped what looked like a matte-black rifle, huge in her arms given her small frame, onto the desk next to her, causing the man next to her to jump.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Watch it! That's the night-night gun!" the man squawked, running back to the desk and picking up the huge rifle, clutching it protectively to his chest.

"Well it's on my stuff," the woman began, glaring at the man across from her, "and it doesn't work, and there's _no way_ we're calling it the _night-night_ gun."

"The _bullets_ work," her counterpart protested, looking outraged that someone would dare doubt the functionality of his creation. "Non-lethal, heavy stopping power, break up under the sub-cutaneous tissue..."

"Oh, with a dose of only .1 microliters of dendrotoxin. I'm not President Thanos! I can't create instant paralysis with that."

Deciding that there probably wouldn't be a good moment to get their attention, as both appeared more than willing to launch into an argument that could go on for who knows how long, Skye decided that it was time to break in.

"Fitzsimmons?" Skye asked weakly, and the two…scientists turned around to face her, looking slightly embarrassed at having been caught arguing, preening back their metaphorical feathers as though they hadn't just been caught in the middle of an argument.

"Fitz," the woman said, pointing to the young man across from her.

"Simmons," he said a moment later, sounding pained, likewise pointing across to his partner. "I'm engineering, she's…biochem."

"Skye," she replied, introducing herself. "I'm the new agent Coulson picked up. He told me to drop by, get my comm receiver encoded."

"Ah, yes," Fitz said, his face lighting up. "Pass it over and I'll sort it out for you. Don't know if you've worked with this model before – it's brand new. Don't need the external receiver for the inner-ear comms anymore – its embedded sensorineural silicone matched to your DNA."

"It's _very _posh," Simmons added helpfully, and Skye felt somewhat helpless as she passed the comm receiver Couslon had given her over, and was ushered by the pair into an adjoining lab.

While most of the room was filled with what Skye had come to expect from a standard laboratory – tables, Bunsen burners, miscellaneous flasks and tubes of various shapes and sizes, etc. – the far side was dominated by a huge white sheet, which was draped over some sort of container. While Skye couldn't make out any more than that based on its shape, she could hear movement from beneath the sheet, and she could feel the hair on the back of her neck rising in unease.

"Want to see what's underneath?" Fitz asked coyly, following her gaze with a slight smile, having placed her receiver on a table laden with various tools and wires.

"Fitz, I really don't think that's a good idea," Simmons said, frowning at her partner, evidently far better at reading someone's emotions – though seeing the unease radiating off Skye couldn't have been that much of a challenge.

"Nonsense," Fitz said, snorting derisively, picking up the end of the sheet and dragging it off the container.

To Skye's credit, she didn't scream, though she really wanted to, instead biting down hard on her lip as she slowly backed away from the revealed container, and the two-or-so-dozen monsters that it contained – huge, black, hairy spiders, easily the size of a dog, evil glinting out of each of their eight eyes.

"You see these two? That one's Geek, and the other's Geeky," Fitz gushed, cooing over the giant, slobbering, monstrous spiders with what could only be described as fatherly pride.

"Does that not get confusing?" Skye asked weakly, pressing her back against the wall in an attempt to keep as much distance between her and the cage of spiders as possible.

"Well, _I _wanted to name them numerically, so Geek would have been 'One', and then 'Two', 'Three', and so on, but Fitz won the coin toss," Simmons informed her sadly, shaking her head.

"_Because_, Jemma, that would have been ridiculous," Fitz replied, his face pressed right up against the bars as he pointed from one terrifying spider muttation to the next. "This one here is Taila, and that big one over there is Nick. Then there's Deep, Brenda, Miran, Robbie, Canuckle, D.W., Jay, Silz, Skunk-"

"Alex," Simmons corrected, and blushed slightly when Skye turned to her, shrugging defensively. "What? He vetoed numbering them, I had to compromise."

"Fine, _Alex. _There's twenty-three of them, at any rate – naming them could go on all day. Down! Down, Cas!" he suddenly yelled, as one spider – bigger and more threatening-looking than the others – threw itself against the bars, gnashing its mandibles together furiously.

"Fitz, get away from the cage, you're riling them up!" Simmons squawked, and Fitz held up his hands and backed away in a non-threatening manner.

"Please, Simmons, they're two-and-a-half foot tall giant spiders – they don't need _me_ to rile them up. Are you sure you dosed them right? They don't look very…tranquil, to me."

Simmons bristled, and Skye almost smiled – she would have, in other circumstances, but it was a little difficult to forget the giant spiders in the room.

"If there is a problem with these spiders, it isn't at a biological or chemical level, Fitz. Are _you _sure their inhibitors are working correctly? It wouldn't be the first time that you've bungled your work on the muttations – or have you forgotten the griffon from last year?"

Fitz threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "God, Jemma, _always_ with the griffon! It was half eagle, half lion – how was I to know that it wouldn't respond to typical avian inhibitors, even though it had a bird's brain!"

"A griffon?" Skye asked weakly, interjecting into their conversation. "I don't remember seeing _that_ in last year's Games."

Simmons turned to her, with a look of triumph. "Of course you didn't – it didn't make it to the Games. And why was that, Fitz?"

Fitz stared down stonily at the ground and muttered something intelligible.

"Fitz?" Simmons asked again warningly, and he sighed, his shoulder sagging.

"Because it broke out and killed three people, and May had to shoot it in the head," he muttered sullenly a second later, and Simmons smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

"There, there. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Skye stared at them in evident horror, and observed the spiders with considerably more unease. One of them clicked its mandibles in her direction, and she swallowed, wishing for Coulson to come back and take her away.

"There's no chance that they could get out, could they?" she asked nervously, and Fitzsimmons turned to her as one person, realising that they may have gone a little bit too far for their new teammate.

"No, we've tightened security protocols extensively since then, and we've got these guys handled, don't you worry," Fitz assured her, speaking quickly. "They're just big spiders; they're not going anywhere, right Jemma?"

"Right," Simmons agreed, smiling reassuringly, and Skye began to calm down slightly, though she couldn't help but feel as though a few of the spiders were eyeing her – after all, when you have eight eyes, it's pretty easy to eye everything around you.

"Of course, it's the monkey's two labs over who are the _real _safety risks. One of them almost throttled one of the lab assistants to death a couple of weeks back – luckily Ward had dropped by and was able to pull the guy away from it."

"WHAT?!"

"Oh, don't listen to him," Simmons broke in. "He's got it all backwards – that's just like him. They're _technically_ a species of near-sentient, hairless, apes."

* * *

"So, what are we doing here?" Skye asked tiredly, as the day began to pull to a close. Somewhere out there, the tributes would be falling asleep on the trains bringing them to the Capitol, and the preparations had already begun in the city's streets to welcome them tomorrow.

Coulson glanced over at her from his seat on the other side of the table, and his brow furrowed. "What do you mean – this is the Triskelion, S.H.I.E.L.D. is based here?"

Skye sighed. "Obviously, but what are we _doing _here. I mean, I'm assuming that you picked me up for more than just a couple of algorithms? I've met all the members of your team now, but what is it that we actually _do?_"

A moment of silence passed between them.

"We're one of Fury's special ops task forces, Skye," he replied finally. "Task Force VII, officially, Roman numerals and all. We do whatever he wants us to do, and we needed a hacker, which is why I picked you up. At the moment, we have no mission on hand, but I'm sure that'll change soon."

"That's not really an answer," Skye replied, noticing that other than the actual name of their team, he hadn't told her anything she hadn't already known.

"Well, what can I say – I am a spy, after all. Sharing nature isn't something that comes naturally to me."

Coulson reached into his pocket, and brought out a small black leather wallet, placing it on the table in front of Skye.

"Take it," he told her, nodding to the wallet, and Skye reached out and picked it up.

Flipping it open, she smiled slightly upon seeing the circular silver badge, displaying an eagle with a shield stamped onto the centre. The words **"Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement Logistics Division" **encircled the eagle.

"Unless you'd like to back out and take Option Two, consider this your official recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Skye. You'll have Level One access, which'll get you into most basic S.H.I.E.L.D. systems, and there's a good chance of rapid promotion along the way, if you play your cards right."

"I don't suppose it's rated like a Top Ten list, with one on top?"

Coulson laughed. "Ha, no, it's not. Fitzsimmons and Ward are Level Seven, and May and I are considerably higher. But hey, it's a start, right?"

Before Skye could reply, someone knocked on the doorframe to their team's quarters, and she and Coulson turned to see yet-another impeccably dressed man.

"Yes?" Coulson asked, and the man smiled, running a hand through his well-oiled hair and slicking it back.

"Ian Quinn," he replied, introducing himself as he stepped forward, unconsciously adjusting his suit. "One of the backers for Mr Duquesne's project – he asked me to find you, Agent Coulson. He had heard you had returned to the Triskelion, and wanted to meet you as soon as possible. A problem has come up, alas."

"Tell him I'll be over tonight," Coulson replied, shooting him a warning glare that Skye couldn't help but notice. "I have to settle my team in first, and sort out some problems of my own. I trust that won't be a problem?"

"Of course not," Quinn replied, inclining his head slightly. "And who is your assistant, may I ask? I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you before, I don't believe. I'm sure I would have remembered if I had."

"Skye," she replied, before correcting herself a moment later. "_Agent_ Skye."

"Skye's our resident coding expert, Mr Quinn," Coulson informed him. "We only picked her up recently, but her work has been invaluable so far – Dr Zola can attest to that."

"So, a hacker…interesting," he said, smiling at Skye. "I'm afraid I must go and give Mr Duquesne your response, but I hope I'll see you around."

With that, he left the room, and Skye shivered involuntarily. Coulson glanced over at her and grimaced, evidently sharing her opinion of the man who had just left.

"What a slimeball," Skye muttered under her breath, and Coulson snorted, before jumping up to his feet.

"Better get to work – can only keep the Swordsman waiting for so long. And don't worry about the secrecy – you'll get used to it, and you'll learn more the longer you spend here. Compartmentalisation is key, or so Fury keeps telling me, but I'll always make sure you know what you need to know. I know you mightn't think it right now, but you _can _trust me, Skye. We're the good guys."

With that, he left too, and Skye was left alone. She glanced around the room, her mind spinning with all that she had seen and heard over the course of the day, and sighed. It would take more than a while to get used to all of this, she could tell that much already.

The sounds of Fitz and Simmons bickering from the adjoining room suddenly became clearer, and Skye fixed a smile on her face as they burst into the room.

_May as well get started, then, _she thought to herself. _Looks like I'm going to be here for a while._

_Agent Skye._

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

"_Optimism is a strategy for making a better future. Because unless you believe that the future can be better, you are unlikely to step up and take responsibility for making it so." _

― Noam Chomsky

* * *

Nick Fury stared across the table at his superior, and long-time friend, drumming his fingers impatiently upon the table's impossibly smooth glass surface, as Alexander Pierce leafed through his notes with an air of studied interest, smiling to himself every now and again as something caught his eye.

Eventually, Pierce glanced up from his data-pad, placing it down on the table and removing his glasses gingerly, tucking them into a case that lay next to the data-pad.

He stared at Fury for a moment, before shaking his head wonderingly. "You've done a good job, Nick. I'd like to spend a bit more time reading through these files, but I've got to say, this may well be the best pool of tributes we've ever had. Even from just a quick look over, there's easily six or seven stand-out contenders, and there's no one that can be ruled off immediately."

He paused, glancing away from Fury, and the Director followed his gaze to the huge glass window that made up an entire wall on the far side of Pierce's office, offering an incredible view of the Capitol that sprawled beneath the Triskelion. A moment or two passed, before Pierce began to speak once more, voicing his concerns.

"My only question, though, would be if it was…wise, to draw four children from three of our past victors, even if one was through adoption and the other unknown to both parent and child, along with a district mayor's son? There's only so much that can be put down to chance, and the districts aren't stupid, whatever they might appear, at times."

Fury nodded. "Trust me, I _was_ aware of how it might look, but you know that I'm not the one who selected this list – the system did, and it's the system that determines the order. Thankfully, we were able to…orchestrate enough volunteers that the attention was drawn away from any potentially problematic situations. After all, no one can question someone who volunteers of their own free will, right?"

Pierce laughed, and sipped from the glass in his hand. "Free will, right, _that_ old yarn. I must confess, though, the amount of work Zola and his team have pulled off on Cerebro has been exceptional – you couldn't have pulled something like this off last year."

"It was precisely _because _of last year that we _needed _to pull something like this off," Fury reminded him. "You and I both know that Thanos was not pleased with how apt the title 'Bloodbath' proved. Fourteen dead in the first hour – seventeen by the end of the first day! I'm still just that bit amazed he _didn't _have us shot."

Pierce nodded, and took another sip. "So you're confident it'll run longer this year?"

"Yeah, I am. It's going to be a small Bloodbath, if Cerebro's right, and it usually is. The Career pack won't be as vicious as it has been, but people were getting tired of the same old small-minded evil. We _have, _however, drafted a bit of that in, because you always need _someone_ to hate, right? With the right planning, we'll be able to maintain a strong intensity throughout, and we've had some fantastic new mutts bred for this year. Coulson's team have been overseeing them, and their reports have been promising, so far."

"And…the president's request?" the other man asked slowly, aware of the delicate nature of the situation.

"I've got it covered – all six of them. Like I said, Coulson's team's reports have been promising, and I have a few other ideas. No matter what happens, it's certainly not going to be boring. After that, all we can do is cross our fingers and pray."

Pierce smiled, and nodded again. "I believe in you, Nick. It looks like you've got everything under control, and I'll make that clear to the president in my report. At least his attention will be drawn away Project Insight, while the Games are going on. I trust you've been to see the Swordsman?

"Project Insight," Fury echoed, leaning back into his chair. "Haven't heard that one before – you had to drop 'the Initiative'?"

"Unfortunately, we did indeed have to burn it – his suspicions were being aroused. Have any of the other covers come under scrutiny? Also, you didn't answer my question – have you seen him yet?"

A moment of silence passed, as Fury gazed absently around the office, thinking quietly.

"No. To both questions – the covers are still in place, and I haven't seen him. You know I can't risk direct contact, not at this time of year. He's just supposed to be a backer, getting involved in the off-season. It's why I recalled Coulson – he's the one that deals directly with him, and then reports to me. Then I report to you. Chain of Command, it's a beautiful thing, sir."

"And I report to the rest of the Council," Pierce finished with a sigh. "You should go, Nick. You've got a Games to run, and your subordinates have been assembled – they're waiting on you now in the Briefing Room. _I_, on the other hand, get to read through all this information and prepare a clear and concise report or the Council will have my head – who has the easier job, I wonder?"

"Every job is easy when you're trying to save the world, sir," Fury replied, standing up and shaking his superior's hand. "You just gotta keep an eye on the endgame."

With that, he turned and left, making his way through the Triskelion's winding corridors to the Briefing Room, where, as promised, his team were waiting. Well, with one absence – Phil Coulson, but that was to be expected. Coulson had other work to do right now, and that took priority.

As a result, only four people, all women, were waiting for him, each head of their respective factions. The first, a woman with green hair and a firm, determined expression permanently etched on her face, was Abigail Brand, the head of S.W.O.R.D., S.H.I.E.L.D.'s air force. The second, dark-haired and dark-skinned, was Karima Shapandar – the Omega Sentinel – leader of the Sentinels, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s police force and military. Next to her, older than the other two women, but no less imposing, was the current Nova Prime, Irani Rael, head of the Nova Corps, President Thanos' personal bodyguard.

The last woman was the one who he knew, and trusted, the most – indeed, barely a second of any given day was spent without her by his side, and only Coulson neared her in how much Fury depended on her assistance – his Assistant-Director, Maria Hill.

Many people assumed that, as Director, he only had to deal with a team of Gamemakers, not fully understanding the amount of work and organisation that was required, not only to run the Games, but Marvel itself. It spoke volumes on how central the Avenger Games had become in the operation of the country, that S.H.I.E.L.D., in everything but name, ran the day-to-day affairs of Marvel – there was simply no other way they could function.

They controlled the police, the military, the security, the air force, and just about every other facet of the world in which they found themselves. They were the universal Gamemakers, whose power and influence extended far beyond the Avenger Games.

In this room, right now, stood the collective power of the Capitol. Without the support of the majority of the people in this room, he couldn't run the S.H.I.E.L.D., let alone the Games themselves. However, _with_ their support, which he had gained over the last twenty years, through blood and toil and things best left forgotten, he held enough power to challenge Thanos himself.

He stared at them for a moment, and they stared back, wordlessly, waiting for him to begin.

Suddenly, he smiled, and held his hands out wide.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let the Games begin."


	15. Chapter 14: Off The Rails

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back again as promised with our very first Sunday update. As I said in our last update, we'll now be updating three days a week – Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. This update returns us to our tributes, as Canuckle and Deadpool triumphantly take centre stage! Hope you enjoy it, and we'll be back on Tuesday!**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen – Off the Rails**

**Train Rides**

**Wade Wilson of District One**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"You need a little bit of insanity to do great things." – _Henry Rollins

* * *

_Daaa-mn. Talk about your fancy digs. I wonder if to make you feel more hoity-toity they give you a bejewelled stick to shove up your a-_

_**I don't think that's one of the perks on this ride.**_

The train was much fancier than Wade had expected, and less modern than he'd assumed it would be. Lots of plush velvet on the seats and lavish drapery. Fine woodworking in deep dark colours made up all of the furniture and fine details of the inside of the cars. His stomach lurched as the train moved forward.

_That's going to take some getting used to._

But before he knew it, he couldn't even feel the movement as they glided along. Still, the motion of the world moving past them as they built up speed was enough to turn his stomach. It was so much easier when he was in control of the spinning around his head. At least he controlled the speed of the katana when he whipped it around in circles.

_Circadian rhythms. It doesn't match our internal clock._

_**Big words for a big mouth.**_

He followed his instructions to the letter, trailing behind Fisk toward the car where Elektra was waiting and where they would meet their mentors. When he stepped into the room, he could see plainly that the little jailbird didn't want anything to do with him, her arms crossed over her chest as she made a point to turn her body away from him. Naturally, he went straight for her, sitting as close as he could.

"Hey angel. How's it goin'?" Wade said, grinning under his mask. She glared at him in response and got up to sit elsewhere.

"Don't go away mad, sweetcheeks…we get to be district buddies. We should get to know each other. Cozy up a little, ya know what I mean?" he teased, his tone laughing just a bit as she glared at him.

_Do you think she knows we're supposed to kill her?_

_**Well, that is the idea isn't it? Kill everyone else and go back home to the adoring fans?**_

"Alright kids, here's the deal," Fisk started as he sat down in an enormous chair, clearly built just for him. "You're going to do everything I tell you – well, everything your mentors and I tell you. We know what we're doing. It's like a business. Now, I know it's been a while since we got a win, but we have the formula on how to get this done as long as you do as your told."

Fisk gestured to a Sentinel standing near the door, never taking his eyes off his tributes. His thin veneer of politeness disappeared entirely as the train continued to pick up speed.

The three of them sat in relative silence for a few minutes as Wade hummed a tuneless song to himself, twiddling his thumbs while Fisk lit a cigar, watching the two of them through the smoke as it curled up in tendrils around his cue ball of a head.

_What are we doing now? Having a staring contest with the fat man?_

_**Shouldn't we be relaxing instead of whatever the hell this is?**_

The two tributes looked at each other for a split second before their two mentors finally walked in.

_This is a rip off. Where's the blonde with the nice rack?_

"Elektra, meet Johnny Storm. He'll be mentoring you while you're in the Capitol," Fisk said as he locked eyes with her. She looked a little irritated as Johnny turned on the charm, grinning widely as he took the seat next to her, maybe a little too close.

_Smarmy bastard._

_**Maybe she'll stab him.**_

_Think she'll stab ours too?_

"Wade, you'll be with Reed Richards," Fisk said grimly.

Richards nodded curtly, his mouth drawn tight as he moved to sit near his new tribute.

_Not even the big guy. Fantastic._

_**Four.**_

Wade chuckled to himself as Richards looked him over.

"Inside joke you wouldn't understand," Wade said seriously, his arm draped over the back of his chair.

"Why don't you guys go ahead and take some time to get to know each other." Using that as his excuse to leave, Fisk rose from his chair with what looked to be a tremendous amount of effort before allowing them to chat with their mentors.

"So you're a swordsman? Al said you were impressive, though I never know what to think when a blind woman says something like that," Richards said to his new charge.

_What a dweeb._

"Yep. Best there is," Wade replied as he leaned back, brushing his knuckles across his chest.

"What's with the mask? Do you mind taking it off for a moment?" Richards asked, his brow furrowed. Elektra's eyes darted over to him.

_**He can't be serious.**_

"I don't take it off," Wade replied solemnly. His voice had lost all of its humour.

"It might help to get you sponsors."

"No it won't." The boy was adamant.

"It might – show them who you are. It helps to put a face to the name."

"Who wants to see that? I sure as hell don't," Wade replied. "The mask is fine. Take it or leave it."

"Well, I don't believe we've ever had a tribute in the history of the games go in without anyone knowing what he looked like," Richard reasoned.

"You probably never had a tribute ugly enough to break your cameras and nosedive your ratings either," Wade snarked back. Richards looked troubled but let it slide for now.

"We'll come back to that later. I can't promise you'll be allowed to wear it into the arena." If he insisted, which he did, then Wade knew Richards would do all he could to help accommodate him.

Hopefully the Gamemakers wouldn't take issue with his mask. If they did, it was going to be a miserable experience for everyone. Richards was still looking him over closely, appearing to Wade as if he was trying to determine how far his scarring went.

_Hey. This one really IS checking us out. Daaamn. Didn't think THAT was gonna happen._

_**I'm not surprised. That chick he's married to seems high maintenance.**_

"Hey, you like what you see? You touch the merchandise and I'm gonna have to call for a Sentinel. Even if you are fantastic, I don't swing that way," Wade blurted out.

Richards grimaced before trying another angle.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself. What was your family like?"

Wade shrugged as he thought for a second about his response.

"Well, it's tricky," Wade began.

_How the hell do we answer this one?_

_**Just tell him the truth. He seems to be the type to appreciate that kind of thing.**_

"It really depends on who's writing the story at the time," Wade explained. "Today though, let's go with my dad was in the military. Mom died from cancer when I was a kid and Daddy dearest ended up droppin' me off at the school like yesterday's garbage. The rest, as they say, is history, egghead." Richards shook his head as he stared back at the boy. Who's writing him?

"Is your father still alive?"

"How the hell should I know? You'd have to ask Al. She knows all that crap," Wade replied testily.

Richards tried, and failed to find some common ground with the young man, to Wade's irritation. He wasn't here to make friendly with Fantastic Richards. He was there to spill some blood, bust some skulls and come back the masked victor of District One. After nearly half an hour of having to listen to him prattle on, digging for information about his friends, rivals and girls, Richards finally broke.

"Well, alright then. Let me show you to your room," Richards said wearily.

_It's about damned time he shut the hell up._

You can relax in there if you want, you're free to wander the train," Richards told him as he rose up to lead the way.

His room was far more extravagant than Wade thought he could ever get used to. Plush carpeting, long drapes, a very cushy bed and closet full of clothes – all in his size, of course. Private bathroom with an oversized mirror that seemed to go from ceiling to floor.

"THAT seems a little unnecessary." Wade commented to himself, as he looked at his reflection. He could see Richard's point about the mask…it's just that the alternative was so, so much worse.

_Not bad. Kinda like we're royalty._

_**Or just preparation for bigger things to come.**_

"Take your time and clean up. We have a couple hours before dinner," Richards told him, his mouth drawn tightly in imitation of a smile.

_A sciency smile. Smart guys don't show their teeth._

_**That must mean we're a freakin' genius.**_

He locked the door after Richards left and looked around the room before deciding to ignore his advice for the time being and take a nap instead. It was the first time in his memory that he could take the mask off without concern that someone would look while he was sleeping.

Of course, he wouldn't be able to enjoy it. He just couldn't relax enough to sleep. In fact, he hadn't really been able to relax since he'd been in the hospital. He closed his eyes just the same, hoping to see the babe in the purple cloak. But, as usual, no luck.

He'd seen her for the first time when the doctors had finished with him and he was finally alone in his room, covered in wet antiseptic smelling bandages, his limbs strung up so they wouldn't touch anything. His mind began to wander in his pain and drug induced haze as he pondered how he had gotten where he was.

* * *

_Just a little spark. That's all it was. BOOM. Now the outside matches the inside. Bad and ugly and angry and dying._

No. Not dying.

Sicko doc won't let me die. He pokes and laughs and no one knows.

**No one ****cares.**

I hear pop and crackle and snap in me. They play games with my skin. It goes pop a lot.

Snop Packle Crop_, __he thought to himself.__The boy was lost in a haze of pain and a drug addled fog._

_"Nice. I like it when they don't rhyme," a woman's voice rang out, her accent like the highest upper crust of the Capitol. She looked like a supermodel…her body did anyhow. The long purple-__hooded __cloak masked her face – only glowing green eyes really visible in the shadows of her hood._

_His eyes locked on her as she continued. "More interesting that way. Not to mention that men who have a way with words tend to be good with their mouths. Oh well. I guess I'll have to wait and see."_

_"It's official," Wade mumbled, "that is the sound of my sanity crumbling." _

_She stiffened up as she looked at him harder._

_"Wait – _You can see me?_" she rushed closer, looking at him a little better._

_"Funny. I always thought my descent into madness would be more … violent. That was almost anticlimactic," he rasped out. __"Not that I'm complaining. If you're going to hallucinate, it may as well be a drop dead gorgeous woman."_

_"Something's wrong here. A living being shouldn't be able to see me – at least not until actual departure. If they could, they'd instantly go out of their gourd," she said quietly,__as she walked __slowly around his bed, Wade's eyes never left __her. "Amazing. A living, breathing soul to interact with." _

_The cloaked woman leaned in closer, her eyes glowing an ominous green, her face finally somewhat visible to him...her __pale skin __was __adorned with swirled patterns __from her forehead to her chin, the planes of her face making her look like some sort of alabaster sculpted goddess._

_"It's the drugs…I know it. The doc slipped me something that I'll never find when I get outta here," Wade babbled._

_"You're being overly dramatic. Rest easy, cosmic abomination," she told him as she leaned over his prone form. "Today is not your day," she said before fading into thin air._

* * *

Since then, he'd tried and failed more times than he could count to see her again. No luck. If it wasn't the fact that he knew it was just his drug addled brain playing tricks on him, he'd have thought he'd fallen in love with her.

But no.

He wasn't stupid. He knew talking to imaginary women, let alone talking to himself, wasn't normal. Or sane. Hallucinations were just another benchmark as to how crazy he was becoming. Maybe, just maybe if he could win he'd be able to get something to make the voices stop, or another shot at whatever the hell Killebrew had pumped him up with the first time he saw her. There had to be something they could do. He shook his head at the thought.

The babe in purple was just a hallucination, after all. She wasn't the last of them, but she was the most vivid.

When the time came for dinner, Wade grudgingly made his way to the table. He hated meal times. He had to be awfully damned hungry to even attempt to eat anything around other people. It was awkward and the uninitiated always stared, even when it was just his mouth and chin exposed.

His eyes darted around the room as he made his way in – both Elektra and her mentor were already at the table. Johnny Storm was trying hard to be friendly, but Elektra still looked like she could spit venom. Fisk was shaking his head at Richards who suddenly stopped his hushed whispers with Fisk, sitting up quickly when he realized Wade was standing there.

_Busted._

He should have been insulted, but he really didn't care. It was a pretty natural reaction from people after all – talking about him behind his back. Why would his mentor be any different from anyone else?

He took a seat directly across from Elektra and leaned his head on one hand, his elbow resting on the table as he watched her. Irritating her was going to be fun. He didn't have much else to do on this crazy train.

_Until she jams a knife in your kidney._

_**No better way to get a man's attention than a punctured organ.**_

"And how are you feeling tonight, my little murder- princess?" Wade asked sweetly. She refused to let him bait her, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at him.

_She thinks __we're sexy._

_**Clearly.**_

"No shit, who wouldn't?" Wade said none too quietly. The whole of the room paused as they looked at him a moment.

"Who wouldn't what?" Elektra asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Like you don't know," Wade replied coyly, before growling somewhat theatrically. The discomfort level in the room ratcheted up another notch. Richards looked to Fisk as if to say 'Toldja so.'

Instead, Fisk cleared his throat and started talking about what they needed to do next. Wade tuned out quickly to the music that was running through his head, leaning back in his chair as the Inhuman scurried about the table, serving everyone.

_What the hell is this all about, do you suppose? I mean, do we gotta listen to him yapping all the way there? Doesn't he have an off switch?_

_**Or a mute button. That would work too.**_

He watched the servant as he moved, eyes downcast and trying hard not to draw attention to himself. He wasn't the only one that noticed. Elektra seemed to be stuck on the strange little man too. Almost as if she might have recognized him.

_"__Wade!__"_ Richards all but shouted, finally pulling him out of his head.

"WHAT?" he shouted back, looking around the room a moment.

_What'd we miss? Everyone looks so serious._

"Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah, lots of them. Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong, why did the chicken cross the road, what happens when two me…s – meses? – from alternate realities collide, and when do we get to kill people?" Wade asked. Richards paled and Fisk smirked.

"Enthusiasm. Good. I like that," he said as he bopped Richards's arm with the back of his hand, his hard, cold glare on the young man the whole time.

The rest of their mealtime was spent with Elektra's mentor bragging loudly about his achievements and Richards trying and failing to keep Wade's attention on him. He was attempting to find out what the boy could do, outside of the fighting skills that he was known for at the school, and unbeknownst to Richards, on the streets as well.

Unfortunately for Richards, Wade was distracted by the broadcasting of the Reapings. All around Marvel there were trains destined for the same station. And he was watching already to see his competition.

It was running like a recap – just snippets of the different faces.

_Good God, we look like shit on screen._

_**Well, maybe we can get a better looking mask when we get there.**_

The pair from Four were something else. Acting like they were royalty almost.

"…**son of the first victor, the male tribute from Four is as near to royalty as one can get,"** the announcer on the television proudly proclaimed.

"Oh, well that explains it," he mumbled to himself, continuing to listen to the commentary as they ticked down the list.

Lots of scared looking kids. LOTS of volunteers. Had to be a new record. A few from several districts had the misfortune of being caught in the rain for their Reaping. Made him kind of glad they had sunshine. Nothing worse than a wet mask.

_They look like drowned rats._

_**Drowned rats have enough sense to get out of the rain.**_

Wade was a little disturbed to see the handful of young tributes. He knew it was possible, but he really didn't want to have to kill a kid. The rest of 'em he had no qualms about, but the little girl in Eleven…she was just so…so…little.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Enough of this. Someone else would probably kill the little ones. He'd do as Al told him and knock off his district partner for starters.

_On the other hand, she is likely the only other tribute that's actually killed someone._

_**We might want to try being nice to her. She might have good murder tips.**_

These were not the kind of thoughts he wanted to go to bed with, so he took himself to his room attempting to clear his very busy brain, careful to lock the door behind him. He lay down on the cushy bed, and took the mask off. He stared at the ceiling still trying to clear his mind, which wasn't the simplest of tasks when it was occupied by so many different voices. The adrenaline rush had finally caught up to him big time. His shoulders ached and all he really wanted to do was sleep.

The thought was barely out of his mind when he finally relaxed enough to do just that as the sound of the train gliding over the rails relaxed him enough to pass out.

* * *

He woke up with a start, looking around wildly as he sat up.

_Where the hell am I?_

_**Yesterday was Reaping Day, genius. We're on our way to the Capitol.**_

"Right. Forgot where I was for a minute there," Wade said to himself. The sun had just started to rise and he quickly got dressed, waiting until the last possible minute to slip his mask back on.

_Probably should have washed it last night._

"No time to worry about that now. We're one more step closer to getting what we really want." He dug through the wardrobe available to him. Not worrying about how he actually looked, he simply threw on the first things available that somewhat matched his mask. Red and black it was, as he liked it to be. He slipped out of his quarters and down to the traveling car.

The rising sun lit up the landscape with warm pinks and tangerines, dark shadows casting out behind the small bushes were the only dark break to what was a perfect radiating picture. The whole landscape simply glowed as the train chugged on. Wouldn't be long now. He really didn't know what to do with himself while he waited for the train to reach his final destination.

_No point watching television. We already know what we gotta do, and who we gotta kill._

He assumed correctly that he was the first one up, so he simply tried to get used to the rolling landscape as they flew by. The more he watched it the more used to it he got – so much that when he finally did look back to his surroundings in the car as Richards passed him with a curt nod, it was the lack of motion that made his stomach turn.

"Ready for today?" Richards asked.

_Nope._

"Ready as I'll ever be," Wade replied. He waited for the boy to join him, obviously headed back to the dining car. Hopefully it wouldn't be a repeat of the night before. Awkward talking and crappy attempts at camaraderie.

Wade was pleasantly surprised when Richards didn't even attempt to talk to him, instead favouring his coffee and newspaper.

_Do we actually get peace and quiet?_

_**Where's the little murderess?**_

"Do I gotta listen to another round of the fat man this morning, because I'll be honest. I _kinda_ hate him," Wade said as he watched Richards smile.

"He likely won't be up for a while. You're safe for now," Richards answered. "No guarantees once we arrive though." It was apparent that the older man was trying to be at the very least, friendly to him.

_He better be friendly. We're going to make him look good._

_**Or die trying.**_


	16. Chapter 15: First Impressions

**(A/N) Hey all, here we are with another update, and I'm going to keep this short and sweet as it's quite late and I'd like very much to go to bed! Lots and lots of studying done today, and more ahead of me tomorrow, so I'm heading off and leaving you all with this.**

**Created to Write: Abigail Brand is the head of S.W.O.R.D. in the comics, and I for one will be outraged if she doesn't make an appearance in the upcoming Captain Marvel film. As for Karima, she's the Omega Sentinel, an on again, off again X-Men ally/villain. If you want to know more, Wikipedia is the place to go - it can give you far more info than I can!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – First Impressions**

**Arrival at the Capitol**

**Anna Marie Adler of District Eight**

**Written by bloodbaby1**

* * *

"_Maybe you had to leave in order to really miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was." _

― Jodi Picoult,_ Handle with Care_

* * *

Anna never remembered having a reason to hate train rides, not exactly having ever been on a train before, but she certainly had one now. She felt sick just after they'd gotten off. Motion sickness was not the best feeling in the world, especially when it was her first time in the Capitol.

She looked around at the train station and wondered if she was still on the same planet.

"I knew they were rich here, but _wow!_" she said, dumbfounded.

The outfits people were wearing were ridiculous and not at all something she was interested in. She was glad that she didn't have to make those things herself. Sure, they were rich and their fashion sense was supposed to be top notch, but looking at the way all these crazy people walked around, with their prissy hairstyles and pompous struts, made her feel like she was walking around with a freak show. Perhaps it was something she had to get used to, maybe it was just something that at first sight was god awful to look at but later she would appreciate the look of it.

She was mostly amused by the look of the train station; it seemed quite simple but had a certain elegance to it. It was a nice change of pace compared to District Eight's train station. It wasn't dirty or anything, but the colour was too dim to invoke any emotion in Rogue other than irritation.

Anna sighed as she said under her breath, frustrated at this point, "This place kinda pisses me off."

Jessica must've heard her because she seemed to chuckle at something. Peter was walking next to Anna as Norman and Jessica led the way in front of them.

Anna looked over at Peter, noticing that he was staring off at the other people in the train station. She thought he was a nice kid; she didn't really want to establish any kind of friendship with him though. If it came down to her having to kill him, she wanted to make sure that she would be able to do it. If she got to know him too well she might not have the nerve.

However, Peter was too nice of a kid, and she seemed to gravitate to him anyway. He must've had that effect on a lot of people; making friends had to be easy for him.

She sighed heavily again, thinking to herself. _What the hell did I do? I can't imagine how Neena would've handled all of this but damn, what was I thinkin'? _

"Are you alright?" Peter whispered to her.

Anna looked over at him, a little surprised that he had said something to her.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? You're holding your head. I thought you might have a headache."

Rogue hadn't realized that she had placed her hand on her head mid-thought. She put it down into her pockets and gave him a small smile.

She looked forward as she said, "I'm fine, just had a lil' motion sickness. It's wearin' off now, thanks."

He didn't respond, but she could see from the corner of her eye that he had accepted her answer. He went back to looking around as they headed out of the train station, his face flushed with amazement at the amount of technology that just floated around, seemingly unattended. Something that looked like a floating sphere followed a woman all the way to the bathroom doors, and once she entered through the doors the orb floated away.

_It was giving her directions to the bathroom,_ she thought.

"Awesome," Peter said, amazed.

She was thinking about how many maps that the sphere had to have downloaded in its software to be able to give others directions. It was a GPS system that was way more advanced than she could contemplate. There was a woman rocking a baby in a stroller that was floating as well. It looked like there was something under it that made it float.

"Magnetic field?" Peter wondered aloud.

Rouge looked to him and said, "What?"

Peter turned to her, realizing that he'd said something out loud. "Oh, nothing. Sorry."

She shrugged her shoulders, not bothering to question him further. She thought about when she first talked to Peter on the train.

Ever since they had been announced as District Eight's tributes, she hadn't said a word to him. She was on the train curled up in her seat, with her head in her hand. She was watching the world go by so quickly through the window, and it reminded her of how quickly the years rolled by with her and Irene.

Every year she and Domino had been lucky enough not to get picked, except this time. It was true though, Neena had the better luck – even though she got picked she didn't have to go because of Rogue.

She wondered who Peter left behind, and found that her eyes had settled on the top of his head. He hadn't said anything to her on the train, or he might have and she just didn't respond. She was sure a few people tried to talk to her beforehand, but she wasn't paying enough attention to know who it had been. At the time, she was still in a daze, remembering what Bobby said to her. She saw something on the top of his head moving and she smirked to herself.

She sat her head up and said, "Hey, what's your name again?"

"Peter, Peter Parker," he replied a moment later, slightly stunned that she had finally spoken to him.

"Oh well, Parker – you've got a spider on your head."

He jumped up as he frantically brushed at his hair to get it out.

Anna moved back a little slightly holding in her laughs as she said, "Cut it out! You'll get it on me."

"Is it gone?" Peter asked, shivering from the thought that it had been on him in the first place.

Jessica and Norman chuckled to themselves at Peter's actions. Anna smiled at him and then looked down – she saw the spider trying to make its escape and stepped on it before it could.

"Even better, it's dead." She looked up at him with a triumphant smile.

Then it kind of hit her. "Funny isn't it?"

"What?" Peter asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Survival of the fittest – that spider was just tryin' to run away but I took the opportunity to kill it. That's how they'll be, you know that right, Peter? You know that if you don't kill them, they'll kill you. Do you think you can do that?"

Her question was more directed towards herself than to him. She was questioning her morals – she had volunteered so that Neena wouldn't have to kill or be killed, but she was probably going to be one of those that killed someone who was the same age as Neena.

There was no real escape from it, she guessed.

She looked at her hands, imagining the bloodstains already and felt sick. Peter hadn't answered her, probably contemplating whether or not he could do it. Probably wondering what the hell kind of person asks a question like that any way.

Whatever he was thinking, he hadn't said a thing.

"I've got a date when I get back home," he said at last, choosing to pass over her previous question.

Anna looked up at him and gave him a little smile. She started to laugh a little.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothin'... Anyway, I think you tried to talk to me earlier when we were goin to say goodbye to our families. I saw you, I just didn't say anythin' back. Sorry about that. I was just kind of realizin' what I had done."

Peter's face looked as though he was still trying to figure out why she had laughed at him. Anna thought it was cute though, the idea of having a date as soon as he got back home. He'd already made his mind up that he was going to win; the trouble was she had done the same thing. She was sure everyone else had as well, all she could think was let the better tribute win.

The Sentinels guarding them made Rogue feel like they were both important figures and criminals at the same time – it was strange. Betty ushered them all into a huge building that took Rogue's breath away.

"What is this place?" she asked, a touch of awe in her voice.

"This is the Training Centre. You'll be staying here for the next couple of days," Jessica replied, placing a reassuring hand on Anna's shoulder.

"We're taking you to see your rooms right now, and then we'll have a little chat with you two about what's going on next," Norman continued.

They were led through the building by Betty, who walked in front of them. She opened the door to the place they were staying in, and both Rogue and Peter marvelled at the sight of just the living room and the kitchen area. There was a long C-shaped couch that looked fluffy enough to sleep on, and a round glass table in front of them.

There was a giant screen TV in front of the couch with a weird pad-like device that Rogue assumed was a remote. She played with it a little as Peter walked over to look at it. She stepped aside to watch him work the device like he's known how to use it his entire life. He could dim the lights and turn on the TV at the same time.

There was a fire place just below the TV that he turned on and then off and the kitchen lights.

Rogue was amazed by the entire thing; she turned to Peter with the biggest smile on, and she said, "I'll never complain 'bout bein' bored again."

Peter laughed at her as Norman and Jessica walked over to them.

"Alright you two calm down, you haven't seen your bedrooms yet. Check those out," Jessica told them, smiling slightly to herself.

Rogue turned to Peter, "After you."

"Ladies first."

Rogue walked in front of him, and they quickly made their way to see their rooms. Rogue looked back at Jessica and she nodded to her, indicating which room was hers.

She opened the door to see a bed covered with the most beautiful golden satin-looking blanket. The bed post was crafted expertly with a pattern of swirls twisting and turning around it. There was a mirror in front of her bed as she turned around and saw her face, and the reflection of the room physically hurt her because it was so beautiful. There were lights hanging from the ceiling like stars against the charcoal black ceiling and some sort of statue, on the wall that she couldn't exactly figure out what it was. There was a desk by the bed that she walked over to and touched after taking off her gloves. She could feel the wood, how polished it was – much better wood then the desk she had at home. She looked at the pillow cases that matched the walls and ceiling, charcoal black.

"As royal as this looks, it's almost like they want you to have no hope. The place is so dark. Although, I'm surprised I like it so much."

She touched the sheet on the bed, it felt like satin too, and it was amazing. It was like she absorbed the feeling of the satin. She jumped on the bed and wrapped herself in the blanket, almost falling asleep right then and there. She thought back to the times that Irene used to wake her up with cold buckets of water. It irritated her even at that moment but she felt herself going into nostalgia, even though she just went through that event that morning.

She had complained for so long about the same routine every day, and _now_ she wanted to go back home.

She enjoyed the look of the Capitol, but now that she'd seen it she wanted to just go home. She didn't realize when she drifted off to sleep and before she knew it she was being awakened by Jessica, a few moments later. She was shaking Rogue's shoulder furiously, and when Anna woke up she swung her arm at Jessica, mistaking her for Irene

"Why can't you just wake me up like a normal person!" she yelled, irritated, her eyes still shut as she raised herself from the bed.

She sat up and looked at Jessica who had been pushed to the other side from her blow. She rubbed her eyes and looked at Jessica.

"So that was a dream," she mumbled to herself.

Anna sighed a moment later, and said, "Sorry."

Jessica just nodded her head and headed out of the room with Anna following sheepishly behind her. Rogue sat down on the couch next to Peter, and Jessica stood behind Norman, who was sitting on the couch.

"What's up?" Anna asked.

"We need to explain to you about a few things that're about to go on," Norman started off.

"You'll be getting a stylist who will dress you up for the parade in the Capitol."

"Oh please don't tell me we're goin' to be wearin' those ridiculous outfits that they were wearin' at the train station. If we are, you can do the other tributes a favour and kill me now," Rouge replied, rolling her eyes as she leaned back against the couch.

"That's not funny, young lady," Norman said, in a serious tone.

"What gave you the impression that I was jokin'?" Rouge asled, cocking an eyebrow.

"Alright, enough, you two," Jessica finally interrupted.

Her arms were crossed and her hair was styled with beach waves down her back, and the mentor had a grey suit on that was brighter than the grey couch they were sitting on. She turned to Rogue with narrowed eyes and a stern look. The look she gave Anna wasn't what bothered her - it was that she had same posture and poise that Irene had. They looked nothing alike, but those mannerisms were exactly the same.

It didn't do much to boost Rogue's mood. Remembering her foster mother and how strict she was, but also how much she loved her and how she did anything to protect her, only served to irritate Anna further.

"Anna-"

"Rogue," she interrupted.

"_You_ can call me Rogue." The extra emphasis on the word 'you' made clearly made Jessica wonder what her problem was, given the way she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Peter and Norman noticed the tone as well, but didn't say anything. It was proven through their looks that they didn't understand the growing hostility Rogue held towards her mentor.

"Fine, _Rogue_," Jessica said. "You need to stop mouthing off and _listen_ to us. We've gone through the Games – we know what it's like. You may have watched it, but we know how to _survive_ it."

"Survive it? I'm not playin' to _survive_, Ms Drew, I'm playin' to win. Survival in the Avenger Games simply means lastin' long enough until someone kills you. I'm not gonna die," Anna told her mentor.

The determination in her voice was heard and well understood by Jessica. She clearly wasn't as fiery as Rogue, but maybe she had felt the same passion when she started out in the Games. In any case, Jessica certainly knew how to play the game, she knew the key to staying alive, and teaching Rogue that was beginning to seem like it was going to be the most difficult thing in the world.

Jessica picked up a fork from the counter in the kitchen and threw it at Rogue. Rogue caught it with her quick reflexes and looked up at Jessica. She didn't have to ask why her mentor had just done that that, she already understood.

Norman's eyes were closed, but there was a smirk on his face. Peter was staring at Jessica, slightly confused, until he seemed to figure it out in his head what was going on between the two.

Jessica walked over to Rogue and grabbed the fork from her hand, before giving her a smile. Rogue handed it over, but her eyes were colder than before. She didn't dare admit it, but her heart was pounding within her chest – the fork had been aimed for her eye, and had she not caught it she would've gone into the Games with an even bigger disadvantage than the one she had now.

Her attitude would be her downfall and she had to be smart – she knew it now. Jessica's actions had also her taught her that even in the room, even with Peter and their mentors, they were not safe. They were already trusting each other, and they weren't supposed to – it wouldn't do them any good in the arena.

Rogue looked to Peter and sighed, she wouldn't kill him. If she could work it out, she'd get someone else to do it for her. Anyone's blood could be on her hands, it just couldn't be his. The plotting of his death scared her slightly.

What kind of monster was she turning into?

The Avenger Games took the definition of humanity and threw it out of the window – they were animals now and the smartest one was the one that was going to win.

Jessica sat down next to Norman and started talking.

"Now, you'll be provided a stylist to dress you up for the parade, the next few days you'll have training, and then you'll have interviews. It's important that when you go through the interview process that you say the right things. You want sponsors on your side."

"Why's that?" Peter asked.

"The sponsors will provide you with gifts during the Games. Such as medicine, food, weapons even – it's all quite to your advantage," Norman replied.

"As long as we have the sponsors?" Anna asked.

"Exactly, which is why you're going to have to check your attitude when you're going through the interviewing process," Jessica stated.

"I'll speak the way I want, an' I'll say whatever I need to say."

The look in her eyes allowed Jessica to understand the true meaning of her words. She caught on quick, Ms Drew's little fork lesson had gotten through to her. '_Perhaps it wouldn't be hard to teach her after all,' _she could see her mentor thinking.

Rogue stood up and walked to the window, her face lighting up with a smile the moment her eyes looked down at the street below. She could see the entire Capitol from where she stood, and she had to admit, it _was_ beautiful. Buildings tall and wide with royal colours, and others with the purest form of white, so bright that they actually hurt her eyes. The streets were wide, and from up here the people looked like tiny ants.

"They really like to show off, don't they?" Norman quipped, looking at Rogue with a smile.

"So…what now?" Peter asked.

"Now? Now we meet your stylist, my boy," Norman said.

Rogue turned around to Peter and they looked at each other. She shrugged a moment later, and Peter gave a small smile, as though he wasn't quite interested in all that, but he was going to go along with it anyway.


	17. Chapter 16: Keeping Up Appearances

**(A/N) Hey guys, here with our Thursday update (though technically I've run onto Friday, but what you gonna do?), and we return to Ophelia Lokisdottir and Kurt Wagner! Gonna keep this short and sweet so I can hit the hay, but I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!**

**Created to Write: No, we'll be seeing snippets of the tributes' experiences in the Capitol through different POVs – it'd take us **_**forever **_**to get through it all if we saw everything from everyone's point of view! However, I hope there'll be enough coming up to make it worth your while!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen – Keeping Up Appearances**

**Stylist Meeting**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Lokisdottir**

* * *

_"Personality is to a man what perfume is to a flower." _– Charles Schwab

* * *

_Snip._

_Snip._

_Snip._

Kurt watched as curls of his inky hair dropped to the floor around him. Had it only been just yesterday morning that his mother had tried so hard to tame his dark locks? He recalled his mother ruffling his hair affectionately and was reminded yet again, with a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach, that he would likely never experience that again. He bit his lip, holding back yet another wave of tears that threatened to make an appearance. The novelty of the train ride and the Capitol had worn off hours ago and he was alternating between chest-squeezing panic and crushing sadness.

* * *

_Kurt watched out the window as the train pulled out of the station. His family, the district, the people fell away as the town's earthy buildings gave way to the district's rippling fields. _

_Kurt glanced around the compartment for the first time, taking in the opulence. There was a table laid with fine dining ware, each piece polished until it practically glowed. There were elegant pieces of furniture, even nicer than the ones in the Justice Building. The decor looked out of place on a train – it was more suited for a palace. Kurt wandered amongst the furniture, running a hand over the silky upholstery._

_"You two are so lucky," said Kelly. "You get to experience this kind of luxury and the rest of your district doesn't!" _

_Kurt and Wanda both turned cool gazes to the man, who seemed unaware of the callous nature of his comment. The Capitol man continued prattling on about the extravagance and wealth of the Capitol while Kurt and Wanda sank into adjacent chairs_.

* * *

"Honestly, sweetheart, how long has it been since you cut your hair?" said the blue-haired man wielding the scissors. "It's so wild!"

Kurt would have scowled but after enduring similar comments for the last forty minutes, he simply let the three exuberant Capitol citizens bounce around him while they primped and polished his body.

Upon his arrival in the Capitol he'd been taken from the train and whisked to the prep centre. To his intense embarrassment and utter discomfort, he'd been asked to disrobe, and his clothes – including his precious crimson vest – had been swept away by a stylist. He'd managed to retain the ribbons tied around his wrists, though he'd received some odd looks from the stylists. He didn't care. He would keep the last remnants of home if it killed him.

He had to stifle a snicker at that. _Yeah, that'll be the thing that does it._

He ran his fingertips along the silky fabric as the man and his assistants practically danced around him, finishing their snipping and clipping.

"And there we go!" sang the man with the indigo hair as he clipped one final bit of hair and ran the comb across Kurt's head a few more times. A few strands of hair dropped down the neck of the thin shirt Kurt wore.

The man stepped back and clicked his fingers at one of his assistants and she held up a mirror. Kurt stared at his reflection. Gone were the slight curls that had brushed his earlobes. Now shorter, it was straighter, and had been parted on one side and brushed into a quiff. Kurt raised his eyebrows in spite of his discontent. It didn't look half bad. He turned his head this was and that, looking at the expertly coiffed style.

"Isn't that much better than that mop-top that plagued you before?" the head stylist twittered cheerfully.

Kurt sighed internally at yet another backhanded compliment, but nodded. "Thanks," he said.

The man practically glowed. "Now, you just sit tight, young man! Angel will be here soon to get you ready for the parade!"

The man waltzed out of the room with his assistants in tow. Kurt picked at the knot on one of the ribbons around his wrist, freeing the ribbon and twining it absentmindedly through his fingers. He was grateful for this moment of quiet, however short it might be. The rush through the city, the prep, all the unfamiliar people...it was just so much to take in. The train ride hasn't been high-energy...but it everything Kelly had said had ratcheted up the level of uncomfortableness to new and even more painful heights. He flopped back on the padded table. What a ride that had been...

* * *

_"Well, at least _you_ had the sense to dress tastefully," muttered Robert Kelly to Kurt, casting a disdainful glance at Wanda, who wore jeans and a thin white shirt. Kurt said nothing, knowing that he was lucky to have his outfit. Wanda scowled, overhearing the remark and Kurt shot her an apologetic glance, which she ignored. Her glare was not lost on Kelly, who looked away uncomfortably before bounding to his feet._

_"So!" he said. "Let's, uh...let me go find your mentors! It's important to get to know them! They'll be your biggest allies in the Games!" He hurried from the train carriage. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Kurt glanced at Wanda, and she returned the stare icily._

_"He doesn't know," Kurt said quietly. Wanda nodded briefly, and her gaze lost some of its venom. They both looked away from one another after a moment._

_Kelly returned shortly with the mentors in tow. Kurt's eyes were drawn to the intricate red tattoos covering Drax's chest and head. Skeletal creatures danced across the man's pectorals and up and down his thick arms, and thin lines flared around his eyes. The three men sat across from the two teenagers. There was an uncomfortable silence where Drax glared at Kurt and Wanda before Erik spoke up. He had a soft, gentle voice._

_"Tell me, what can the two of you do?"_

* * *

Kurt jumped and sat bolt upright as a shriek echoed through the floor. He jumped down from the table and hurried to the door, cracking it open and peering up and down the hall. A door further down flew open and Wanda Maximoff stormed out, looking extremely annoyed.

"Can I just have a minute?" she said to someone inside the room. She leaned against the opposite wall, fuming until she felt Kurt's eyes on her. He raised his eyebrows.

"All this stupid technology and they can't make this hurt any less," she muttered. "They're not getting rid of all your hair, are they?"

She hiked up the leg of the cloth pants they'd all been given to reveal a pink, painful-looking patch on her leg. "I swear, why does it matter? We're going to get all bloodied and bruised anyway- why do we have to look like models?"

Kurt shrugged. "The sponsors, I guess," he offered. "They're gorgeous and they pick the gorgeous tributes."

Wanda sighed. "I guess. It's still awful," she said, and leaned off the wall, heading back into her prep room.

Kurt did the same, hoisting himself back up onto the table. He wondered what his family was doing. The day was free for the Reaping- although it was probably late back home. The twins would be getting ready for bed. Margali would be trying to keep a normal facade over the house, remaining strong for her family. Kurt wondered what would happen if he died in the arena. Would Margali be able to hold things together? Or would she drift into depression and sadness? She was strong, but her children were her life.

How would the twins react? They'd be sad, for sure – but for how long? They were only twelve. Would they eventually forget their older brother? Would he fade from their lives? Would Margali keep pictures or would it be too painful for her?

Kurt looked up as the door swung open again. A handsome blond man entered. He didn't seem very extraordinary – he wore an unbuttoned tan coat with a blue and white jumpsuit peeking out.

"Kurt Wagner?" Kurt was pleased that man had managed the different pronunciation of his last name.

He nodded. The man flashed a smile. "My name's Warren – in the Capitol I'm known as Angel – and I'm your stylist."

Angel turned to a coat hook next to the door and shrugged out of the tan coat. Kurt's jaw dropped as massive white wings sprang free from a series of straps. Angel shimmied slightly, ruffling the feathers so they all fell into place. The man hung his coat and came back to perch on a stool next to the prep table.

He winked at Kurt. "Rule number one in the Capitol – know how to make an entrance."

"Uh...do they...can you actually...?" Kurt stammered.

"Fly? Minimally. I can't go more than a few miles, usually – couldn't go between districts, but it's great for getting around the city in a pinch," he said, before winking at Kurt, leaving the tribute confused as to whether or not he was being serious – probably not, otherwise surely everyone in the Capitol would have wings, right?

Angel scooped a tablet out of the messenger bag on the floor. "So, down to business." He plucked a pen from the side of the tablet and began sketching something. "That waistcoat you wore for your Reaping – was it significant?"

Kurt shrugged. "I mean, it was from my mother and I don't know where it came from – at home it didn't seem like a big deal, but here it was just tossed away and I don't have much left from Nine, except these," he said, holding up his hand to show Angel the ribbon wrapped around his wrist. The other ribbon was still clumped in his palm.

Angel tapped his chin with the stylus. "Hmm," he mused. "What a colour combination..." He tapped a few things into the tablet before looking up at Kurt. "You are aware, of course, that a 'persona' must be created for you, so to speak, to model your costume on, for your interviews – and it sometimes even carries over into the Games."

Kurt couldn't help but brace himself – some of the tributes in the past had received stylish, bold names, but others had been given outlandish, embarrassing monikers. Kurt hoped he was in the former category – or at least not in the latter. Angel flipped his tablet around. A sketch of Kurt took up most of the screen – but it was momentarily unrecognizable.

The sketch-Kurt's skin was a deep blue – the same colour as his ribbons. He wore a black bodysuit with a crimson "V" shape stretching from his shoulders – where the material lifted from the form – to his groin, reminiscent of his waistcoat. White gloves and boots completed the textile aspect of the costume. The eyes were fully yellow, and a forked tail curved up from behind.

The word **"NIGHTCRAWLER"** was scrawled across the top.

"That's...wow," said Kurt.

Warren smiled. "I certainly hope that that's a good 'wow,'" he said.

"Yeah, definitely! It's awesome!" Kurt reassured him. He paused, glancing back down at the drawing. "Only...that's just gonna be paint, right? You're not going to tattoo my skin, or anything?"

Warren laughed. "Oh, goodness no, Kurt! If you win the Games, there's the opportunity for body modification, but it's never forced. Like your mentor – he asked for those tattoos." He turned the tablet to face him once more. "Speaking of your mentor, he mentioned something about swords?"

* * *

_"I can handle a scythe pretty well," volunteered Kurt after a moment. Erik nodded thoughtfully._

_"A sword would be better," grumbled Drax. Erik glanced his way, then back to the teens._

_"And you, Miss Maximoff?"_

_"I carry wheat bushels," she replied._

_"Perhaps you can train with swords as well," suggested Erik to Kurt. "It would give you more flexibility in the arena." Kurt nodded._

_"Using different weapons will not change his body's abilities," said Drax, a puzzled expression on his face._

_Erik sighed, almost inaudibly. "You're absolutely right, Drax."_

* * *

"Yeah, I guess," said Kurt. "I'm all right with them."

Angel added a few lines to the sketch and showed it to Kurt once more. Now the figure held a thin rapier in each hand.

Kurt nodded. It gave the character just enough edge to turn him from just sneaky-looking to dangerous and debonair.

* * *

_"Let's talk about image," said Erik. "Kurt, you've struck me so far as charming and kind. That could work in your favour if you play it up. The sponsors won't want a young man who's meek and sweet – that's just the way they work. However, if you come as a confident, charming person, they'll fall over themselves to help you out." _

_He turned to the Wanda. "Miss Maximoff, I sense some sass and wit about you – the crowds do enjoy wit. Lean on that."_

* * *

"Wonderful!" said Angel. He stowed the tablet back in his bag. "Now, about the chariot ride itself. Like I said, it's all about the entrances. This is one of the only times the Capitol citizens get to see you before the Games, and it plays a big role in sponsorships, so you have to make a stellar first impression. Wanda's stylist and I had some ideas for you and your district partner that involve some rather interesting appearances."

Kurt's footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged room as he followed Angel. The smell of livestock and hay lingered in the air – not unpleasant, just strong. Kurt enjoyed the feeling it evoked – not a specific memory, but a feeling of tranquillity and safety.

A lone chariot sat in the middle of spacious floor, though in a few hours, the room would be filled with tributes, horses, chariots and stylists. Wanda and her stylist stood near the chariot waiting. Wanda was dressed in her chariot gear- a red leotard with pinkish sleeves and tights. Her brown hair hung past her shoulders in thick, rich waves, held in place with a red headband-like object. A scarlet cape hung from her shoulders, brushing her ankles.

Kurt suddenly felt inadequate, still dressed in his simple prep gear. Angel seemed to sense what Kurt was feeling.

"Trust me, you'll want to wait until the last minute before getting into costume," he reassured Kurt. "There's paint, contact lenses, false teeth...you're going to want to wear it for as short a time as possible."

Angel walked over to the chariot, reaching down to the base. "We've had this chariot modified for your entrance," he explained. "It's deeper and the base is higher, creating this."

He lifted two concealed panels, revealing a crawl space large enough for one or two people to duck inside. Kurt and Wanda glanced at each other, suddenly uncomfortable.

They'd be squished in there...together?

Angel chuckled. "It'll be for two minutes, guys- you can handle it, I think." He let the panels close. "Now for the fun part."

He drew two minuscule objects from a pouch on the inside wall of the chariot. He squeezed them inside his fist for a few seconds, and then tossed them out onto the floor. For a moment, nothing happened except for the objects skittering across the smooth paved floor. Than one exploded in a spectacular wave of indigo smoke, and the other produced a flash of red light.

"Remember what I said about entrances?" Angel asked. "You're going to make the biggest entrance of the Games. Sponsors will love it – they won't care where you're from if you come in with a bang. Making a good first impression will keep you fresh in their minds when they begin sending gifts. If you can pull off some nice feats of skill in the Games as well, that's even better."

He flipped open the panels again. "This is designed so you can push it open from the inside as well. We get these babies going on the chariot floor; send the chariot out, and bam! Nightcrawler and the Scarlet Witch emerge and the crowd goes wild."

The winged man stepped to the side and bowed slightly, extending his arm toward the chariot. "Shall we give it a try?"

In Kurt's opinion, fitting into the tight space was definitely awkward for the first few times they tried it. He was definitely unused to being in such close proximity with...well, with girls. Kitty, sure, but he'd known Kitty since they were in diapers- she was practically a sister. Wanda was different – she was a little older, more aloof, more distant. She wasn't mean – her attitude just made it hard to get close to her- physically and emotionally.

At least the physical part got easier after a few tries.

That wasn't the only problem. It was difficult to gauge when to emerge – the little explosives didn't make much noise, and being in a dark, enclosed area, they couldn't see when the devices went off. It was a matter of timing – there was a span of about twenty seconds between activation and explosion.

It took a half hour a several dozen tries, but eventually Kurt and Wanda overcame both the awkwardness of their proximity and the physical difficulty of the entrance and pulled off five perfect appearances in a row. Angel was pleased. His wings flapped as he helped them out of the cramped chariot.

"I'm sure the two of you are starving. Let's go have dinner. Then it's showtime!"

Kurt and Warren ate in yet another room, a more homey-looking one. The walls were wood-panelled, and several plushy couches surrounded a table in the centre of the room. A clothing bag hung in the corner. Kurt was torn between focusing on the meal, which consisted of dishes with ingredients Kurt had never even heard of, and the bag, which he knew contained his costume.

Finally, Warren laughed and set down his fork. "All right, let's get started. If we wait any longer you might just explode from excitement."

Kurt set down his fork too and jumped up from the couch. He shed the linen shirt and pants, leaving thin underclothes on. Warren motioned to a paper-covered table and Kurt hoisted himself up. Warren fiddled with a container for a moment, hooking it up to a thin nozzle. He retrieved a small plastic tube from a pocket on the suit bag, opening it up to reveal small yellow hemispheres. He plucked one out, placing it on the tip of his finger.

"I'm gonna warn you, contact lenses can be a bit uncomfortable for first-timers. That's why I didn't want to get you in your costume until the last minute."

He slipped one lens, then the other, into Kurt's eyes. Kurt blinked quickly, trying to alleviate the odd sensation.

Warren picked up the spray container and pointed it at the tabletop, pulling the trigger a few times to test it. A fine spray of paint coated a patch of paper in a gorgeous indigo. Warren swiftly covered Kurt's face and neck in blue paint, taking extra care around his hairline. He used a thin paintbrush to cover Kurt's ears.

Finally, Kurt's hair was teased and swept upwards into a style that looked untamed, yet it seemed deliberate and stylish, and perfect for his character. It added a flair of excitement and danger, Kurt thought. He also thought he just looked pretty cool. If he came out of this alive, he was wearing his hair like this more often.

"Looks good," said Warren. "Ready for the suit?"

Kurt turned this way and that, admiring the suit's contours. The crimson "V" lifted off of his shoulders just enough to add a little shape to his lithe frame without being tacky. The tail flicked as he shifted back and forth, a series of straps under the uniform providing the movement through his own body's motion. He twirled one sword, then the other, before swiping them together, admiring the metallic ring. He grinned, glancing at the little pointed incisors Warren had placed in his mouth.

"If this doesn't win the sponsors over, I'll pluck own my wings," chuckled Warren. "It's going to be _fabulous!_"


	18. Chapter 17: Out On Display

**(A/N) Hey all, it's time for our Sunday update, and again, I'm gonna keep this short and sweet so I can go to bed. Got a lot of study to get done tomorrow – exams coming up this week! This chapter was written by the ever-fantastic abrokencastiel, or Cas, and I think you'll all get a kick out of it.**

**Created to Write: You asked for chariots? You got your chariots! Hope it lives up to your expectations! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen – Out On Display**

**Chariot Rides**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"You never get a second chance to make a great first impression. Within a few seconds, with just a glance, people have judged your social and economic level, your level of education, and even your level of success. Within minutes, they've also decided your levels of intelligence, trustworthiness, competence, friendliness and confidence. Although these evaluations happen in an instant, they can last for years: first impressions are often indelible."_

― Olivia Fox Cabane

_"Well I've been keeping up appearances,_  
_But this smile's wearing thin."_

– "Appearances", The Material

_"Dress to impress and never let them see your frown. Because there are people who would kill to see you down."_

\- Unknown

* * *

The cacophony in the tunnel added another level to the tension in the air. It was filled with mentors giving orders, horses shuffling, and stylists making last minute changes to costumes. From the exit echoed the quiet roar of the waiting Capitol crowd. Every noise succeeded in kicking Peter's nerves up another notch as his dark eyes tried to fully take in the scene before him. There was so much going and he didn't want to miss anything important.

At District Four's chariots, a blonde haired boy of formidable build, wearing a red cape, was talking to a thin one dressed in a long green and black coat with golden metal accents. They both wore helmets – the blonde's silver with wings on both sides and the other with long, golden horns extending from over his forehead and curving backwards. A man Peter recognized as Odin, the first winner of the Games, called the blonde away.

He _had_ to be the son.

Norman had mentioned that there were a few legacies this year. The black-haired boy had to be the other son who'd been reaped from District Twelve.

Peter couldn't imagine going against his own family member. Or how Odin could mentor one son against the other. The adopted son slipped over to District Four's horses, unseen by all except Peter. He paused momentarily before heading back toward the District Twelve chariot.

"Earth to Peter." His stylist, Honey Lemon, waved a hand in front of his face and bringing him back to his immediate surroundings. "You still with me?"

"What? Oh! Yeah, yeah." He blinked and shook his head lightly to clear his mind.

One of Honey's eyebrows arched over her pink glasses. "What was I saying then?"

"Uh, something about fabric? Yep. Definitely something about fabric."

"I was saying that you need to get into the chariot. It's time to go! _Rápido."_ She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the back of the chariot with surprising speed for someone in such high heels. Her blonde hair had been piled on top of her head in a ridiculous looking bun that she somehow managed to pull off.

As they reached the chariot, she grabbed Anna and forced her to stand closer to Peter.

_"¡Foto!"_

She pulled out her camera and snapped a picture before either could protest.

A horse's neigh attracted his attention back to District Four. One of the pair was rearing, spooking the people nearby. Its hooves, which had been painted red to match the boy's cape, churned through the air with deadly force. The girl from the district quickly stepped up and pulled the horse down, instantly calming the creature. Her blue cape flowed around her like water under her blonde, braided pigtails. Silver bands covered her neck and Peter could see two bands on each arm over her biceps and forearms.

Peter glanced back at the District Twelve boy already in his chariot. He had a slight smirk on his lips as his eyes surveyed the scene. A cute black-haired girl joined him, grinning from ear to ear. Her purple jumpsuit had cut-outs at the shoulders and hips revealing skin. She adjusted her matching purple headband as she spoke quickly to her district partner who was paying little attention to her. She didn't seem to mind his inattention.

"We will meet you back here after the parade," Betty informed. Her outfit was half black with white polka-dots and half white with black polka-dots. It flared out at her hips to either side before dropping into a straight line down to her knees. A small black hat with white feathers was balanced on the side of her short black hair.

"Remember, smile!"

She smiled widely and dented her cheeks with her pointer fingers.

Anna rolled her eyes and frowned earning a stern look from Jessica. Honey snapped a last photo as Peter climbed into the carriage and Norman gave a curt nod before leaving. "Knock 'em dead."

Peter reached out a hand to help Anna into the chariot, but was brushed away. "I don' need yer help." Her tight green and yellow body suit limited her motions a bit and she tried to stretch it.

"Whoa there. Don't want to go ripping your stylist's hard work."

"Just streatchin'. Thing's so tight I can't breathe. Least she got the colours right."

"It'll loosen up. Mine's pretty comfortable now. Besides, could always be worse." Peter shrugged. "We could have turned out like that guy from Ten a few years back. The one they dressed like a duck."

"Guess so, but Ten's in good shape now. At least she looks intimidatin'."

They looked back two chariots at the girl in the white, high-slit dress and belt made of animal skulls. She looked like she could kill anything with just her white gloved hands. Blue tattoos swirled along her skin and offset her scarlet hair. Her partner looked just as capable even though he appeared to be one of the youngest tributes. He was bald and his entire body had been dyed red with black tendrils wrapping around his skin. His eyes were rimmed in large black splotches that made his eye whites look especially bright. He caught sight of Peter looking at him and sneered back with sharp teeth. Peter hoped it was just part of the costume and not permanent dental work.

"Okay, so maybe we aren't the most threatening."

"Ya think?"

"At least we don't look like monsters."

"I don' know. That might be an advantage." Anna repositioned the green band that encircled her head beneath her hair. The white strip had been parted and framed her face on either side.

Peter resisted the urge to run a hand through his own gelled hair that was what Honey described as 'perfectly dishevelled.'

Anna jabbed a finger at Peter's chest. "Looks like the spider got ya again," she said with a smirk. "Yer stylist must have a sense of humour."

* * *

_Honey Lemon earnestly drew in a large sketchpad on her crossed leg. The tablet she had forgone using sat idle on a side table. Peter kept glancing at it, but was too shy to ask to see it._

_Honey's bright yellow sundress glowed in the stark white of the room as she worked. "What's your favourite colour?"_

_"Blue."_

_She tapped her chin with her pencil and nodded. "I can work with that."_

_Peter tightened the robe around his body while he waited for her to finish. He was more than done with his body being scrutinized and wary to let anyone close after the poking, prodding, and scrubbing he'd received from her three assistants. They had been nice, but that didn't make the waxing any less painful._

_"Did you bring your token with you?"_

_"Token?" Peter started a bit at the question._

_"You know, a little trinket from your district. Something to inspire you."_

_"Oh." Peter rubbed a hand across his neck. "This all happened so fast. Guess I forgot to bring one."_

_She frowned. "That's too bad."_

_Peter smiled and shrugged. "It's ok. I've got all the inspiration I need up here." He tapped his temple._

_Honey cocked her head to one side, her long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. She considered him a moment with her large green eyes behind pink glasses before going back to talking about the outfit. "Of course we will be adding a little bit of flair to accent your district. I mean, textiles? It'd be a sin to stylists everywhere to leave that out." She continued to talk as she sketched with pencils of varying colors. "I had an idea for what I wanted to do, but I needed you here before I could make a final call. Skin tone is very important when picking hues. And I wanted to make sure you could pull it off." With a flourish she stood and presented the picture to him._

_Red extended from the shoulders, over the top of the arms, down the front of the torso, and into a band that wrapped around the waist. The rest was a deep blue. Red gloves and boots ran seamlessly into the main suit, giving the appearance that the outfit was all in one piece. A network of black lines created a web pattern across the red areas._

_Peter's eyebrows rose. "It looks really . . . tight."_

_Honey's smile widened. "I know! Isn't it fantastic? This fashion's all the rage in the Capitol right now."_

_"Glad my body building is going to pay off," Peter sarcastically said as he flexed._

_Working at the textile factories, he had been designated to climbing up into the top of the machines to fix snags or mechanical issues that arose. His thinner body and balancing talent had made him a natural for the job. The muscles he gained from climbing were leaner than the ones gained from the boys who were in charge of moving the vats or giant spools around the factory._

_In other words, he was probably just as strong, but still had a scrawny look in comparison._

_"You will look very handsome. _Muy guapo,"_ Honey assured. "You like it, right?"_

_"I do," Peter relented. His mouth twitched into a smile. "Kinda funny, really. A spider climbed on me in the train and now I'll be wearing webbing."_

_Honey gasped, her eyes large. She snatched the sketchbook back and returned to her pencils. She quickly scribbled with a red one, her hair falling into her face._

_"It was a sign! The webbing was just going to look like thread, but spiders are the world's natural weavers. I should have worked them in earlier."_

_She held the red one in her mouth while using a black pencil. "Here. Now look," she mumbled while striding back over to Peter. She turned the pad around, revealing the addition of a large black spider emblem in the centre of the chest and a matching red one on the back. She removed the pencil from her mouth and stuck it behind her ear._

_"Plus," she said, suddenly much more serious. "They have a nasty bite and are much stronger than they appear."_

_Peter looked from the sketch to her with a grin. "It's great."_

_Her face broke into an even bigger smile and she bounced on the balls of her feet. She pulled out a camera from a hidden pocket. "Now, hold it up so I can see it."_

* * *

They began to move forward, the horses maintaining the same distance between each chariot. Out front, Peter could see the black and red body suit of the District One male tribute. They had covered him from head to toe, not even his face visible.

The girl wore a red satin leotard with more of the same fabric wrapped around her waist and hanging as a long skirt with extremely high thigh slits. Her arms were wrapped in more red fabric around the forearms and her dark hair was covered by a red beanie.

The pair were talking animatedly to each other like they were arguing, but they broke apart before they were visible to the Capital. Once outside, the girl straightened and stared straight ahead while her partner leaned over the chariot in an exaggerated manner, both arms waving excitedly.

Cheers erupted as each district exited the tunnel. The sound reverberated down the tunnel and made Peter's heart beat faster. Anna looked over and Peter gave her a reassuring thumbs up. The chariot in front of them entered the bright lights of the parade-way. Peter's breath caught as they passed through the exit and his eyes saw the mass of people staring at him.

The stands were crammed with more colours than Peter had ever seen in one place, even at the dye factory back in Eight. Hair, and in some cases skin, were dyed in as dramatic a fashion as the clothing. He waved and smiled at the crowd, earning a few extra loud cheers. As the lights hit his costume, the webbing lines on his suit glinted silver like spider-webs in sunlight.

Screens along the road showed a live feed of the chariots, currently focusing on District Six with Red Skull's daughter and a boy who was dressed in a snug green and purple suit obviously made to resemble a Sentinel uniform. The camera seemed unsure of who to focus on. The announcers seemed to be having the same problem.

**"And we can see Sinthea is sporting a red skull pin, no doubt paying tribute to her father, the Red Skull himself,"** Uatu the Watcher was saying, his voice echoing through the stadium.

**"Yes, a great victor by any standard. I actually have one of Red Skull's original gloves! President Thanos of course has the other,"** Taneleer agreed. "**But you have to admit that the real story is that suggestive piece of work done by stylist Jarella. Many may remember her father, Jaras Kai, and his extravagant work we saw in past games. His daughter is certainly showing her own style now. I'd say it makes quite a statement, and definitely an outfit I will be vying to get my hands on."**

**"We will see if Sinthea can do the same and stand out from her father."**

**"Speaking of famous father's, this makes three legacy tributes this year! Thor and Loki Odinson are representing Districts Four and Twelve–"**

Anna poked Peter in the arm, distracting him from the commentators. It was impossible to hear her clearly, but he followed her pointing finger to the District Nine chariot behind them. It looked completely empty. Uatu and Taneleer picked up on the absence of tributes at the same time.

**"Looks like someone showed up late to the party."** Taneleer chuckled.

**"No one's ever missed the chariots, but I suppose there **_**is**_** a first time for everything,"** Uatu said.

Suddenly, a flash of red light emitted from the chariot accompanied by blue smoke. The crowd gasped loudly accompanied by a few screams of surprise. Peter blinked against the spots that now dotted his vision. The smoke dissipated quickly and standing in the chariot stood the District Nine tributes. They held up their arms dramatically as the crowd erupted into applause and cheers.

The girl wore a red leotard with pink sleeves and tights. A matching head piece in an 'M' shape framed her face and held back her brown hair. The boy wore a black suit with a red 'V' stretching down the length of his body. The red extended off his shoulders into sweeping points and white gloves completed his look. His skin was dark blue and his eyes were yellow, and what looked like a tail twitched behind him. The girl looked around with an air of excitement that deeply contrasted the forced smile of the boy.

**"Now **_**that**_** is an entrance!"** Taneleer exclaimed.

**"Do you think their stylists would tell me how they did it? I simply **_**must**_** know."**

Peter faced forward again, catching an image of himself on the screen. He grinned wider and waved in the camera's direction. Just before the view changed to another person, he signed 'I love you' in the hopes Aunt May was watching.

* * *

_"What if you're not here to get me?" Young Peter anxiously shifted from foot to foot._

_"I promise Uncle Ben or I will pick you up," Aunt May assured for the fifth time that morning._

_"Mom and Dad promised, too," Peter mumbled, his head hanging. It had been almost a month since his parents had left him at his aunt and uncle's house, saying they would be back soon. Now school was starting and Aunt May was dropping him off for the first day instead of his mom._

_She knelt and pulled the little boy into a hug. "If they could, they would come right back for you. They loved you Peter. They still love you."_

_Peter hugged her back, trying to keep his eyes dry. He didn't want to cry on the first day of school._

_"And your uncle and I love you, too." She pushed him back by his shoulders so she could look him in the eye. "Always remember that, okay?"_

_He nodded even though he still wasn't convinced._

_"Here." Aunt May took one of Peter's hands and folded down two of his fingers. "This means I love you."_

_She made the sign with her own hand. "If you ever think that you're alone, just make this and think of your parents, Uncle Ben, and me. All the people who love you."_

_She stood and attempted in vain to smooth down Peter's hair with her hand. "Now go on. You don't want to be late."_

_Peter gave her one last hug and ran toward the doors. Just before going inside, he turned and made the sign with his hand, holding it high in the air and grinning widely._

_She smiled and made the sign back._

* * *

President Thanos's mansion was bigger than the Peter could have imagined, stretching out of the bright lights of the parade route into the darkness of the city. A balcony above the giant doors featured a podium emblazoned with the Marvel seal. A row of people sat behind it, many of whom Peter didn't recognize aside from President Thanos seated in the middle. His daughters were on either side of him, their skin dyed as extravagantly as their father's in blue and green.

The horses faced the giant house in two lines as they pulled up. District Nine's chariot was positioned on Peter's right. They were still visible and didn't look like they were going to disappear again anytime soon. The boy's yellow eyes met Peter's and they gave each other a small smile as the crowd hushed and the President approached the podium.

Peter glanced at District Seven's chariot, finally getting a good look at the people he'd been staring at the back of. The boy glared up at President Thanos with his jaw set under his five o'clock shadow. Peter hadn't even achieved stubble yet. The boy's dark hair had been fashioned upward on either side and gave him a wild look. His outfit was yellow down the centre of both the front and back with blue on either side that was cut by yellow tiger stripes along the ribs and over each shoulder. His sleeveless arms bulged above thick blue gloves with muscles no doubt made from lumber work in his district.

Peter wished for the umpteenth time that he'd had a more physically demanding job in the factories. The girl wore a black sleeveless leotard that exposed her pale arms and legs. Black strands of cloth extended from her back like tentacles, swaying in a non-existent wind. An unconnected hood hung around her neck under her slant-cut black hair. Her yellow eyes appeared natural unlike Nine's look and stared directly ahead, unfocused on the mansion before her. A disfiguring scar marred the right side of her face and made Peter wince in sympathy. He had no idea what the girl's life had been before, but if the scar was anything to go by it hadn't been pretty.

President Thanos began his speech once complete silence had fallen. "Welcome, tributes, to the Twenty-Fourth Avenger Games." His purple skin shone oddly in the light that illuminated him. "Looking at all of you, I am sure this will be one to remember."

The crowd cheered in agreement. "I have no doubt that our new Director will be giving us an event worthy of these fine young men and women." Another raucous cry.

The camera continued to focus on the tributes as they listened. The commentators had quieted, but Peter kept getting distracted by his competitors as they flashed on the screen. District Six. District Four. The girl from Twelve who looked about ready to explode from excitement. District Five.

Five's male tribute wore a blue militaristic outfit with a glowing white five-point star in the centre of his chest. His middle was circled by alternating red and white vertical stripes.

Peter remembered hearing in school that before the Civil War, before Marvel, before the nuclear destruction of the Great War, the land had been known by another name – America, if he remembered correctly. The flag his teacher had drawn during the lesson matched the boy's outfit perfectly.

His partner was dressed in a blue body suit that transitioned to red after a gold stripe that wrapped around her shoulders and upper chest. The red matched a sash around her hips and her gloves. The Marvel colours. The eight-pointed star on her chest glowed gold. Both were attentively listening to the President.

"Make your districts proud," President Thanos said as his eyes bored into each tribute. It made Peter feel like the man was already deciding who would win and lose by this first impression. He forced himself to not show any weakness as those eyes measured his worth.

"And as always," he said, a menacing smile spreading across his lips. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

A cheer went up from the crowd at the iconic line. Peter looked around at his fellow tributes wondering if anyone else had the same sinking feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach. The red-head from Two appeared to be in high spirits, smiling and waving broadly as her chariot began moving again. Her sleek black dress had a red hour glass shape on its front and back that flattered her figure.

The boy was in a purple and black sleeveless tunic over black pants with purple shoes and wrist bands. He seemed to be in more of Peter's mind-set, his eyebrows furrowed as he continued to wave half-heartedly at the crowd.

**"As always,"** Uatu was saying. **"President Thanos gives a wonderful opening speech."**

**"Yes, he really knows how to get the crowd ready for the coming games, doesn't he?"**

**"Tributes, too. Just look at District Two's girl. I don't think I've ever seen anyone smile so widely!"**

**"I don't know, the girl from Twelve might have her beat in the excitement department."** Taneleer chuckled.

A strong feeling of unease hit Peter's gut and he turned back to look to the mansion. President Thanos was down from the podium and talking to who Peter could only assume was the Director. They both turned to watch the chariots and Peter quickly faced forward. He felt himself shaking as he tightly gripped the edge of the chariot with both hands.

Anna noticed and looked over with a frown. "Ya okay?" she asked loud enough to be heard.

"Motion sickness," Peter quickly replied with a half-hearted smile. "It's passed now."

He returned to waving at the crowd. One hand continued to hold the chariot with a white knuckled grip hidden by his gloves. The fact that he was going into a fight to the death was hitting him. This was real. As real as the two men on the balcony watching their victims ride away.

* * *

_The train rocked gently as it sped toward the Capitol. It was almost undetectable, but Peter could sense it in the slight clinking of the chandelier._

_"You should eat." Norman was watching him intently across the table. Jessica and Anna had left to talk in private soon after eating, leaving Peter staring at his plate with his best friend's dad._

_"Just trying to decide where to start." Peter rubbed his hands together and forced a smile on his face. He had been hungry until he sat down. Now everything he looked at made his stomach churn. He forced himself to take a sandwich._

_"Delicious," he mumbled around a bite._

_"I'm sure." Norman waited patiently until Peter managed to force himself to eat a few more bites before continuing. "If you're ready we should begin talking about your strategy. If you're still hungry, we can wait."_

_Peter rubbed his hands on his pants to clean them and scooted forward in his chair. "Yes. I mean, no. I'm not hungry. Had pancakes earlier."_

_Norman leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. His green eyes studied Peter intently. "I'm going to get you through this, Peter." He paused, seemingly searching for the next words to say. "I haven't always been there for Harry. You know it's true," he said when Peter started to object. "I never was good at being a parent and after his mother died I fear it only got worse. I've let him down. But I can do this for him. I can get you back. I can give you the tools to survive. Before I can begin, however, I need to know what you're willing to do to win."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Will you do everything I tell you, no questions?"_

_Peter frowned, still not sure he understood. "I'll do anything to come back to Aunt May. I _have_ to. I'm all she has. I promised her and Gwen and Harry that I'd be back."_

_"That's good. It's good to have people to hold onto. But I can tell you right now they won't be enough. Everyone going into these Games will have people they love that they are trying to get back to. You need to commit to getting through this for yourself. Self-preservation. Survival instinct. Those are the qualities that will win the Games. Not just homesickness and feelings."_

_A cold chill ran down Peter's spine. Something about the way Norman was saying things made him uneasy._

_"No one in the Games is your friend. Not anyone. Not even Anna." Peter maintained his silence so Norman continued. "As soon as you see the other tributes, you need to start classifying them. Find their weaknesses. Exploit them so you can _destroy_ them."_

_Peter didn't know much about Norman's year besides the gossip around town and what Harry told him. He knew that once in the Games, Norman had made quite a few alliances. Every one of those alliances had ended badly for the other members. He had planted seeds of discord quickly and subtly enough that no one realized what he was doing._

_His trickery earned him the nickname Green Goblin._

_The same tactic had made him the head of Oscorp and owner of the largest textile factories in Eight. Even if he hadn't gotten the perks being a victor had given him, he would still be the most powerful man in the district._

_"You are going to need to make alliances, but know that they can't end well. There are no agreements at the end. Everyone is the enemy. You would do best to remember that." Norman's face, normally cool and collected, was inching closer to Peter across the table._

_His hands were gripping the table top so tightly Peter wouldn't have been surprised if the wood began to splinter. "No matter what other people say, there isn't a right way to win these Games. There is only the one winner who survives and all the losers who die. Decide now to win, or it's already over. Do you understand me?"_

_Peter could only stare at Norman wide-eyed as he tried to decide how to respond._

* * *

The chariots arrived back at the training centre and Peter quickly disembarked trying to control his shaking legs. Anna jumped down as their mentors joined them.

"You two looked good." Jessica nodded at them both.

"Just good? No. They looked _marvellous_." Betty beamed at the pair.

Honey appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Peter into a quick hug. "Told you that you'd pull it off!"

"I'm sure there are more than a few sponsors that will be happy to lend us a hand after that show." Norman smiled.

Peter couldn't tell if Norman was telling the truth. There were plenty of other tributes that were more interesting, but he was willing to believe the lie for the moment.

"Now, let's get you both upstairs. Busy day tomorrow!" Betty turned on a heel and led the way toward the elevators.

"Just wait until you see what you'll be wearing for the interview. I think you'll like it." Honey continued to babble.

The group walked past the District Three tributes whose stances were angled away from each other even though the boy kept glancing at the red-head.

Their outfits were metal suits that covered them from the neck down, the girl's red and silver while the boy's was red and gold. They carried full-head helmets that matched their respective colour schemes as they waited for their entourage to join them. Blue shapes pulsed in the centre of their chests, a circle for the girl and a triangle for the boy. Both had blue lights in their hands that pulsed whenever their fingers stretched out.

Peter almost paused to ask how the lights worked and if the helmets actually fit. Eight wasn't exactly the place to work with a lot of technology, but he'd always had a knack for it. Aunt May always joked that Peter had been born into the wrong district when she would find him dismantling some sort of electronic gadget, including the television set a few years ago. Uncle Ben ended up having to buy a whole new one when Peter hadn't been able to put it back together.

He'd managed to find enough objects over the years to make his interest into a hobby. Including an old box of his parents'. That box was partially to blame for what happened to Uncle Ben. Most of the blame rested on Peter himself.

"Come on." Anna's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "We can still catch that one." She began striding for the closest elevator.

The black and red dyed skin of the District Ten boy was visible and Peter immediately grabbed Anna's arm to stop her. "How about no. That guy is not someone I want to be in a small enclosed space with."

"Aw, come on. He's not tha' scary." Anna rolled her eyes and turned back toward the elevator, but paused when the boy began picking at his pointed teeth with his long and equally pointy nails. Her slight hesitation allowed the doors to slide closed before anyone could get on.

"Darn, looks like we'll have to take a different one." The next elevator had the much more inviting District Five tributes, but before Peter and his crew could get in, District Eleven filled the remainder of the space.

Their black costumes were elegant with long black capes, setting them apart from the rest of the colourful tributes. The girl's body suit was edged with gold and her stark white hair against her ebony skin made her stand out all the more. She was definitely the youngest of the tributes. Too young. The district's boy held himself with shoulders square and back straight. His outfit appeared to be plain black in the shadows, but as he moved in the light dark shapes were visible that made an interesting pattern across his body suit.

Peter jumped in the next empty elevator before another district could claim it and held the door for Anna, Betty, Norman, and Jessica. Their stylists had gotten pulled into a group conversation and Honey waved to tell them it was okay to go on. The doors were just sliding shut when the red and black clad male tribute from District One slipped in.

"Shouldn't you be with your mentor, son?" Norman watched the boy with a calculating look.

"Who? Me? Son?" The guy looked sincerely surprised by the word. "Papa? Is that you? It's been so long." The guy didn't wait for a response, instead carrying on a conversation with himself. "He just called me son. I know he's not from our district. Don't ruin my dreams of a happy family."

"Who the heck's he talkin' to?" Anna frowned and crossed her arms.

The boy seemed to finally notice the three women. He stepped closer and grabbed Anna's hand in his. "Wade Wilson. District One." He placed a kiss on her hand through his mask. "Wonderful outfit. _Very_ flattering." He moved over to Jessica and grabbed her hand as well. "Don't feel left out. I like the older ladies, too." He gave a quick wink to Betty who blushed and shifted uncomfortably.

Jessica removed her hand and pulled Anna back as well.

"Playing hard to get. I get it." Wade flexed. "I _am_ a bit intimidating. Future victor and all."

Peter couldn't help but snort at the image of this guy becoming the victor. He seemed a little unhinged.

"What was that?" Wade cocked his head in Peter's direction. His voice dropped an octave. "I think he was laughing."

He looked Peter up and down. "Hey! He stole my costume!" he said, his voice back to its normal tone.

"What? No way! I have blue and spider-webs. You look like a murdered panda." Peter crossed is arms. "Besides, mine's way cooler."

Wade looked down at his outfit and back at Peter. "What gives him the right to say I don't look cool?"

Peter stuck out his hand. "Peter Parker from Eight."

Wade gasped dramatically. "Fashion police." He took Peter's hand and stepped closer until their noses were only centimetres away. Peter didn't flinch though Norman tensed beside him.

"I _like_ you," Wade finally said, his lower mask shifting into a smile shape. The elevator dinged as it reached Wade's floor and he backed out, shooting finger guns as he went.

"Ladies," he said in parting.

"Where have _you_ been?" a voice demanded from somewhere in the room.

Wade put his hands on his hips and leaned in the voices direction. "Aw, did you miss me? Was your life incompl—"

The door closed again, cutting off the remainder of Wade's sentence.

Anna crossed her arms and visibly shivered. "Somethin' about him is not right."

"The creepy mask or the fact he talks to himself?" Jessica raised an eyebrow.

"Can both be an option?" Betty scrunched her nose like she smelled something bad.

"I would stay away from him as long as you can," Norman warned. "Hopefully someone will take care of him before you have to."

There it was again. The reminder that he was going to have to kill people. Kill other kids. Peter's characteristic smile faltered. All of those tributes in the chariots, some just as terrified as him. It was just like Norman said. He was going to have to make alliances, get close to them, and then he was going to have to hope they died so he wouldn't have to kill them himself.

Norman was right. He couldn't do this just for other people. He had to be selfish. Otherwise he ran the risk of caring too much. His eyes wandered to Anna. Who was she trying to get back to? Who would be waiting for her return at the train station? If Peter made it back, who would he have to face in her stead?

Anna noticed him looking at her and her eyebrows knit together in a questioning manner. Peter wanted to force a smile, but as the elevator continued its ascent to their floor he could only look at her in silence while the adults talked about plans for training. The doors slid open and he tore his dark eyes away from her green ones.

Norman had said everyone was the enemy, but Peter couldn't help thinking about the people waiting in front of television sets: the Aunt Mays, the Gwens, the Harrys.

All waiting for the kids who would never come home.


	19. Chapter 18: On Making Friends

**(A/N) Hey all, here now with an update for you! Very sorry about the delay, missing the Tuesday update, but unfortunately I had to delay the update as I had my first exam yesterday and had to work on that rather than editing and updating. Also saw Avengers: Age of Ultron last night (perks of living in Ireland), which contributed to the delay, but I think you'll all forgive me for that. Anyway, here we are now, and this'll be today's update, and our normal schedule will be resumed from Sunday onwards.**

**Created to Write: Glad you enjoyed it, and Steve's POV will be coming up sooner or later, I promise!**

**sailorraven34: Glad you enjoyed it too, and I hope the upcoming chapters will be just as good!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen – On Making Friends**

**Mentor Meeting**

**Carol Danvers of District Five**

**Written by ThatOneAwkwardGeekInTheCorner**

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"_The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for." _― Bob Marley

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Carol paced in her room. They had just finished with the chariots, and Carol had a lot on her mind. It was just dawning on her that she would actually be stuck in an arena with all of these people, and, inevitably, she would have to fight at least some of them. It wasn't that Carol was having second thoughts – because she wasn't – but there was no denying that the competition was much stiffer this year than in years previous. Carol had paid particular attention to scouting the other tributes while they were preparing to get on their chariots – trying to decide who she might think could be potential allies, and who she knew were lost cases to try and befriend.

She saw the boy from One, Wade, as a very definitive potential threat. The boy was huge in both the sense of height and muscle mass. Another worrying component of the teen was that he seemed to be talking to himself. He was talking, but there was no one near him at the time, and yet he seemed to be having a very animated conversation with someone.

Likewise both tributes from Two seemed very able competitors, though Carol wasn't sure whether to categorize them as friend or foe, they were both quiet, but Carol could see them analysing their competition in a way very similar to the way she was doing herself, except the duo wasn't hiding it like Carol was. Both of Four's competitors looked very strong, but again, Carol wasn't quite sure they looked malicious or frightening in the way some of the other tributes looked. Carol also noticed a girl who she had heard call herself 'Sin', which Carol wasn't entirely sure was a name at all. That girl looked like she had the biggest chip on her shoulder, waiting – no – _daring_ for anyone to try and knock it off.

The other tributes all had their own quirks that stood out to Carol, but those were the tributes she had marked as immediate threats, and potential allies. Carol was still extremely confident, partly because she just was, and partly because she knew she needed to be, but there was still one matter that she was not completely clear on, and his name was Steve Rogers.

Although Carol and Steve had the occasional conversation, including one where Carol asked "Can you pass the butter," and Steve said "Here," and handed her the butter, Carol hadn't spoken much with the towering blond, especially anything related with the Games. Carol was not shy by nature, but she wasn't sure exactly how to talk with her district partner. If there was anyone Carol could have been paired with, she would have chosen Steve. Even though Carol had hardly spoken to Steve, she could tell by the modest way he carried himself and by how polite the boy was, that he was probably her best bet at an ally in the Games.

Carol paced again, glancing over her room. She didn't like the room. Carol felt it was like putting lipstick on a pig. Sure, for a few days the Capitol was showing its best form of entertainment the luxury they have every day, just to hide the ugly truth they were doing. They were sending _children_ to their _deaths_. No matter how many good meals Carol got she refused to like anything she was given here. In fact, her legs still stung from when her stylists poured warm wax over her leg and within moments, had yanked every single hair on her leg from its follicle.

Carol supposed, in a metaphorical way, that is what the Capitol was doing to each tribute. They felt warm and cosy for a short period of time, but the time would come where everything they were given was going to be yanked away, and when it happened, it was going to be torn away painfully, just like the hair from every part of Carol's body had been not too long ago.

She groaned. She needed to get out of her room; she knew that she was losing it. She had been strategizing for so long she'd started comparing an extremely hostile government to her legs being waxed.

Carol left her room, scrunching her nose at how her feet sunk into the carpeted floor. Carol had grown up with wooden floors all her life in the districts, and she just couldn't get used to the squishy feeling beneath her toes. After Carol passed two doors in the dimly lit corridor, she knocked twice on the door immediately to her left.

"Come in."

Carol opened the door, and felt slightly nervous in doing so. Carol had grown up with two boys, three if she included her father, and she knew how messy they tended to get. Carol just felt it would be very invasive for her to see Steve's undies strewn about the room, although the sight wouldn't be foreign to her.

Carol was surprised when she saw that not only was there no underwear on the floor of Steve Rogers' room, but it was, in fact, much tidier than her own. Carol had left her chariot costume on the floor where she threw it when she had changed. She now wore a much more comfortable red tee shirt and a pair of black slacks.

Steve was reclined on his bed when Carol entered, leaning against the headboard. He had also shed his Chariot costume and had traded it for a form-fitting grey tee shirt and a pair of black shorts. Carol was glad his shorts weren't nearly as tight as his shirt.

"Oh, hi," Steve said awkwardly, he sat up in his bed and gestured towards the armchair next to his bed.

"Sit," he said.

Carol sat in the chair offered to her, and decided she liked Steve's hair much better when it wasn't done by the stylists. He looked much more real that way. "I know we haven't talked much strategy yet, but since we don't have a whole lot of time here, I thought it would be a good idea to start," Carol offered.

In truth, Carol wouldn't mind them having their mentor meeting together. Even if she had somehow miscalculated on her judgment of Steve's character she didn't think she would have much to lose anyway. Mar-Vell had taught her many different strategies she could use in the games, so if one didn't work she could switch to another. Having a combined meeting with Steve could only benefit her, really.

"That _might_ be smart," Steve agreed, although he sounded hesitant.

"I think for at least the beginning it might be better for us to go in as a pair. We have much better chances surviving together than we would apart," Carol offered. In truth, she wanted to team up with Steve very much. He just oozed this sense of control Carol hadn't felt with any of the other tributes, although he was the one she had spent the most time with, but still.

"That might be a good idea – everyone has been presenting us as a pair so far, we might get more sponsors that way too," Steve said, sounding as though he was thinking out loud.

Carol nodded in agreement. They definitely were being presented as a pair to the Capitol whether they liked it or not, but it certainly wasn't that hard for their stylists, mentor, or escort. Carol and Steve already looked so similar: they both had similar builds, blonde hair, and blue eyes. All their stylists had to do was make them similar looking costumes, which they had done.

Carol's costume had been red, blue, and yellow, the Marvel colours, and Steve's costume was blue, red, and white – not much contrast there. They barely made their costumes connect to their district by adding LEDs to signify electricity. Maybe they thought the costumes would appeal to the Capitol citizens' patriotism. Carol wasn't sure, but she did know it made both Carol and Steve look like partners, which she wasn't opposed to, she just found it odd the decision had almost been made for them.

"Do you want to meet Quill together? I mean if we are going to go into the Games as partners it will be helpful if we both go in with the same strategy," Carol said, and she meant it. If they both went into the Games with separate plans it would be very difficult for them to work together.

"Sure, but on one condition – for the rest of the time in the meeting we can't talk strategy. I hate the fact that the Games are going to force us to become people we aren't. I want to know the person you really are, not the person the Games turned you into."

Carol paused at the profoundness of Steve's words. It was true. If it weren't for the Games Carol and Steve might have been great friends, but because of them their district felt such profound stress that people were forced into situations they didn't want to be in. Carol wasn't even sure if Steve was even in school anymore, or if he worked.

So, for remaining time before their meeting, Carol and Steve talked about more mundane things. They talked about their transition from living in the districts to how it felt living in the district tower, and then about which foods they liked best. When they ran out of complaints for the district tower they talked about their home life, which was a much more painful subject, although Carol liked talking about her family much more than she liked thinking about them.

When Carol thought about her family all she could do was worry – worry about Stevie and wonder if the kids at school were still making fun of him for the way he talked, or worry about Joe and how he was dealing without her being there, or even worry about her father and if he was okay and if he was making sure her siblings were okay. No, Carol liked talking about her family much more. She could talk about memories, like the time she, Joe, and Stevie played hide and seek and how they lost Stevie for an hour because he fell asleep under a pile of clothes in the closet, or how Joe fell down the stairs and all he could do was cry because he had squished a frog.

It seemed that Steve enjoyed talking about his family more than thinking about them too, because she heard stories of the trouble that he and 'Bucky' got into, how his mother used to take care of him when he got severe asthma attacks, and the constant stories about a girl named Peggy that Carol was almost certain was Steve's girlfriend.

Carol enjoyed this much more than sitting in her room strategizing about the Games, and even though they only had a short time to talk about all of these things, she felt as though she had actually made a friend, not just an ally. Carol was glad she was able to push the Games aside to talk to Steve, because it was rare you ever met someone as genuine as Steve.

But even as genuine as Steve was, Carol still had to hold herself back. She couldn't talk about Mar-Vell, a huge influence in her own life. While walking around the house Carol had noticed the occasional miniscule camera, which undoubtedly had its own microphone. Carol wouldn't put it past the Capitol to record and review their conversations, so she knew she couldn't talk about Mar-Vell.

Even though she was quite sure she couldn't be hurt for preparing for the Games, she knew that wasn't all that was at stake. They could hunt down Mar-Vell, who wouldn't even see them coming, or worse, they could find her family and hurt them in her place. Carol knew there was much more than just herself at stake, which hurt possibly more.

A few minutes before their meeting was scheduled to start, Carol and Steve walked into the main room on their floor, which had a kitchen that also had a TV and very white, _very_ squashy couches. Carol wasn't a fan of the furniture in the tribute tower. Everything was far too soft. When Carol sat in a chair she found it was nearly impossible to sit up straight because she sunk too far into the chair itself.

After Carol and Steve took some food that was left out for them by the Inhumans they sat in the couches, and Carol was thinking about how uncomfortable they were when they heard footsteps and voices emanating from the hallway.

Quill walked into the living room with Michael hot on his heels. Peter, as Carol had decided, looked very different when he was not about to make an appearance for the Capital. Carol had seen him a few times around the district, of course, but she never paid him much attention. She was very aware of how people bothered him, capital and district citizen alike, so she had decided not to bother him. Now, however, she was spending a great deal of time with him, so she was able to spot the differences between appearance-prepared Peter and normal Peter.

After being around her own stylist, she supposed Peter's looks when he was on TV was the work of his stylist, but even still, the differences were evident. When Peter was appearing on TV he had some type of product in his hair that made it stand up with a little twist, and he was always completely clean-shaven for the television. He also had this sort of supernatural glow about him, which Carol guessed was the work of his makeup stylist. But right now the Peter walking into the room was a completely different Peter. His brown hair lay flat on his forehead, still damp, he had stubble that dotted his entire jaw, and he looked dull compared to his TV look. He even looked less happy. Peter seemed to glow with his sense of humour and boyish charm while being recorded, but now he looked tired, but determined.

"That was a good thing you two did, who decided on the raised clasped hands at the end?" Peter asked busily, he hadn't even asked them if they wanted to do a joint meeting, but Carol guessed they were sitting together on the couch, so that must have been his indication. He looked at them both, before his eyes settled on Carol, but Carol shook her head.

"Don't look at me, look at the star-spangled-man with a plan," Carol jabbing a thumb at the boy sitting next to her. Steve just shrugged. When they were on the chariots, just before the parade ended Steve had whispered in Carol's ear, suggesting that they held hands and raised them in the air. Carol had decided to do it; what could it hurt, after all? But it turns out it wasn't harmless, and seemed to have worked out in their favour brilliantly. The crowd had gone nuts, screaming when their hands rose in the air.

"It seemed like a good idea to me."

"It was a fantastic idea, I wish I thought of it myself a few years ago – you guys are going to have sponsors lining up at the door for you," Quill said enthusiastically.

Michael, who had sat next to Peter, nodded. Carol was glad the man seemed to have forgiven her act of blatant disrespect towards him at the reaping. He'd been acting very warmly towards her the past few days, and Carol was grateful for that. He seemed like he became an escort to genuinely help the tributes, and not for the glory. Of course he still had his typical Capital-ish ignorance that all citizens had, but instead of only being worried for himself, Michael seemed he was there to assist his tributes in whatever way he was able.

"Why don't we start the meeting? I'm sure these two want to get some rest before their big day tomorrow," Michael suggested.

Of course, their first day of training began tomorrow. Carol was hardly worried, but she was a bit annoyed. She didn't want to reveal her fighting prowess to anyone, but she also wanted to have time to practice her skills before going in the Games, and she wasn't allowed any time to train on her own. Carol knew she could do other things, as there had to be more available to them than just fighting stations, there is a lot more to surviving than combat.

"You're right," Peter agreed. "I guess that's as good a place to start as any. What most people are going to want to do is dive straight for the weapons, especially the Careers. I'm not saying that it's a bad idea, because it's not, but don't just go to the weapons training areas. Try to go everywhere at least once. Remember, you're not just fighting people, you have to live in that arena too," Peter said with a shudder.

Carol catalogued this away in her head with a small grin, she knew this already, of course. She had a small, fleeting feeling where she felt bad for the other tributes, especially Steve, who had no previous training, but she squashed that down instantly. In the end, she knew she _had_ to be the final one standing, anyone who had training was just going to stand in her way, as horrible as that sounds.

"Second, try and make friends. Anyone you get friendly with is a potential ally, the more people that like you, the better. Just make sure if you make any alliances that you trust the people you make them with. Don't get stabbed in the back by anyone – don't give them the chance."

Steve and Carol exchanged looks, as if the both of them were trying to let the other know they didn't plan on stabbing them in the back without voicing their thoughts.

"Now when you get into the arena, there is going to be this big Tesseract filled with goodies. It's the honey, and you guys are the bees. Don't go to the Tesseract, it's a bloodbath. There will be plenty of things spread around the Tesseract for you to get," he said grimly. "Don't stay in the Tesseract area. The first thing you're going to want to do is find water. Water is going to be your best friend in this game, so that's your first priority. Remember, where there is water, there is _food_, so if you need any more incentive to find water, there it is."

Carol, of course, already knew how important water was to surviving. She'd seen that first hand when Mar-Vell first arrived. He'd been severely dehydrated and weak. Water would be a deciding factor in their survival, Carol knew that.

"What about after?" Steve asked. "We should have a plan."

"Survive," Peter replied simply.

"What about weapons?" Carol asked. She knew she couldn't look like she knew what she was doing, so she needed to ask some kind of question.

"Well, if you're lucky you'll get a weapon when you leave the Tesseract, but if you don't, improvise. Find a sturdy branch or some rocks. Something you can use to defend yourself," Peter offered.

Both Carol and Steve nodded, and it seemed like they were all about to part ways, when Michael spoke up.

"You're forgetting their individual evaluations."

"Oh yeah, both of you look athletic, are either of you good at anything? Anything that could help you score better with the Gamemakers?" Peter directed his question at both Carol and Steve.

Carol forced herself to shrug, "I'm fast. I always used to win races at school," she offered. Carol, however, had no intention of doing well in her evaluation. It would raise too many questions. She knew she needed to throw it. If she presented herself as less of a threat the other tributes won't want to attack her right away.

Next to her, Steve shrugged as well, "I've gotten strong in the past few years, but nothing too major."

Peter Quill laughed at the two children sitting in front of him, "Look, guys. In here, modesty isn't going to get you anywhere. If you're good at something, show it off in your individual evaluation. I am your mentor, but if you don't want to share it with me, do yourself a favour and _don't_ screw yourself out of points on your final evaluations."

With those final encouraging words, Peter rose from his seat and walked down the hallway, Michael trailing behind him. The two were deep in conversation the moment they turned the corner.

"Well, that sure was informative," Steve said.

Carol couldn't help but laugh, Carol had always pegged Peter as a joker, but she guessed that was the way he portrayed himself on TV to make himself more likeable, or perhaps he truly _did_ take his job as seriously as he should.

Steve rose from the couch and stretched, "Well, I'm going to try and get some sleep before training tomorrow. You might want to do the same," he advised.

Carol fell into step next to him, stopping with her hand just in front of the button to her door, "Whatever you say, 'Spangles'," she said, grinning at her own jibe with the nickname.

"Sure thing 'Captain Marvel."


	20. Chapter 19: Getting to Grips

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our latest update for In the End, You Always Kneel, and we return to Kate Bishop, written as always by robbiepoo2341. Robbie suffered a terrible blow this week, as her uncle was taken off life support, after a routine operation went wrong and placed him in a coma a little while back. We here at The Freelancer Collaboration are all keeping her and her family in our thoughts, and if you can, spare a thought her way.**

**VengefulVixens: Delighted to hear that you're enjoying the fic, and I hope you'll continue to do so. We're a big group of writers of various ability, and a lot of us are pretty early on in our writing career, so creative criticism is always appreciated.**

**Created to Write: Actually, ever since 2012 Carol Danvers has been Captain Marvel, and the upcoming Marvel movie with Carol in the lead role is titled "Captain Marvel". The current Ms Marvel is Kamala Khan. And don't worry, Steve's coming…soon!**

**Enjoy, and let us know what you think!**

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**Chapter Nineteen – Getting to Grips**

**Training Day One**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

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_"When you take risks, you learn that there will be times when you succeed and there will be times when you fail, and both are equally important."_

– Ellen DeGeneres

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"This. Is. _Awesome._"

Kate only barely resisted the urge to run over and claim the staffs, the ones that were so clearly Bobbi Morse's staffs that there could really be no mistaking them – and shout "Mine!" at the top of her lungs.

Of course, she still ran over and grabbed them and clutched them to her chest and giggled maniacally as she tried them out on the training dummies, but that was all part of the whole 'everything is awesome' thing she had going on.

It felt so _good_ to get back to doing things, not getting picked over by stylists or paraded around the Capitol.

Not that it wasn't fun being paraded around and taking in the sights, especially with the _really_ cute Noh Varr as her head stylist. She could just eat him up with a spoon the way he danced around singing old songs while he directed the stylists on how to do her hair.

And not that it wasn't..._interesting_...with her district partner, Loki, hanging around. Kid clearly thought he was better than anything having to do with District Twelve – not that she could blame him. She'd have been uncomfortable with having to go to another district for Reaping Day, too. And then to have his adopted brother as one of his fellow tributes...

That had been strange. Finding out where Loki had grown up. Big blond guy from Four had just waltzed right up to Loki and embraced him with a booming "Brother!" that echoed across the entire training facility.

It had certainly answered a few questions. Loki didn't seem very...Twelve-like. But meeting Thor, Kate could definitely see where his affected speech and his high-and-mighty attitude came from. District Four. Career district. Explained a _lot_.

So it wasn't that she didn't feel for him. It was just nice to be by herself and away from that snarky kid for a while. She could only take so much, and he really didn't have to be so snippy at Blackager Boltagon, their mentor. It wasn't like the guy _asked_ to be put in charge of them, and it really wasn't his fault he wasn't able to talk.

Plus, she sometimes caught Loki _staring_ at her, like he was trying to figure her out. No, like he had _already_ figured her out and was just trying to decide how best to use that knowledge.

It was a bit unsettling. The staring.

She decided not to care too much about Loki, for now, anyway, and twirled around with the staffs a bit. The trainer, who everyone said went by Marrow, said she was "relatively impressive for a kid from Twelve," and even grunted her approval at Kate's "unorthodox" style. She laughed at the backhanded compliment, grinning over at the nearest Tribute she could find to meet her gaze. It was…oh, what was his name...the kid who did the vanishing act during the parade. That was _cool_, and she'd tell him so.

She replaced the staffs and rushed over to the swords station where the boy was standing. "Hey, Disappearing Kid," she called over to him, "you any good with these?"

He stopped talking with the trainer, Jacques Duquesne (who everyone just called the Swordsman because he was so ridiculously good at his job), looked over at her, paused, and then gave her a slight smile when he recognized her.

"I hope so. I've got no chance out there if I'm not," he said.

"Up for a playful joust?" she weighed the sword in her hands. It felt good. Better than the sticks and the wooden swords she'd played with back in Twelve when she'd passingly mentioned to America that she might want to learn self-defence. But it wasn't much of a sword, really, not with the edges blunted and the insides hollowed. Worst she could do was give somebody a good bruise, and with Duquesne keeping watch, even that was pretty unlikely.

Guess it wouldn't do to have the Tributes kill each other early. Or even injure each other. Bruises weren't too pretty for the interviews. And Noh Varr would probably get upset if she showed up with a bloody lip or something.

_"Kate Bishop of Twelve! What_ have_ you done to yourself?"_ he would probably say, in that funny little way of speaking he had when he was trying to be cute.

Duquesne handed her a...well, it was _technically_ a fencing mask. It was kind of shimmery, if you looked at it the right way, and it was clearly pretty durable. Whatever material it was made of was thick enough that it took her a minute to adjust to looking through it. It was like looking through glass, but slightly...shinier.

"Don't want any head shots. No going for the eyes or ears," Duquesne explained gruffly. He was an older gentleman, aging gracefully with bits of grey in his brown goatee. She wondered if he ever smiled.

Kate nodded her understanding, adjusted her headgear, and looked over to see if her dance partner was set, too.

The Disappearing Kid waited for her to take a stance, and then gave her a gentle smile. "I'll go easy on you."

Guy was serious, too. Pure gentleman, with none of that veiled contempt or fear that she kept seeing from the other tributes. That was going to be interesting to deal with.

"Please don't," she said, making a face.

He bowed to her, all formal, and she couldn't think to do anything else but give a surprised little half-curtsy. Their swords met, and then the dance began.

It was a relatively short dance.

He was _good_. It surprised her how light he could be on his feet, dancing around perfectly balanced and deflecting even her best shots.

He was going _easy_ on her, and she hated that, so she gripped the sword with both hands and pressed a little harder, trying to channel her best crazy-America-Chavez impression. Duquesne stepped in and scolded her with a sharp, "Save it for the Games. You try to kill each other now and you won't even make it to the Tesseract, kid, I promise you that."

Kate grumbled that she wasn't trying to kill Kurt before they squared off to face each other again.

He knocked her over not even a minute later.

"Okay, okay, you win," she giggled, dropping her sword and raising her hands in surrender.

He offered her a hand up, and she took it gratefully, brushing herself off. "Wow," she croaked, "you're pretty good."

He smiled. "You're not bad – you just need more practice." He was being nice to her, and they both knew it, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

"_Lots_ more practice," she said, looking mournfully at the sword that lay at her feet. "I thought I was good at swords."

He laughed.

She grinned at him. "Kate Bishop, by the way. Not sure if you remember my name, seeing as how I forgot yours and everything." She thrust her hand out for him to shake. "But that disappearing act of yours was something else. Made me jealous – you stole the show before I even got there!"

"Kurt Wagner," he said, taking her hand. He looked a little flattered.

She picked up her sword and flipped it over twice in her hands. "Go again?" she asked.

She ended up on her back another three times. The third time, she winced, sighed, and didn't pick up her sword. "I give. I give," she said after he managed to disarm her yet again and flip her over.

"I could show you that last move," Kurt offered, giving her his hand again.

She adjusted her headband so that her hair was no longer in her face. "Yeah, but then I might have a shot at beating you."

"I think I might be safe," Kurt said with a laugh.

"Oh, just you give me another year or two. Then I'll kick your butt."

Kurt looked like he might actually smile, but then he stopped and frowned. "If only," he said quietly.

Kate realized only too late what she'd said and put a hand to her mouth. "Right. Sorry."

"It's fine," he said, but he was a little stiffer, a little more distant. She was stupid, stupid, that was the wrong thing to say. _Time for some backpedalling._

Kate sighed, then forced another smile. "Listen, why don't you show me that move tomorrow? I'm bothering you, aren't I?"

"No, not at all—"

"Yeah, of course I am," Kate said, waving him off. Her gaze fell on a bow that looked like it might just be her size. "Besides, I think I'd like to get my hands on some other weapons. Maybe I suck less at them than swords."

Kurt laughed. "It was very good sparring with you, Ms Bishop."

"Oh, please. It's Kate."

He laughed. "Alright then. See you again, Kate?"

"You betcha."

Kate left Kurt to go back to learning some fancier sword techniques and made her way back to the weapons rack and put her sword away, wincing and rubbing her backside where she'd fallen. So much for not getting bruised.

She heard a derisive snort and looked up. She thought maybe she was just hearing things until she saw one of the Careers, the redhead, looking her over with an appraising kind of smile, sort of knowing. Like Kate was going to be no problem on the battlefield.

Kate stuck her tongue out at the girl. _Stupid Career._ Wasn't Kate's fault Kurt was better at swords than she was. Just wait 'til she got a load of Kate and her bow...

Kate paused. _No. No, wait._ She should probably _not_ get any Career's attention and look too dangerous.

"That was pretty stupid," said a new voice behind her, and Kate turned with a start. Oh _man_, she was going to have to seriously step up her game if people could get the jump on her like that.

"Didn't see you there," she said, quickly recovering her smile as the much younger girl from Eleven gave her a wry sort of grin.

"That's the point, ghost gum," Eleven whispered, and her smile widened. She jerked her head in the direction of the Careers. "You should stay off the radar, Twelve."

"I don't seem to be very good at that," Kate admitted, rubbing the back of her neck.

Eleven laughed, but she disappeared in the split second Kate had taken to look back and make sure the Careers were distracted with other, not-Kate things. Girl was fast as lightning.

She sighed, walked over to the archery station, and picked up the bow anyway. She'd just aim at other things besides the bulls-eyes, then. Practice her aim and throw off the Careers at the same time. Maybe if she consistently hit "almost" shots, they'd back off. Think she was good enough to hold her own, but not enough to notice. Maybe if she was at least "average," they'd stop looking at her like lunch meat.

The trainer, Danielle Moonstar, said something that sounded like "how to hold the bow," but Kate didn't need hand-holding.

She raised the bow to aim it when a new voice interrupted her: "Katie, right?"

Kate frowned and turned. She hated being called "Katie," and not even America could get away with calling her that. "Princess" and "honey" and other ridiculous names she'd answer to, sure, but "Katie" was what Dad called her when he was talking down to her, and she hated it.

"It's Kate," she said, crossing her arms.

It was that kid, the one who was District partners with the redhead. Kate couldn't remember his name, but he was a Career. He seemed to be all smiles, though, and he had a bow of his own. His own targets were filled with arrows, all really close but not quite perfect. But they made a cool little lightning design instead of being dead-centre, so Kate though he might have been holding back until the Games. Kid stole her idea.

"You're a decent shot," she said, nodding at the training dummies.

"Are you?" he asked. He leaned casually against the nearest wall, eyeing her up and down.

"I'd say no, but then I'd be lying," Kate said with a grim smile. He was too nice, too smiley. What did he _want?_

He laughed. "Name's Clint," he said.

"I remember," she said, which was a lie.

"Uh-huh," he looked amused, and Kate wasn't sure she liked that look. "Okay, Katie, I'll go first."

"I pick the target, though," she said, the idea coming to her so suddenly that there was really no use trying to stop it from tumbling out of her mouth.

Clint paused for only a second before the grin split his face. "You're on."

Kate had to work hard not to grin right back. That smile was infectious, but he was a _Career_, and she had to be careful.

"Okay," Kate said, chewing her lip as she looked around the room. "Left pinkie toe of the farthest right dummy."

Clint made the shot.

He handed her his bow. "This one's better than the one you got," he said, jerking his head to indicate the bow in her hands.

She took it, surprised, and ran her hands over it. Balance felt good. Wasn't too heavy for her. "Thanks?" she said.

"Didn't want you to think you lost because of any unfair advantage," he explained, a sly grin spreading over his face.

She snorted at him, rolled her eyes, and strung the bow. "Okay, your call."

"Right eye of the centre dummy."

"Too easy."

"Then let's see you make it."

Kate looked at the dummy, then at Clint, then at the arrows. So she nocked a second one. And then – one, two, left, right – straight through both of the eyes of that dummy.

She handed the bow back to him. "Told you it was too easy."

She looked around again, trying to find a new target.

"Let's get creative," she muttered, looking out beyond the archery dummies and into the other stations. She thought she saw the surly kid – the one from Seven – smirking at her (or at Clint?), and she made a face at him before she moved on to find something else interesting to shoot at.

Finally, she spotted it. "Knot tying station. The place where no one's standing? See if you can thread the loop knot."

Clint grinned. "We should make this more interesting," he said as he took aim, pulled back, let it go, made the shot (of course).

"You try to kiss me and I'll deck you," she said as she snatched the bow back.

"What? No! Eww," Clint said, which was both a relief and kind of disappointing because who _wouldn't_ want to kiss Kate? "I was just thinking loser should have to retrieve the winner's arrows all day tomorrow."

Kate snorted. "Better warm up your humility muscles, then."

"We'll see." Clint looked around. "See that hole in the wood rafter where there used to be a screw?"

Kate followed his gaze until she could spot it. "Eyes like a hawk, you've got," she muttered. "Yeah, I see it."

She fitted her arrow and let it fly, and the arrow embedded itself into the wood. Probably too tightly fitted to move. It'd be stuck there next year, Kate figured, and after she won, she'd tell her own Tributes to look out for her arrow in the training room. She grinned around to see if any of the other Tributes had noticed, but all she got for her troubles was a glare from the guy from Ten, who looked like he thought archery was beneath him or something, the way he was disdainfully sniffing at her.

He caught her gaze and licked his lips. Kid looked like he'd much rather be up close and in your face and feeling every drop of blood and . . . . Kate shuddered, making a mental note to steer clear of him.

"Not bad," Clint said as he took the bow back, though she noticed he had also seen Ten and glared at him. Was he . . . was he backing her up? Kate noticed he took a slight step in front of Kate, almost protective. Huh. Interesting. This kid was clearly not the typical Career.

"Let's see you hit a double shot, too," Kate said, shaking off the discomfort and forcing the smile again. "Since I did first."

"Bring it on, then."

Kate grinned. "Kneecaps. Dummy with no arrows in it."

"Looks like we're running out of those."

"We're just too good, I guess."

Clint grinned at her, then laughed. "You're pretty cool, Katie Kate."

Kate almost didn't mind when he called her that, since he seemed determined to call her anything but Kate. "You still haven't made the shot, I notice."

Clint snorted, fitted two arrows, and then fired. One, two, left right, perfection.

"You take dares?" he asked as he handed the bow over.

"We're already in the middle of a bet. You want to make it a dare, too?"

"You can take a shot at that water bottle next to Four's messed up brother, or you can thread his shoelaces."

Kate frowned. "Guy's my district partner."

"Thought you said you could take a dare."

Kate wrinkled her nose. "I didn't say I took the dare."

"You backing out, then?" Clint's eyes glinted mischievously, and now there was no way Kate could back out.

Kate sniffed, nocked her arrow, and fired.

Loki started when the arrow went straight through the loop in his shoelaces, then looked up to see who shot it. Clint tried to grab the bow away to take the blame, but it was no use; Loki had seen them.

Kate waved shyly at him, stifling a giggle, while Clint busted out a full laugh when the nearest instructor shouted, "Hey, no fighting!" and Kate groaned, "Aww man, not again."

"You're all right, Katie," Clint said through his guffaws, twirling the bow and giving her a high five.

"I'm more than just all right. I'm awesome," Kate laughed, then winced as Loki stalked over.

"And what, may I ask, do you think you're doing?" Loki had the arrow in his hand and was pointing it at her like he wanted to put it through her hand so she couldn't shoot at him again.

Kate tried not to giggle – she really did – but the look on his face was too priceless. "Sorry. It was a dare," she explained.

Loki sniffed but must have decided she wasn't worth the trouble, because he went back to talking with his brother and looking generally like he was too good for the Games.

Clint burst into another round of heavy guffaws. "Just for that, you don't have to get all my arrows."

"Excuse you, but I'm pretty sure you have to _win_ before I have to be your arrow retrieval girl," Kate sniffed.

"Did you see my last shot?" Clint laughed, pointing up.

Kate gasped. "Didn't even see you shoot," she said as she stared up at the water bottle now pinned to the ceiling. And she'd just been thinking maybe she was a contender!

Clint grinned, then, noticing her expression, leaned in closer to her to add in a conspiratorial whisper, "Yeah, well, if anyone asks, you won after you threaded your partner's shoelaces."

Kate pulled away and raised her eyebrows. "I did?"

Clint shrugged easily, but now his gaze was darker as he looked back at the other Careers. "Yeah. Wouldn't want them to think you're an easy target."

Kate followed his gaze. She spotted the redhead, who thankfully wasn't looking their way at the moment, and shuddered. "That's surprisingly nice of you," she said quietly.

Clint shrugged. "Figure us archers gotta look out for each other." Then, his grin suddenly returned, and he winked at her. "Thanks for playing, Katie. See you around?"

"I'll keep an eye out. Only for the next few days, though. After that. . . ." Kate shook her head. "I'd hate to have to shoot you in the Games. You're not half bad for a Career."

Clint laughed. "And you're not bad for Twelve."

Kate watched as Clint returned to hanging out with the other Careers, talking animatedly with the redhead from his district. He was the only one Kate had seen that could get anything like a smile from that girl, but it wasn't even a smile – it was more like a twitch that she tried to keep under control. Which was weird, considering she was all smiles and giggles when they were out in the Capitol. Kate wasn't sure what game she was playing, but it probably wasn't a good idea to get too close.

Kate sighed and plopped down on the nearest bench, taking a long swig from the nearest water bottle. She leaned up against the wall. "Okay," she said to no one in particular, "I think that's plenty of exercise for today."

_And politics_, she thought. She had no idea interacting with kids she was supposed to kill in a few days could be so...exhausting (go figure). She liked it better when she knew who was on her side, not this weird walking on eggshells and forming semi-friendships stuff.

She missed District Twelve. _So_ much.

She took another long drink and then looked around, taking in the other tributes.

They were scary. That was her being honest. Honest-to-Thanos terrifying, and she could actually see her chances of winning dropping to fairy godmother levels of unlikely.

The guy from One taking down dummies left and right with any weapon he could get his hands on (and all while cracking jokes, mostly to himself). His criminal district partner looking like she might maybe eat Kate if she had the chance. The girl from Four looking like an aggressive watch dog beside her cousin – was it cousin? Kate remembered they were related but not exactly how. Girl from Five lifting stuff that should have been way too heavy for her. And she'd completely lost track of the kid from Eight. He was good at the hiding thing.

Oh, no, wait, there was Eight. Kate giggled, watching as – _what was his name? Peter or something like that?_ – the kid let himself carefully down out of the rafters, all spider-like, to rearrange a few boots at the swimming station. The first few tributes who came out exhausted after trying to stay afloat through the crashing wave pool were suddenly very confused as to how their feet had managed to shrink a few sizes in the cold water.

Eight was still in the rafters, laughing to himself, and Kate managed to catch his gaze and grin. At least someone else was having a little fun around here.

But then she let her gaze drift, and now there was the genius from Three learning traps (that was _so_ not a good idea; who let him get close to something he could actually use?) and the daughter of the Red Skull furiously practicing hand-to-hand like she'd done it before and the guy from Four knocking a dummy's head clean off...

"I'm so dead," Kate whispered, dropping her head back to thud against the wall. The headband hit her ear. It was still kinda sideways from her swordfighting with Kurt earlier.

She took the headband out of her hair and played with it, staring at the red ribbon lining the inside. It was America's.

* * *

_"Your sister give you that?" America asked, almost disgusted, when she saw Kate holding the headband._

_Kate was still in shock. She'd just said goodbye to Susan and Dad. She just stood there holding the headband, and it wasn't until America came busting in, claiming to be Kate's cousin and therefore family who absolutely, 100 percent had a right to visit Kate, that Kate broke out of it._

_She gave America a slight smile. "Yeah. Susan said to be sure to wear it all the time, because when I get back in a few weeks, all the girls will want the Kate Bishop look."_

_America took the headband and glared at it, especially at the teeth on the inside. "You get bashed on the head when you're wearing this, and the headband will do half the damage for you," she said. She quickly got down to work with a knife sanding down all the prickly bits._

_"I think it was Susan's way of giving me something concrete from home – and making me promise to come back and be the fashion diva she wants me to be," Kate admitted._

_"Your sister's stupid, but she's got her heart in the right place," America said. She finished sanding down the headband and then studied it. "Missing something," she muttered before she tore a ribbon right off of her brand new Reaping Dress and jammed it into what was left of the pointy bits. "There," she said. "That should help it stay on." She handed it back to Kate._

_Kate grinned and put the headband back on, settling it into her hair before she took the rest of the red ribbon and tied it underneath. "What do you think?" she asked._

_America grinned. "Susan would say you look darling."_

* * *

"Heads up!"

Kate blinked out of her thoughts just in time to see a water bottle sailing at her head. She caught it with one hand and looked up to see who had thrown it.

It was the guy from Seven.

"No fighting," she said sternly, mimicking the voice of the instructor from earlier.

He gave her a half-smile. "You looked like you could use one of those," he said with a gruff shrug.

"Figure it's good to get hydrated before the Arena, y'know?" she said lightly. _Don't trust anybody_, Blackager Boltagon had told her – well, written in a note to her – before they started the day. And Kurt was nice, and Clint was fun, but this guy was gruff and aloof, and Kate was trying not to get taken in for a sucker and killed by a supposed partner. Besides, Kate was running out of energy navigating the moves and countermoves of the not-friendships around here.

"You tired out already?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nah, just pretending to be," she said, sitting up a little straighter as she re-tied her headband. She pulled a grin out of her quickly diminishing supply as she added, "That way, I can get a good view. We've got some good-looking Tributes this year."

She tilted her head at Five, who, despite initial appearances at his Reaping, seemed to be getting more and more handsome with each passing day at the Capitol.

Seven snorted. "Right," he said, but he didn't argue. He paused, seemed to consider, and said, "Nice shootin' back there."

Kate flushed. "Thanks," she said. "I was pretty good back home..." She trailed off. She wasn't supposed to talk about back home. That was dangerous, and they were in the Capitol, where everything had ears.

He raised an eyebrow at her sudden quietness. And when Kate stayed quiet, suddenly unable to come up with something to say to fill the space, he seemed to lose interest.

"Thanks for the water," she said quickly, not wanting to lose an opportunity. She might not trust anybody, but that didn't mean she didn't want friends before they got to the arena. And he _had_ been nice enough to give her a heads up before he hit her with the bottled water. Which had to mean something, at least.

But Seven just shrugged her off and went out to go investigate the climbing course.

Kate sighed. Didn't know why she bothered. She had to face facts – she was a scrawny kid from Twelve, one of the younger ones there, and she didn't have much to offer.

Not that she'd let anyone know that, of course.

But she was small, and she wasn't a Career, and she wasn't as good at swords at Kurt, and she was only maybe as good at archery as Clint, but Clint was a Career, so he was probably better. And she wasn't as good at disappearing as Eleven or as terrifying as the guy from Ten, and she wasn't a Capitol darling like Clint's district partner pretended to be, and she wasn't a genius like the guy from Three and...why would _anyone_ want her around? Why would anyone sponsor her or ally with her or do anything but laugh at the cute little girl from Twelve who had fun in the Games right up until she died?

Kate sighed, retied her headband for good measure (maybe she'd have Noh Varr fix it up so it stayed on better; she wouldn't mind having an excuse to talk with him more), and then pushed those thoughts aside. She didn't have to be the _best_. She didn't need allies or sponsors or whatever else. She could win this on her own. She just had to be the last one standing.

So she wasn't the strongest or the oldest or the fastest or the smartest. Didn't mean she couldn't get under everyone's skin. Maybe if enough people _liked_ her, they'd at least pause before they stabbed her in the back. And then Kate could beat them to the whole stabbing thing...assuming she didn't freeze up, too, but that was a whole other problem, and Kate only had the energy for one disaster at a time.

Kate stood up and took another long drink from her water bottle. Surveyed the group. "Welp," she said with a heavy sigh, "back into the fray."


	21. Chapter 20: Damaged Goods

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our Tuesday update, as Deep and Storm return with a chapter for you all! Gonna keep this short and sweet, because I believe this chapter speaks for itself, and needs no further introduction. Just please, if you enjoyed it as much as I did, leave a review to let us know - it's what we poor writers live for, after all!**

**sailorraven34: We are indeed going to visit almost every tribute during their stay in the Capitol – we'll miss one or two, as their writers have dropped out, but there's still plenty to come!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty – Damaged Goods**

**Evening Day One**

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

"_Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show." _

_— Terry Pratchett_

* * *

"What did I _specifically_ say, Ororo? _What did I say?_"

"Don't yell at her, Sam, take it easy."

"Stay out of this, Ross, you don't know shit. What were you supposed to do, Ororo?"

It was easy to forget that Sam was only a couple of years older than Chord when he rounded towards her, his eyes narrowed, and despite setting her jaw and crossing her arms, Ororo found herself taking a small step back from her mentor.

He had been ranting at her – or, at least, in her general direction – since they had been eating dinner in the kitchen, and had continued the tirade as they moved into the ridiculously padded room that held the television and book cases. She had thought her movement might have appeased the man, brought him out of his clouds and back to the reality of the situation, but when it was clear that was not the case, and he spewed out yet more rhetorical questions, the young girl began to find it more difficult to cling onto the little island in her head.

"How could you be so stupid, Ororo? _Do you realise what you've done? What this –"_

"What else was I supposed to do?" she blurted out in a yell, glaring at the victor and cutting across him. "Just keep _hiding?_ I already know how to hide, thank you very much."

"Yes! You hide and you don't draw attention to yourself!" Sam's hands slammed against the table in front of the couch and he stood back up, resuming his pacing. Perched on the arm of the corner chair, T'Challa drew his legs in to make a path for the older man, remaining quietly thoughtful as opposed to the quietly seething Ororo had been.

"And do _what_, _Falcon_? Get a knife through the chest a minute after the start? You have to have _hiding spots_ to hide, Sam! I've seen the Games – I saw that Seven hit the dirt in the bloodbath last year. I know what's coming, so the least you could do is let me have a tiny chance to bring someone down before it happens!" Ororo's voice rose in pitch, making up in noise what she couldn't do in height, the island in her head forgotten. She would _not_ apologise for what happened earlier. Her hands curled into fists against her chest, staring stonily at the elder.

* * *

_She knew Sam had told her to stay out of the limelight, to stick to the rafters and avoid interacting with anyone except T'Challa. But after her brief encounter with that Twelve girl, and knowing her partner already had the rafters covered, she lost interest in hiding. Hiding was something to be done when outsmarting an orchard Sentinel – who knew about as much as a pig about which apples were what – and avoiding those that wanted to kill her._

_Well, she had had plenty of experience in that regard. She suppressed a shudder, recalling howling dogs and violent looking guns, and feeling like she was going to die_. A little like now_,_ _she thought, shaking her head and looking around the training area. In this instance, however, she had the opportunity to defend herself. After all, even if some of the tributes _did _look gigantic and mature, they were still just teenagers like she was._

_The boy at the hand-to-hand section certainly looked mature, although gigantic would not be an apt word to describe him. She had seen the Seven tribute speak with a few of the others – although, 'speak' was perhaps an exaggeration – and he seemed alright, for someone who was going to try and kill her in a few days. Certainly not someone who would watch her struggle with the stances Rand told her to take and make a note of what an easy target she was. She hoped, at least, that her view of the tribute was right, her gaze flicking over at him as he seemingly effortlessly moved into the sequence the trainer was demonstrating._

"_Eleven, concentrate," Rand stated sharply, and she flinched and completely lost whatever grace she had, staggering on one foot. Righting herself, she shot the trainer a dark look, though her good eye was obscured with her hair, so she didn't think he noticed. _

_She tried the close combat movement again as he turned to watch her, holding out his hand for her to kick. Three times she tried to reach the unreachable height of the towering trainer, and each time she failed, the island in her head slipping further out of reach and her face growing hot as the Seven stopped and watched, his arms crossed._

"_You're too tall," she complained eventually._

"_So adapt," Rand said with a shrug._

"_What, make some stilts mid-fight?" she snapped, turning towards Seven, who'd let out what she thought was some attempt of laughter at her words. Closer inspection made her think it was more of a grunt of acknowledgement, and she gave him a small frown._

"_I'll show you a better way," the tribute grumbled, as though it physically pained him to say so._

"_Look, I know you're not tree height, but you're still bigger than me," she pointed out, gesturing towards herself._

"_Just...Just watch, kid." Ororo crossed her arms, the frown deepening at the term, reminding her of her family back home, as Seven went through a slow-motion altered version of what Rand had shown her. It took greater effort, involving launching himself off the ground and twisting to avoid losing stability, but the trainer gave an approving nod and then a pointed eyebrow raise towards the girl. _

_The boy went through the motion again, quicker this time, and she thought she could bring in familial fighting experience to put the sequence in action. "Now, you, kid."_

"_My name is Ororo," she muttered, putting her fists up in a fighting stance and taking a breath, one eye fixed on Rand's face as she tried to remember his foot pattern._ One, two, up, up! _Her body twisted and she couldn't help the little grin break out as the ball of her foot brushed against the trainer's hand. The ground rushed up to meet her body and her arms flew out, catching herself on all fours._

"_Good. Try with Seven and work on the landing. No face." Rand took a step back as Ororo turned to the boy. Close combat with larger individuals was a new experience for her, but working out ways to incorporate falling on the ground was definitely in her repertoire. He held out his hand, and Ororo took a breath before launching through the motions, her foot connecting with his palm and then dropping to the mat. "Again."_

"_Bring your legs under you, kid," Seven muttered. The girl hid her smile from the lumberjack, and went back to the original position. She took another breath, her island floating tantalisingly close to her mind, and pounced at the boy again, cracking his palm. This time, as she felt herself falling, she saw his other arm reach out to steady her. _

Silly, Forge_, she thought, forgetting herself and latching onto his arm, using the leverage like a tree-monkey and swinging onto his back, her limbs wrapping around his throat. Then she remembered that it was not Forge she was messing with, but the grumpily helpful tribute, and she gave a small smile._

"_If I had a knife, you'd be dead, James," she said in a low voice. She had seen his Reaping, she'd heard his name, and she liked him enough not to call him a number._

"_Good thing you don't have a knife," he countered, as her arms were snatched away from him and she was bodily lifted into the air by a Sentinel. She writhed in the officer's grasp, surprise more than anything causing her to holler loudly, though she quickly quietened down as the Sentinel squeezed. Once she was silent, the man dropped her to the ground. _

_She let out a cough, her eye snapping around the place as her shout drew the attention of the nearby tributes. She glanced up at the rafters, and picked out the shadowy form of T'Challa, their eyes meeting, barely hearing the afterthought words from her sparring acquaintance. "Oh, and just call me Logan."_

* * *

"You already know how to fight, Ororo," Sam yelled right back, jerking the girl out of her daydream and back into the reality of the situation. "Don't think I never saw you and your little Lost Boys around the Victor's Village."

Ororo gulped at the words, wondering if he had seen them take his things as well, waste or otherwise.

"Not _well_. The trainers here can _help_ me. They're helping that Twelve girl hone her styles. T'Challa, tell him what you saw. Tell him about Kate and –"

"Yet an_other_ thing you were doing wrong. Smerdyakov said he saw you two talking." Ororo shot a glare in her district partner's direction as he remained outside the argument. _Of course the camouflage man would notice._

"Yes, I was seeing about allies, something my _brother_ told me to do."

"You are not allying with Kate," Sam said, shaking his head and bringing his voice down to an indoor pitch. He continued to pace.

"Why not? She's nice, she's _good_, she can shoot long range and I'd rather have someone like that on my side for a little while than have to keep an eye on the height." _Finally,_ she breathed in her head, as T'Challa gave a small, slow nod at the words, seemingly agreeing with her.

"She also just painted a big fat target on her back, and be damned if you're going to have the Career pack on your tail on Day One. So _no_, and that's _final._" Their mentor had ceased pacing, standing squarely opposite her, a mixed and unreadable look on his face, possibly a mirror of Ororo's own features.

"Oh, what do _you_ know! It's not like you've saved anyone since you started. You sent them all out there with your _stupid _advice, and you couldn't even _try_ saving any of them. Bet you said the same thing to them. Bet you said that to Eric too, and he listened and _that's why he's dead_!"

"Wormy, chill out," Ross stated, as she watched Wilson's face crumple into murky emotions.

"Do not call her Wormy," T'Challa responded, his voice even and reasonable, and entirely out of place with Ororo's feelings at that moment. She couldn't look at them anymore, and she turned, sprinting out of the room and down the hall, past the bedrooms, and didn't breathe until the elevator had arrived and the doors had closed.

Ororo had never been very good with small spaces. The first time they had rode up the elevator, she had clung to T'Challa's arm and left indents in his skin, glad that only the district's people could see her. Everett had told her that she wasn't allowed be that way with other occupants though, since it would ruin their image and it wasn't like she wanted the world to know that the little Eleven had never been in an elevator before, right? He'd been nice about it though, and shown her the little button that made one wall transparent to look out on the Capitol.

She pressed it now, the wall shifting and showing off the bright lights and towering buildings. Turning her back on the door, she flattened her hands against the wall, nose squashed up to examine the tiny ant-like people in the world below her. District Eleven's floor was _high_. It took a long time for the people to take real shape, longer still as the elevator stopped on a few floors to let the occasional person on.

She glanced behind each time the doors opened, giving a long look at each person as she stood in the corner, her face still skewed in the angry expression she'd used against Sam. The boy from Nine gave a little pause before he stepped on, making his way to the other corner, giving her a small nod which she didn't return. She'd watched him in training, carefully, admiring his grace with a sword that she hadn't expected from the outliers; his district partner hadn't shared the same grace. He seemed nice, but she wasn't about to let a nice person stab her because she'd been sucked in with his act.

Eight revealed the girl tribute, the one with the odd hair that made Ororo want to stick her tongue out. All _she_ had was a measly little streak, which was a poor way of trying to copy _Ororo's_. _Not that just _anyone_ can get hair like mine,_ she thought, turning away from the two as they struck up a stilted sort of conversation and scrunched up her face against the wall. _You can't just _copy_ my hair._

The door opened at Seven, but no one was there, seemingly vanishing when the elevator arrived.

The mezzanine she was heading for was not on the ground floor, but just below the one that held District Three. She could understand that, she supposed, since despite the Capitol's love for their tributes, there would always be a couple of fanatics who perhaps loved certain ones a little _too_ much; a ground floor congregation was a mass murder about to happen.

_And it wouldn't do to carry out the mass murder _before_ the cameras were switched on,_ she thought, a little smile forming on her face, the words successfully bringing her calm island close enough that her mind could sit on it, and allow her breathing to slow and her heart rate return to normal. She even managed a smile towards the two other tributes' general direction, since they were on her bad side, so she couldn't see their exact location as she was leaving.

If Eight wanted to really copy her look, she thought that she would be happy to poke her eye out for her.

The mezzanine was pretty busy, which surprised her more than a little. She didn't think that all of the tributes present had had an argument with their mentors, but she had figured they would remain in their rooms, away from the pretence and watching eyes of their opponents. She hugged the walls as she made her way from the elevator, trying to remember faces and who had seemed friendly in their first training.

That gigantic, hulking man from Four was sitting with his district partner, who had the look of an aggressive Rottweiler, and although the teenager had seemed nice enough, giving the boy from Twelve a bone-crushing hug and smiling, he was a Career, and even if the pack Sam talked about didn't form, he was too dangerous to even interact with.

_No talking to Careers,_ she thought to herself, grudgingly repeating Sam's words and agreeing with them. If there was even a hint of recognition on Four – _no, Thor, his name is Thor, remember that_ – when they launched, he'd know she was small and weak. She shot the two Careers a sneering look as their backs were to her, disliking the smiling, seemingly good-natured boy who had his brother to look out for.

Then there was that red-head, Red Skull's bastard daughter, who looked like she'd stick a stiletto in Ororo's other eye given half the chance. She didn't know how lucky she had it, that Sixer. At least she was able to see her father's face, even from a distance, even if it had disappointment on it – Ororo was never going to have that opportunity, although she knew her father would have the disappointed look if he had ever seen her in Nanny's care.

_Adapt,_ she echoed what Rand said in her head. She'd had to adapt when they died. They weren't taken like Tom's father to the Capitol, they'd just _died_ and she'd had to grow up, like when Eric died.

She hadn't realised she'd reached the chessboard until she almost collided with the seated boy, backpedalling hastily a few paces. As it was, the table rattled slightly, disrupting a pawn on the edge of the board and the piece fell towards the ground. She snapped her arm out, catching the little figurine before it cracked against the hard floor, and straightened as the boy looked up and offered out his hand, gesturing with a small smile. She couldn't remember if he was from Three or from Eight, but he was waiting for the piece, and she handed it back while she thought about it.

"Sorry for wrecking your game," she said.

"Don't worry about it, Patch," he replied with a shrug, the girl twitching a little at the odd name. "Just waiting for my opponent to arrive."

"Is that an invitation?" she asked, watching his eyebrow raise as he elicited a small snort.

"No, the rafters kid from Eight's gone to get a snack. I'm simply trying to figure out the best way to move these pieces to my advantage without him noticing the difference." He paused, Ororo nodding as she definitively diagnosed the boy as a Three. "More difficult than it looks, Patch. By the way, big fan of the whole 'not letting the Cap' fix my eye' approach."

She sniffed at the words, wondering if her rafter-watching had been wrong, and she should go to the girl from Three instead. _All these nicknames,_ she thought, but since she wasn't able to remember his name anyway, she let the word slide.

"Big enough fan to help me out?" she asked, leaning against the wall and sliding slightly down until she was eye level with the older boy.

"I don't deal with biology, Patch. I'm good but I'm not _that_...well, if I thought about it enough, I would be that good." Three leaned back and looked at her cloudy eye. "We could try out some biomechanics with it, like a robotic attach–"

"Not the eye, Three," she cut across him, before he could do what Forge always did and go off on some electronic tangent. "My Nanny says it's a gift from the Gods –" She shot him a glare as he gave another snort. "– and that's the line we're sticking with." Ross had said it would be a good way to try and get sponsors; Capitolites did always love a good tragedy. "Tomorrow, at training, I was wondering if you'd help me out at the electrics, with setting up currents and mid-line switches and re-routers. Getting a connection and all that."

"And why's a midget from District Eleven knowing any of those words? Basics, of course, I don't think you'd understand any of it if you went into det–"

"I know a boy," she interrupted him again, adjusting her face so it was smiling sweetly in his direction. "And I'll pinky promise not to use anything you teach me to kill you later on. How's that?" The boy from Three seemed to genuinely think over the words, rubbing his smooth cheek like the older men from home did with their beards.

"Please, Patch, did you ever think for a second that I'd show you anything I won't have an off switch for?" He held out his hand again, and she took it after a moment, squeezing firmly. "Look at that," he added, glancing down at their hands. "We're just like the currents I'll show you. We're _connected_." He gave a little '_heh'_, Ororo smiling back at the words, before withdrawing his hand, glancing over her shoulder.

"My victim approaches," he said with a nod as the Eight boy appeared from the elevator. "I expect this connection to run both ways, Patch; I'll show you routers and switches, and you tell me which food to eat when we're out there. Don't worry, I pinky promise not to poison you with any of them." She gave a wide smile at his words, nodding and backing away as the Eight boy arrived, staring suspiciously down at the chessboard.

"Thought you were going to mess with my head, Stark."

"Maybe I'm just lulling you into false security, Peter."

_Stark._ _Remember that one too_. She was feeling a little better now that she had that sorted out. Even though it was most likely that any useful electronics would be in the middle of the Tesseract, and therefore completely out of her reach, she still needed to learn a bit more, just in case. Like Stark learning about the poisons, it was just covering all basics. Along with feeling better about knowledge came the feeling of guilt over what she had said to Sam, and she searched for some other distraction, wishing she hadn't barged off on her own.

T'Challa was a stranger, but at least he was a stranger from _home_. He'd be diplomatic, handle meeting the new people with the maturity that befitted T'Chaka's son. Not the little Lost Girl who had forgotten to take the stolen fruit from her pillowcase on Reaping Day. _Misty's probably eaten them all,_ she thought mournfully, resuming her wall clinging away from the chess game. The fruit at the Capitol was the same as Eleven, but somehow when it was just _handed_ to her, it lost a little bit of flavour. There was nothing like theft to season food.

In the corner, it was the noise that caught her attention. There was a small group of tributes on a set of couches. Their conversation had grown louder as they started to relax around each other and forget about what was to come. Ororo recognised two by name, the ones from Five that had shared their elevator after the chariots – T'Challa had looked ridiculous in his outfit, and she had felt the same, but the former had complimented hers. She thought the boy sitting next to them was from District Six, but the rest were a blank.

She was sure, however, that there were no Careers from One or Two; even if a pack didn't form, the Careers didn't mix. She watched the group pass cards around, wondering whether they were playing for fun or for tactics. _Don't be so cynical,_ she told herself sharply. They could just be playing, like her family. Although, she thought with a little smile, it seemed a little less hectic than she remembered. Nobody had tried to jump over the table to accuse a cheater.

She stood like that for a little while, safely floating on her calm island all alone, quietly watching the groups of tributes, until the boy from Five noticed her and waved her over. She shook her head at the gesture and after a few moments he spoke to his district partner and stood up, edging out of the group and approaching her. She stopped mid-headshake as he gave a small shrug and leaned against the wall beside her, his arms folded as he glanced down.

"Go back to your card game, Steve," she said, not looking at the older boy. "I'm fine over here, don't worry."

"Nah, I don't really understand it anyway, some new game Bruce thought up," he responded, shrugging again. "Besides, you look like you need someone to talk to. Where's T'Challa?" Her lips twitched as he remembered her partner's name, attributing it to the unusual word, and their unusual skin. She tilted her head at the game that was ongoing, and then after a moment leaned up towards Five.

"It looks like a twist on Lives," she said, then pointed at his two down-facing cards. "I think you were winning, you know." Steve followed her pointed finger and seemed genuinely surprised at the news, which Ororo instantly was suspicious of; Eric used to look surprised at things she told him, only to use it against her at a later date. "And T'Challa is upstairs," she continued, before her memories could snatch her island away from her and work up a storm inside. "There was a bit of a..."

"Argument? Shouting match? Food fight?" he suggested, rather helpfully, and gave a smile as she heaved a sigh and a nod. "Thought so. That was an interesting stunt you pulled at training, though I can't for the life of me think why you did it." The younger shot him a look, huffing slightly and crossing her arms to match his casual stance.

"I didn't pull any stunt. Wasn't trying to _do_ anything! That's what they can't see, that's why they're yelling at me," she said, dropping her voice as she noticed Carol glance up from the cards. "I just...I just _forgot_ where I was. I just..._forgot_ I wasn't playing with my...my brother." She looked away, down at her shoes that were so much comfier than the ones she had at home; she hated them. Steve was silent beside her, in both voice and action, barely making any movements as he took in her words.

"It's easy to forget," he told her quietly, only a little more audible than the surrounding chatter. "You think you know what you're doing, you think that you'll always be thinking about what's going to happen to us and that you can never relax around anyone. But, you forget, and you think you're back in your district with your best friend..."

"That's that...umm...boy you volunteered for, right?" she asked, recalling the Reapings video she had watched on the train with Sam and T'Challa. "That was really brave, you know. We don't get a lot of volunteers in Eleven...well, none actually."

"He'd have done the same for me," he answered, his voice steady and filled with conviction.

"My best friend said they'd volunteer for me if I was Reaped. But, he's a boy, so that was a slight problem." Steve gave an unexpected chuckle, and she started a little switching her gaze back to him. He seemed so steadfast and unwavering, and she wished she could do the same thing, instead of having to squash down the sudden urges to vomit that came over her in waves. He reminded her of T'Challa, with his little smiles and his genuine nature.

"Maybe he could have worn a dress, and come here in disguise?" She jumped again as he spoke, narrowing her eyes as he echoed her earlier comments. Nodding slowly at his own statement, he added, "That'd be something to see. A big mistake on Director Fury's part...but I don't think he's one for mistakes." Ororo gave a nod of her own, returning to examining her shoes. The one-eyed man was frequently seen on the television in the weeks leading up to the Reaping. "Seems like a good man, your best friend. Like mine."

"Forge," she said to the ground. "His name is Forge and even though my family call him ghost-gum and spit on his shoes, he still comes – came – around to meet me and he _is_ a good man." She held up her wrist to the older boy, feeling the weight of the bracelet slink down her forearm and catch at the larger size.

"Vibranium?" Steve asked after examining it for a moment. "We use it in the power plant walls back home as sound protection."

"It belongs to District Eleven," she snapped, "and it's not just for vibration absorption. It's strong too, and light and tough like...like..."

"Like you?" he finished, and she snatched her arm away, feeling heat rush through her body, her head full of pent-up emotions and obscuring her island.

"_That's_ what Forge told me. _That's _why he's a good man," she said quietly, and though he didn't strike her as the type who would pull her into a hug like Forge, she took a step away from him, just in case his oh-so-virtuous volunteering action would extend to an oh-so-righteous hug. "You're a good man too, Steve, I think. I just hope you're not _too_ good to fight for your freedom, even when you know the cost." She gave him a little smile, pushing off the wall and waiting for him to do the same, his stance relaxed and easy, like T'Challa always looked.

"I better go; I got some apologising to do."

"I'm sure you didn't do anything too bad," he said, sounding painstakingly reasonable. Her smile widened slightly

"Oh, it was pretty bad." She paused, sliding around him back towards the elevator. "But don't worry, you wouldn't call it 'mainly supervillain' bad, so you can still talk to me, _good man_." The door of the elevator opened with a low ping, and Ororo stepped backwards into it, giving the boy from Five a little wave as the doors closed, cutting her off from the noise of the mezzanine. She pressed the button for her floor and backed away from the door, to the same spot she had used on the way down, sinking to the ground and watching the lights flash up as she past each level.

She had been doing so well. She had thought going downstairs would have helped her with everything, and it had, for a time, until Steve had acted all nice to her and gone and ruined it. That urge to vomit was back, but it wasn't anything to do with the Games, just the feeling of guilt crashing down on her that she had upset Sam and, by default, T'Challa. Everything seemed to remind her of home, of the people she had left behind and the people she'd watch die. _Even stupid _Logan_ is like stupid _Eric, she thought fiercely, clinging to her knees alone in the corner. _Eric_ used to call her 'kid'; what right did Logan have to do the same? _And that ghost-gum Steve, being white-T'Challa – it's not fair!_

She stood up on shaky knees at the elevator approached District Ten's floor, frowning at herself in the enclosed space, her face set like that as she reached her own level and the doors opened. She stepped back onto the carpeted floor, pulling off her shoes and dumping them to one side, her toes curling at the luxurious feeling underneath them; it wasn't as good as grass, but it was a pretty alright alternative. Moving quietly through the floor, she paused at their escort's room, peeking in to see Everett laughing with a woman on a wide screen, raising a glass towards her full of the wine from Eleven's fruit.

"Yes, you saw our little _darling_," Ross sang, as the woman gave a nod of agreement. "Such a _brave_ young thing, and so excited to get started for the Games. And you know, she's wearing raw umber – it's the latest skin tone, and going to be all the rage in the Capitol. Now, Ms. Labelle –"

"– Oh Evvie, you naughty boy, _please_, it's _Sparkles_ –" Ororo shot past the room at the words, shuddering inwardly and recalling Chord's sappy words to Miyami, her frowning deepening as she continued towards the sitting room. _Raw umber?_ she thought, glancing down at her skin. It wasn't what _she_ would call her skin colour, at least. Everett had always been a little off though, and she supposed that it could just be a Capitolite quirk. Still, it didn't really sound as powerful as ebony like T'Challa, or tawny like Sam. And she couldn't recall them _ever_ using it to describe Rhodey.

The sitting room was empty when she reached it, someone having helpfully straightened out the adjoining kitchen, though when she looked around she could find no sign of the entrances the Inhumans used as they went about their business. There were none she recognised on her floor, but she hadn't thought there would be; still, she had kept her eyes peeled for any signs of David's father, just to put to rest the wager she and Tom had made when they'd found him. Currently, although the Capitol was a big place and he could have been in a personal household, Ororo's execution theory was winning.

She made her way down the hall towards her own bedroom and her district partner's, hesitating at his partially closed door, her good eye catching his seated frame with a book in hand. She wasn't sure how busy someone was when reading, but she didn't want to disturb him if he wanted peace. While she struggled with the decision, T'Challa made it for her, glancing up at his door and spotting her peeking head. He gestured with his hand, and after another moment of hesitation she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

"Sam around?" she asked, her foot grinding an imprint into the carpet as she stood awkwardly. T'Challa shook his head. "Oh. I...umm...I guess I need to say sorry. Was he...umm, mad?"

"I am not sure mad is the correct word for it," the elder said carefully, "though you struck a very tender spot. He is not coming back until morning, but he says to get your sleep."

"Let's hope he doesn't stab me in bed," she muttered, crossing her arms. T'Challa swung his legs off the bed, his feet touching the carpet, and he patted the section beside him. "Not sure why he's bothering with advice," she continued, accepting his invitation and hopping up beside him, her toes barely brushing the carpet from the height. "You're a much better candidate for Eleven. T'Chaka might even convince them to sponsor you."

"My father would never corrupt his power in that way," the boy answered evenly. "And Sam definitely does not want to stab you, Ororo –"

"I told you, T'Challa, it's okay if _you_ call me Wormy," she interrupted.

"That is not your name, and before you say something about nicknames, that is _not_ an appropriate one for a citizen of Eleven." He paused as she glanced up at him, giving the careful smile he pulled off so effortlessly. "You are a person, Ororo, not an animal. Certainly not a worm."

"What, so only the wealthy folk get an animal name, _Black Panther?_" she asked, her lip curling up into a small sneer. "Or what the ghost gums in the Capitol decide to call us, like Falcon?"

"That is different," he said as she gave a snort. "That is the totem of my family. We are the Black Panther."

"Well, I don't have a totem, because my parents are dead, but if you think of a better one than a stupid worm, I'm all ears and one eye."

"My mother is also no longer with us, Ororo." He fell quiet, Ororo listening to his breathing and trying to match its calm nature with her own, and expel the worries that clouded her head, along with the memories of before. It helped a little, for a time, until her mind grew full again and she felt too pent up inside, and her breaths became shallow.

"T'Challa..._I'm scared,_" she whispered eventually. "_I don't want to die. I don't want you to die._" The clicks and whistles of the language were like the songbirds from the orchards at home. _"They're all bigger than me down there, and I know I'm fast but fast only gets you so far and those tributes, they're just too big."_ They spilled out of her like a torrential waterfall, her breathing growing wilder, her palms feeling as clammy as back home in the heat.

"_You are my people, _Ororo," T'Challa whistled back, _"and it is okay to be afraid._" Slowly, he brought his arm around the younger, and when she didn't resist, squeezed her gently against his side. "_I will keep you safe and watch over you. You are Eleven, _Ororo Munroe. _You are strong in mind and our people and ancestors will be proud of you._"

The tears she had been unable to shed when saying goodbye to her family welled up inside her and spilled out, running down her cheeks and sticking to her silver hair. T'Challa's grip around her tightened, and she leaned into him, remembering how Eric would hug her just as fiercely and causing more tears to overwhelm her. She was going to die. She was never going to see Forge again, or Nanny, or Chord or even Jericho's Brother in the stupid mirror. T'Challa rocked her slowly as she wondered if Eric had thought about them too, when he'd been sleeping in the room her district partner called his own for the time being. She cried some more.

She cried until there was no more water left inside her, and the storm in her head cleared, and then fell asleep in T'Challa's arms.


	22. Chapter 21: Training Montage

**(A/N) We're back with our Thursday update, all, and we return to Sinthea Schmidt, written by Silmarilz1701! Going to keep this short and sweet, and hope you all enjoy it! Next one will go up on Sunday, when I'll have finished my exams and will be off for the summer!**

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**Chapter Twenty-One – Training Montage**

**Training Day Two**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701**

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_"The connections between and among women are the most feared, the most problematic, and the most potentially transforming force on the planet."_

– Adrienne Rich

* * *

Sinthea looked around her. _Training._ She could handle this. Sin had found out yesterday that training in the Capitol was much more difficult than training at home with Crossbones, but she could do it. All around her in the training ground were different stations. There were all kinds of places. She noted that in one area there were large trees of different kinds all for climbing. There was a large wave pool in the other far corner. Closest to her were the camouflage, axes, and edible plants.

Tributes filed past her as she stood in the centre, looking around.

"Ouch!"

Sinthea was knocked forward, falling to the ground as a burly boy came rushing in and ran straight over her to try to get to the Axes station first. She recalled the boy's name as Thor Odinson, a blonde kid with large muscles. He was a Career-type, she was sure of it. Those lower districts tended to stick together in the Games, so unless he was going solo which was unlikely given his cousin and his adopted brother were in the games, he would end up in that common Career alliance.

She shuddered in disgust, but also in admiration. Sinthea already could tell she wouldn't get along well with any of the Career-types. They were stuck up, generally, and thought too highly of themselves as far as Sin was concerned. Even Sin had to admit, though, that they were highly skilled, highly trained killers. She would have to watch out for them in the Games.

"Are you okay?" a girl with strawberry blonde hair asked her, offering Sinthea a hand up off the ground. Pepper, that was her name.

"Yes, I'm fine. Idiot just knocked me over," Sin grumbled, not accepting Pepper's helping hand, but stood up on her own.

Sinthea left Pepper by herself and went over to the fire-starting station. The trainer was a fiery red-head like Sin, with long flowing hair and brown eyes. She was tall, too, and skinny even for a Capitol woman.

"Hello there," the trainer said, "I'm Angelica Jones, though most people call me Firestar."

"Sinthea Schmidt."

"Daughter of the Red Skull," Firestar gaped at her, her face plastered in surprise and admiration, "Oh my!"

* * *

_Daughter of the Red Skull indeed._

_Sinthea was changing after the chariot ceremony in her room. The sky outside was growing black, but the city lights illuminated much of the area outside her window. Putting on some jeans and a black tee-shirt that she found on her bed, she sat down and fingered the skull pin Crossbones had given her. She even smiled at the thought of him._

_Then a knock came at her door and she quickly hid the pin in her dresser drawer. _

_"Come in!"_

_It was a man with a hideously scarred face, a man whose entire skull was visible in a pale, red hue. He wore black clothes that accented his damaged face. Sin looked upon him in surprise._

_"Didn't think you'd show up," she admitted._

_"Isn't my choice," he responded._

_Sinthea rolled her eyes, "Of course not."_

_"Will you be ready for training tomorrow? I don't want my daughter looking pathetic in front of all the other tributes and trainers," Johann Schmidt said gruffly._

_Sinthea narrowed her eyes and balled her fists. Of course she would be ready. She was the Red Skull's daughter. Even if he'd never acknowledged it._

_That was, until now._

* * *

"Yes, that's right," Sin smiled slightly, acknowledging to herself that she might have a third rate father but he could seriously kick some ass. She was the daughter of the Red Skull, indeed.

"You know, according to what my predecessor told me, your father was excellent at building fires," Angelica Jones whispered to Sin.

Sin hardened her gaze and nodded. That meant she had to be even better. Sinthea knelt down beside a pile of wood and listened to Firestar explain how to build a fire. She taught Sinthea which sticks went where, how to find the right kindling and tinder from underbrush, and how to build a bow to use to ignite the flames.

Sin kept getting stuck on the actual ignition process. She was great at identifying the proper tinder to use, and the way to build a small nest out of said tinder for the flames to catch on. But Sin just couldn't go fast enough to ignite the flames with the bow and sticks. Out of the ten times she tried, she only succeeded during five trials.

"It's okay." Firestar shrugged, looking rather apologetic.

Sin glared at her and left the station with a huff. She didn't need Firestar's pity. She decided to work on something she knew she could do. Like knives. Knives were her specialty back home in District Six. Knives in conjunction with hand-to-hand. She was quite good for someone who had only ever had amateur training.

"Is this knife training?" Sin asked the man dressed in lots of blue and red and white.

"Yes," said a man with a thick Capitol accent. "I'm James Falsworth, Union Jack."

"That's an incredible array of knives," Sin said in admiration of the wall of knives.

There were dozens of knives all hanging on a wall panel. There were small ones, large ones, skinny and thick. All of them were sharpened and shiny. One caught Sinthea's eye. It was short blade, about the size of her hand, with a red hilt. On either side of the middle of the hilt was a red skull. She couldn't help but groan inwardly. She couldn't go ten minutes without a reminder of how goddamn great her father was. But she had to put that behind her for now.

"Is there a story behind these?" Sinthea asked James Falsworth, gesturing to all the decorative blades.

"Yes there are many stories," Falsworth nodded, taking off the wall a blade with a bird symbol on its hilt. "All of these were designed after each Victor returned home from the games. These blades were mass produced in the Capitol to commemorate each victory. This one is from Mockingbird's win in the twenty-second Avenger Games."

"That's amazing." Sinthea grinned, feeling one of the blades in her hand for balance and effectiveness. All of a sudden she turned to a practice dummy and stabbed it in the abdomen.

Falsworth looked at her critically. "You know how to handle a knife, then?"

"Well enough." She nodded.

Sinthea spent about ten minutes with James Montgomery Falsworth, practicing her technique and honing her skills with various sized knives. She'd only ever used one in her life in District Six, a pitiful little blade that barely served its purpose. But she'd loved that little knife.

The station next to her was swimming. There were a handful of other tributes in the water already, so she decided to come back later. She was glad to see that only one person was in hand-to-hand training. She would go there.

"Oh, hello again." Pepper nodded at her as Sinthea came over to Hand-to-Hand. "Could you help me here? I need a partner."

"Sure." Sin nodded.

This should be a cinch. Maybe she should go easy on this girl, though, as she probably had never had training in her life. In fact, she wondered how a skinny girl like Pepper even got into the Avenger Games. No doubt she was a random pick.

The two girls lined up across from each other on the mat. The mat was blue with the Capitol insignia on it and Sinthea looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. It was interesting. It represented so much to so many people. So much heartache to the outer districts especially, so much joy to the Capitol. Funny how things worked like that.

"How'd you end up here?" Sin asked her.

"I volunteered," Pepper admitted to her.

"You _volunteered_?"

Pepper nodded. "Yeah."

"Why would you do that?" Sin asked her incredulously.

She looked Pepper up and down. Pepper really wasn't tiny, more just tall and lanky. She had smooth skin and a bright look in her eye. But she wasn't built up, she didn't have much muscle. After all, she came from District Three, where they tended to value brains over brawn.

"I want vengeance on someone. Someone else here," she whispered to Sinthea.

Sinthea nodded. "I can respect that."

"Word is," Pepper leaned in, continuing quickly, "Word is that you're the daughter of a Victor. The Red Skull? Why would you ever have volunteered?"

"Yeah," Sin nodded, "I am. But he never treated me that way. I'm here to win my birthright. What else has been said about me?"

"Just that you never lived with your dad," Pepper explained, "That you grew up without a father."

Sin thought back to her life with Grandma Scarbo. She loved her grandmother deeply. She'd always checked on her when she "went outside" to smoke terrigen, just to make sure her grandmother was still standing. She'd accompanied her grandma around town and provided for her by working in the transportation factory so Grandma Scarbo never had to beg. And through all this, she had grown up hating her extremely privileged, absent father. Hating him, but also longing to be accepted by him.

"Yeah. It's all true, then, what they say," Sinthea said. "How about you, did you have simply _wonderful_ parents?"

Sin noted that Pepper's eyes grew hard. Her face went cold, covering up a deep sadness inside. Sinthea wondered what that was all about.

"They were fine."

Sin noted she used the past tense there. She didn't push it though, because she knew what it was like to have bad blood with a parent. Whether or not that was the problem, Sinthea didn't know. But she could respect Pepper's silence.

What really got to her was the mention of vengeance. Who did she want vengeance on? The only person that would even remotely make sense was Tony Stark, because they knew each other. But from what Sin had seen of Stark, he really cared about Pepper.

It was all so…_mysterious_, and Sin wanted more. So she knew she'd get it, one way or another. But for now, she'd let it rest.

They sparred for a little while, Sin obviously much more proficient. It got to the point where she ended up helping the trainer give pointers to Pepper. They were left alone for the most part, and finally Sin told Pepper goodbye, but not to be a stranger. She'd enjoyed talking to her.

Her next stop was-

"Hello there!"

Sin turned around to find a girl with black hair smiling at her.

"You are…"

"Kate. Kate Bishop!"

Sinthea nodded, remembering the girl from the training exercise yesterday. She and the District Two archer had been busy one-upping each other in archery. Sin had seen Kate shoot an arrow in between Loki Odinson's shoe-laces. Now that had been an incredible feat!

"Sinthea Schmidt," she nodded, "You're the archer girl, right?"

"Yep! That's me," she nodded, "You're the daughter of the Red Skull, aren't you!"

"Yes." Sin nodded, walking with Kate across the training ground over to the swimming pool which was empty now. The two girls took off the training uniform and underneath were their swimsuits. Sin hung her training suit up in the small locker room that was adjacent to the training floor so she could change back into it after a swim.

"Girls," said the coach, "This is the wave pool. All you need to do is try to stay afloat."

"Easy enough," Kate nodded.

Sin looked at her in scrutiny. This girl was from District Twelve. She was probably pretty weak. But then again, the feats she'd performed in training the day before had shown otherwise. So Sin had to be careful.

They dove in and swam out to the middle where they began to tread water, waiting for the waves to come.

"So what brings you to the Games?" Sin asked Kate.

Kate shrugged again. "I got picked. Now I'm going to win."

Sinthea raised an eyebrow in surprise. This girl sure was sure of herself. She wasn't a Career, it's not like she'd trained her whole life for this. What was up with Kate Bishop?

The waves started coming in full force, separating Kate and Sinthea. Sinthea didn't think this was necessarily a bad thing. It wasn't that she particularly disliked Kate Bishop. In fact, she found her intriguing, but she couldn't start forming a friendship,_ again._ She already felt that happening with Pepper. She had to limit her connections with the others. Not that friendships with any of the guys was going to happen. No, she wanted nothing to do with them.

Except, she didn't particularly mind her teammate Bruce Banner, other than the fact that he was a member of the school. He was quiet, and they didn't talk much. Even on the train. She'd killed that pretty quickly.

* * *

_"So we're going to be teammates," Bruce said as they ran into each other in the kitchen area of the train._

_"Yeah, what's it to you," she bit back, "Are you too good for me? Too good 'cause you got into the school? Too good for a gang member?"_

_"Wow," he held up his hands, "I didn't say any of that."_

_Sinthea glared at him._

_"Alright. So you don't want to talk, that's fine with me."_

* * *

Sinthea laughed as the water swirled around her and she thought of how she'd bit Bruce's head off.

"What's so funny?" Kate asked her.

Sinthea would've jumped out of her skin if she hadn't been so busy trying to keep her head above the waves. She'd had no idea that Kate was right behind her.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, struggling to keep her head above the water as the waves crashed around them.

Kate was having similar issues. It got to the point where they couldn't talk at all, so focused on staying afloat were they. But eventually the water died down, and Sin and Kate swam back to the edge, clambered out, and collapsed in exhaustion on the side of the pool. A big, strong man with blonde hair and pale skin was looking down at them with a gruff, hard face.

"Get up," Morris Bench, the swimming trainer told them sternly.

"Hydro-Man's a little mad," Kate whispered to her as they walked into the locker room to change.

Sin nodded. "Indeed."

After changing the two of them split up and Sin went over to edible plants. As she walked across the training facility, she thought back to her trainings with Crossbones back home. Every day after work in the factory, the two teenagers would go behind the big old house on Chain Road and spar. That's how she learned everything about hand-to-hand. And boy, was she good. One thing she didn't know, though, was anything about edible plants. So this would be…interesting?

As she arrived at the station, a boy was there with raven black hair and brilliant green eyes. It was Loki, the kid from District Twelve. Kate's partner, in fact. Sin was curious about him, having heard plenty all about the adopted brother of Thor Odinson. Being from District Twelve in the Reapings, he wasn't technically a typical Career, but Sin wondered if his brother would insist on having him in an alliance, if the Careers got together this year as they had in past Avenger Games.

"And this is completely edible," the trainer was telling Loki, holding up a yellow dandelion flower. "Everything from the leaves to the stem to the petals will help you while you're out in the wild."

The man noticed Sinthea and smiled. "Come, come! Sit down! We were just getting to the good stuff! I'm Kevin Reginald, but you can call me Ka-Zar, everyone does."

Sin took a seat on the ground next to Loki. He turned up his nose at the trainer and at Sinthea.

"Boring, huh?" she whispered to Loki when Ka-Zar turned around to grab a different plant.

Loki just rolled his eyes. Sin glared. Well, two could play at that game.

_Excuse me for trying to tease the trainer,_ she thought. _Sorry I ruffled your feathers._

After learning about plants, which Sin found incredibly boring, she headed over to tree-climbing. That was one of those easy things that Sin had a feeling she'd be fine at but she wanted to double check. She got up slowly from her seat on the floor and found herself wandering at a snail pace over to the trees. She took the time to look at her competition. There were, of course, twenty-three other tributes here.

The only ones she'd really interacted with were Bruce, Kate, and Pepper. She had talked in passing with a few others, but she couldn't even recall their names.

There were several, large, burly guys with large muscles over at the weight-lifting station. There was a tiny girl with dark skin and brown eyes who was shadowing several people. At least the girl had enough sense to stay away from Sin. A tall, skinny boy was at swords, fumbling around with them obviously oblivious to how to use one. Then there was the girl who always wore a mask – Benedetta, that was her name. Sinthea wanted to know what she had to hide.

When she got over to the array of indoor trees, someone was already running the course. Or climbing it, she supposed.

It was that big burly kid, the one with the strong arms and dark hair. Ergo, not Thor Odinson. The other one. The guy from District Seven! Leonard? Leo? _Logan!_ That was his name!

She watched as he clambered from tree to tree, perfectly managing his weight and gripping the tree limbs with ease. Sin watched in awe. But she hid it well behind her smug, skeptical façade.

When he finally climbed down from the last tree, Sinthea watched as the trainer, Greer Somebody, walked up to him and congratulated him on his time. Something about "really fast" and "record." She scoffed. Surely she could top some crazy hunk kid who looked like he'd grown up in the wild.

"Who's next?" Greer asked, before her eyes landed on Sinthea. "You want to try?"

"I want to race him," Sin pointed to Logan who was watching her skeptically.

She matched his stare perfectly.

Greer almost laughed but agreed to it. She ordered them to the first tree, a tall evergreen with low branches made for easy climbing. Logan lined up at the start and Sin next to him.

"Ready, kid?" he asked her.

She just glared.

"GO!"

They ran straight for the tree, climbing up it swiftly. Both reached the first flag half way up the tree at the same time, but Sin slightly pulled ahead after that. She enjoyed the feeling of the bark beneath her palms, the pine needles against her cheek. She felt free, something she had never felt while home in District Six. When they had to get to the second tree, though, Sin began to fall behind.

Logan reached the top of the second tree before her, grabbing his flag first and climbing back down. Sin decided to try something stupid, and attempted to jump across the trees. Fortunately for her, her foot got caught before she could make the jump and she was stuck there. At least she hadn't gotten a chance to fall to her death. But that meant Greer had to come up and get her.

"I would've won," she growled at Logan as she was placed on the ground. "You got lucky."

"Luck's got nothin' to do with it, kid. So deal with it."

Sinthea Schmidt glared, pushing past him and heading over to her final stop for the day, sword training. She knew how to handle a sword, but wasn't particularly good. It ended up being her against the trainer, Jacques Duquesne. He was so good that the tributes simply called him "the Swordsman."

"Keep your arm up," he ordered. "That's it."

Sinthea focused on her arms and her foot placement. The blade was well balanced though slightly heavy for her. But she kept her arms up and she kept her feet in the right places. Eventually another tribute came over. It was Bruce Banner.

"Mind if I cut in?"

She handed him one of the blunted swords that tributes were allowed to spar with. Sinthea smiled to herself when she remembered how she'd finally apologized for biting his head off on the train.

* * *

_Bruce disembarked the train first, and Sin followed after him. Darcy Lewis, their escort, went in front and they were followed behind by Johann Schmidt, their mentor. It was the first time that either of the tributes had seen the Capitol. And boy did it amaze them._

_"This is insane," Sin breathed, walking forward so she was side-by-side with Bruce._

_"Yeah, the TV doesn't do it justice," Bruce nodded. "And I used to watch shows about the Capitol all the time."_

_Sin looked at him. "You guys had a TV at the school?"_

_Bruce nodded. "For educational purposes. But commercials were always about fashion trends in the Capitol, or the newest building here."_

_"You have no idea how privileged you were," Sin muttered, dragging her feet._

_"Actually, I do know. I wasn't always at the school, Sinthea. I lived in District Six just like you."_

_Sin looked at him and examined his face. He had an earnest look about him, but Sin found it hard to believe a boy could have anything but scorn for a girl. After all, she'd only ever met one, and that was Crossbones. He never looked at her like she was weak. But he was special when it came to men._

_"I do apologize for yelling at you earlier," she muttered, "But don't get any ideas. I'm just as much your equal as any man, Schoolboy. Got it?"_

* * *

He'd accepted her apology quickly, but they'd been sure to keep to themselves after that. It hadn't helped that their mentor Johann Schmidt, her father, had obviously been favouring Bruce because he was probably the "son he never had."

Bruce took the sword and checked the balance, swinging it around experimentally.

Sin rolled her eyes at him. "I don't suppose you've ever held a sword before in your life, Schoolboy?"

Bruce focused his attention on the sword even while he answered her, "Actually, yeah. I was placed in fencing rotation when I was sixteen at the school, but that was a while ago, and our instructor was all about the Code Duello."

Sin had no idea what he was talking about.

"We mostly worked with the epee and foil," Bruce continued, "not even the saber much."

Sin must've looked confused because he tilted his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, Gang-girl, I have handled a sword."

Sin stared at him. After a moment of silence, they both smirked, and Sin even chuckled a little. She didn't mind Bruce. He was just the right amount of daring, not too stuck up, not too wimpy. But he certainly was a Schoolboy.

"Watch out," Sin told him.

She and Bruce went at it, taking pointers from Duquesne. Sin landed a few hits but Bruce held his own. And for now he was still the brainiac kid that she was forced to work with while they were in the Capitol.

Sinthea and Bruce split apart soon and Sin saw that she had a little bit of time left. She found Pepper was working by herself at knot-work, and decided to go join her.

"Having fun?" Sin asked with a smirk as she saw the struggling Pepper sitting on the floor.

Pepper glared at her. "If you think you can do any better, feel free to try."

Sin sat down next to Pepper and took up an identical knot. It was harder to untie than it looked, and in the end, Pepper finished first. Sin was convinced this was because she'd started first, but she decided not to say anything. She was content to remind herself of this truth.

Soon enough their escorts came and collected them, ushering them away from the training grounds.

"I'll see you around," Sin told Pepper.

"Yeah, see you." Pepper nodded.

It had been quite a successful training session, Sinthea Schmidt decided. Quite a successful training session, indeed.


	23. Chapter 22: A Thoughtful Evening

**(A/N) And here we are again, with our Sunday update, bringing to you the nefarious Taila-tai and the marvellous Loki Odinson! I may have got those two mixed up…Anyway, we're here, with a brand new chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it! A big thanks to Created to Write and rat a tatta for their reviews, and let us know what you make of this one!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two – A Thoughtful Evening**

**Evening Day Two**

**Loki Odinson of District Twelve**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

_"For all of its uncertainty, we cannot flee the future"_  
– Barbara Jordan

* * *

Well, at least he wasn't bored.

_Yet._

Leaning back on the bed he'd commandeered for their brief stay at the Capitol, Loki rolled his eyes, stretching languidly.

Today had been…_interesting._

Of course, so had yesterday, but the second day of training had definitely been something different. No fights had broken out – well, no fights had broken out that ended in blood or grievous harm – and he'd safely observed what he decided was the last of the tributes he'd soon be facing.

And what a range of children they were...There was just about every personality type out there, going from loud and obnoxious to quiet and brooding. But, just to spite him, there were the ones who were a little _harder_ to get a read on, ones that closed up a little _too_ much for his calculating eyes.

Like a certain red headed woman, for one.

Grunting slightly in annoyance, Loki glared at the ceiling. He had spent the better part of their training sessions watching and learning. It was what he did best after all; picking people apart and watching them squirm under his gaze. But that stupid woman...

She was all glares and curves.

Frowning to himself, Loki made a mental note to keep a closer eye on her. She was a dangerous competitor and everyone seemed to know it. Including her. Loki wasn't calling her cocky of course...

It was just...there's pride in yourself and then there's arrogance.

Sitting up and pushing the annoyance wearing a cat suit from his mind, Loki absently wondered about the defining factors of the day. He had had the chance to meet a dedicated opponent; Sinthea, he believed. Now _she_ was a barrel of monkeys in the mental department, all twists and turns and schooled expressions. She had been fun to pick at though, and it had been a challenge for once worthy of his genius.

But after careful watching he concluded she was frightfully _sane_.

In the best way, of course.

Now, Loki wasn't exactly stupid enough to tell her that to her face, despite how interesting her reaction might have been. He liked his limbs where they were but still... He would have to watch her.

Another two he would have to watch were the people he'd witnessed using the bow and arrow, skilfully so as well. One was his own district partner and the other was the district partner to glary, curvy girl, seeming to hold the same level of skill she had.

When he'd first saw them pointing before firing – a game of skills – he brushed it off, focusing on trying to get Thor to believe he should lead the careers. That was before the arrow went through his shoe laces. And his patience went out the window.

He'd wanted nothing more, when he'd marched over, to shove the arrow into her eye socket but he knew better – don't kill people on the first day – and instead resumed his conversation with his brother. In his books they were both idiots.

But once again, he wouldn't tell them to their face and risk an arrow to the knee.

With that thought in mind, he began chewing on his lower lip. It had been two days of straight up training and while he had learnt a handful of useful things, he hadn't found a weapon he'd preferred. No, the throwing knives had been more than fun and he'd effortlessly hit the target without a flaw, but they were also a risk. To obtain enough to fend for himself he'd have to be stupid enough to rush for the weapons at the same time as everyone else, most likely signing his own death contract in the act. It would be unlikely that he would find some on an already dead body...

Or a body _he_ had killed.

With the last haunting image in mind, he decided he was done with his thoughts for the moment and stood, running a hand through his hair. Boredom was coming and his findings, while interesting, were not enough to keep it at bay.

Grinning minutely, he wandered out of his room, searching for a certain archer. His Stylist was fun, and flustering their Escort never got old, but for some reason the mere thought of making his district partner uncomfortable was somewhat endearing. She was fun to play with, her innocent mind always too kind and too light hearted. She always seemed to take his words to heart...

It took him a while to hunt her down – how the hell did she keep coming up with places to hide from him? – but eventually he spotted her, absently pushing a golden decorative ball around with her hand as she looked out the window before her.

"Katherine," he greeted, moving to sit next to her.

She looked up, blinking in confusion before she smiled. "Hey Lokes!" she cheered, pulling her attention from the ball and meeting his gaze. "What's up?"

Loki managed a shrug, wondering if the real reason was enough of an answer. "Bored," he admitted, sighing quietly and allowing his eyes to stray down to the ball still in her hands. When she noticed his curiosity she weighed it in her hands.

"I found this on the table; think they'll be annoyed if I break it?" she asked, beaming smile still in place as she cocked a dark eyebrow.

Loki frowned deeply. "Quite," he said quietly, suddenly not really having the strength to mess with her like he'd planned. It had been fun on the first night and throughout training, but now the mere thought seemed utterly exhausting.

He was tired of keeping up a facade for two days straight. From the second his name was called to the minute he was living now, he'd been cold and sharp witted. Even his brother had noticed the change, knowing that when he embraced the younger boy, he made no move to hug him back despite how tight he squeezed. It was slightly heart breaking to watch the always present smile fade when the blond pulled back, his hands dropping to his sides, but still Loki kept it up.

Despite wanting nothing more than to hug his brother back like he used to.

"Are we going to have this weird conversation when you only answer with one word..?" Kate asked, shocking Loki back into reality harshly. "Cause if so... I'm suddenly feeling tired."

Loki snorted in slight amusement, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his palm. He looked over to her, green eyes narrowed in thought. "My apologies," he said stiffly, not finding the entertainment he thought he would. "I did not mean to bore you..."

Kate looked thoughtful, lips pursed for a few seconds before she threw up the golden ball, catching it deftly. "You're not...Hey can I ask you something?"

_Since when do you ask permission?_

"Of course you may," Loki allowed, brow scrunching together. Just when he thought he had her down pat...

"Why do you sound like you've come straight out of a black and white movie?" she asked bluntly, a smile playing on her lips.

Loki blinked. "I'm sorry?" he managed, slightly thrown off kilter by the question.

Kate let out a giggle. "You!" she exclaimed, smile in place. "You always sound so polite and old fashioned. When I first talked with you on the train I was waiting for you to bow or something," she continued to smile, watching him carefully and studying his expression.

Refusing to admit that the notion had actually gone through his mind that day, he allowed a small smile to widen his lips. "Ah, now I see what you mean..." he confessed, straightening up as Kate continued to toss the ball up before catching it. "I do not have an answer."

Kate rolled her eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Why not? You have the answer to everything else."

Loki ignored the comment, instead reaching out to catch the ball she was idly throwing. He let his hand hover in front of her face before he brought it back to his side, fingers tracing over the designs in the gold. "Do you want to play a game?" he asked quietly, looking up.

Kate wrinkled her nose. "Sorry, but I have this rule about no fraternization..."

The unimpressed look Loki sent her way was enough to have her laughing loudly, hand over her mouth. "Oh you should see your face right now!" she guffawed, letting out a large lungful of air before beaming. "What did you have in mind?"

Loki forced his smile back, keeping his expression serious. "Spin the bottle?" he offered slyly, looking at her through his lashes.

She looked taken aback before she latched onto his ploy. "You little..." she giggled again, and he smiled at her, thankful that for once the action was genuine. "I actually thought you being serious there for a second."

"Who said I wasn't?" Loki said again, his tone careful but still playful.

Kate narrowed her eyes, making a noise in her throat. "I vote for twenty questions..." she decided instead, lips quirking up in a silent challenge.

Loki nodded his head, feigning disappointment. "Damn, and I was hoping for option one," he added dejectedly, smiling weakly before running a hand through his hair. "Very well, who shall start first?" he inquired, stretching his arms out in front of him.

Honestly, Thor needed to stop crushing him every time he decided his sibling was in need of a hug.

"Me!" Kate beamed, before her face fell in thought. "Okay, what's your favourite colour?"

The look on her face showed how proud she was of the question and Loki chuckled, the sound echoing through the room. She turned at the sound, surprised. "I thought it was fairly obvious?" he commented, lifting the neck of his green shirt up teasingly.

Kate managed to look thoughtful. "Is it...green?" she asked sarcastically, poking his arm when he scoffed at her. "Play nice or I'll send you home," she warned with narrowed eyes.

"What home?" Loki asked grimly, fully aware he had all but killed the happy vibes practically oozing from the girl before him. He knew that everyone knew his story, one version or another at least. "I wasn't aware I had one."

She looked slightly saddened by his words before she forced a smile. "I hope that wasn't your question, otherwise I would be disappointed," she said, attempting to lift the mood. "What a waste," she decided.

"Agreed," Loki nodded. "I take it back then..."

"Good, don't go ruining my vibes," she snorted, looking ridiculous as she pushed out her lips and snapped her fingers.

"I..." Loki frowned before shaking his head. This woman was as easy to read as the old languages. "What is your favourite animal?" he asked instead, smiling falsely up at her and continuing to pick at the golden ball he'd stolen.

Kate smiled. "Right, I'll have to say a dog, if they're nice, but then there's dragons..." she admitted before her smiled dulled a little.

Loki opened his mouth in understanding, a silent show. "I see...I will admit I was expecting mermaids? Perhaps a griffin would catch your interest?"

"Okay, can we stop?" she asked, shaking her head over at her companion, cutting his playful banter off sharply. "What's really bothering you?" she demanded, shifting closer and cherishing the look of shock on his features. Not many people could say they caught the infamous silver tongued boy off guard.

"Nothing Katherine," he said simply, all traces of amusement gone. "Perhaps I am just tired. I ought to be going to bed."

Kate narrowed her eyes, catching his arm when he tried to stand. "No you don't... you don't leave until I say you can," she decided.

"I don't?" he asked cryptically.

"No."

"Well then I hate to disappoint you but I'm going to bed," he decided, pulling his arm out of her grip and walking away, shaking his head at himself in disappointment.

There was silence behind him before he heard a scuffle. "Hey wait for me!" He heard her call, and quickened his pace; praying she wasn't going to do what he thought she was. Of course, five minutes later saw him watching her do exactly what he was dreading; sitting in the corner of his room stubbornly, lips pursed and arms crossed as she stared him down.

"You look like a determined poodle," Loki spoke up, frowning slightly at her.

She nodded, not even arguing. "Damn straight I do, and guess what sweetheart, I ain't moving," she grumbled, looking around before settling back on the boy before her.

"Why did you have to be my district partner?" Loki asked no one in particular, sighing before cradling his head in his hands. "Couldn't it have been a quiet, timid girl?"

"What? Someone you could toss around?" Kate demanded before narrowing her eyes. "Sorry but you're stuck with me and I don't like being tossed around," she informed him before she paused. "It makes me nauseous; I like to keep both feet on the ground."

"Yes we – I beg your pardon?" Loki asked, once again thrown off by what she said.

How was it possible that this one girl could make his silver tongue turn to lead? His greatest asset was being rendered useless by a strange girl with an even stranger way of speaking.

How strange.

"Huh?" Kate looked dumbfounded before she beamed again. "Oh, I have this thing about heights and stuff..."

"No you don't," Loki stated.

"What?"

"You were using the climbing gear yesterday, after you swum with the daughter of Red Skull," he said somewhat smugly. "Yes, I was watching."

_Watching to make sure this...Sin could be useful..._ Loki almost missed his companions reply, caught up in the brief moment he had shared with the sarcastic woman.

Pulling Loki from his thoughts, Kate shuddered. "That's creepy," she decided.

"No, it's observant," Loki frowned, leaning back on his bed so he wouldn't have to watch the girl pull faces. "Something you need to be," he added, almost as an afterthought, resisting the urge to sigh again.

He faintly heard her grunt. "Why would I want to be creepy?" she demanded before he heard fabric rustling, the bed dipping under her weight. Soon enough she was hovering above him, grin in place as her eyes reflected a small spark of light.

"Well, you're being it now," Loki said slowly, her hair fanning out and stopping him from staring off in another direction. The dark strands shadowed her features, and he slightly narrowed his eyes, trying to make out her expression.

"Hey now, I know that hooded eye look, what did I say about fraternization?" she quipped, and he could make out her grin when he groaned, trying to move out from under her hair made walls.

"Well you know what they say about love," he sighed. "You need it to survive."

"I feel like oxygen is slightly more important..." Kate added lightly, her brow furrowed. Loki muttered something under his breath, still trying to find his way out of the hair surrounding him. Cheating, he gripped the edge of the bed before pulling, practically vaulting himself off the plump mattress so he landed gracelessly on the ground.

"Oi, where you going?"

"Away from you?" Loki offered, climbing off the floor and wandering over to the holographic screen that hovered over his window. Picking up the remote, he deemed it a distraction enough pressing a few buttons and watching the screen change before his eyes.

Kate was at his side in an instant. "Why would you want to do that?" she asked, eyes lighting up when they landed on a forest and their banter seeming to fall from her mind.

Noticing the spark in her dark eyes, he left the screen on, studying the woods that swayed in an invisible breeze. "Do you want a list?" he offered, blinking when a small bird flew past the holographic screen, staring out.

"If it means reading then no, I'm not interested," she decided, nodding slowly to herself. "But I think I know something that might be on this list of yours..."

_That you're annoying, irritating, loud, boisterous, strange..._

"Oh?" Loki asked simply, turning to face her with his hands clasped behind his back. She was nodding by the time he faced her, an uncharacteristically apologetic look on her face.

She rubbed the back of her neck before shooting him a shy smile. "It has something to do with an arrow? And someone's shoe?" she said slowly, chuckling quietly before clearing her throat subconsciously.

"Ahh...yes," Loki said thoughtfully, breathing deeply. "The shoe-lace incident."

"You've named it?" Kate asked in shock before she paled. "That must mean you're really mad."

"No," he soothed her. "It was a...impressive feat I must say," he admitted regrettably before shooting her a tired smile. "Believe it or not but I do find myself tired now, you must excuse me, I need to retire for the night."

"You never told me what was wrong," Kate pointed out quietly.

Loki shook his head, grim determination on his features but decided she deserved to know. "I will soon be entering an arena filled with children. Children I will have to kill if I want to survive," he said aloofly, before pausing for a moment.

"My brother is in this arena," he reminded her, his face falling as he spoke. "I may not be an overly social person but I have made acquaintances and in a few days it will be my goal to cut them down."

Kate had remained quiet through his soft admission, her eyes misting over as she stared down to the carpet.

"Do you really need to ask me what is wrong when you are in the same situation?" he finished, his voice as soft as when he started. Gently he took her arm and led her through the room to the doorway. "Goodnight Katherine," he whispered leaving her at the entrance to her room before walking back to his.

He heard her say something back to him, but by then he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him. He was tired, he hadn't lied. Two days of training and blowing his brother off had drained him of all energy, and left him, admittedly, feeling slightly hollow.

_His brother..._

Loki wasn't entirely sure whether his brother was a weakness or a strength. Yes the blond was powerful, his muscles large enough to rival most and his skills with a weapon admirable, but it would only take a second for that strength to turn against him. He doubted it would by choice; he would have to be blind to see the adoration the older sibling had for him but it wouldn't be impossible. Who knew what the Gamemakers had in store, who knew what could be out there, ready to turn brother against brother.

And what would happen if they succeeded? What would happen if they were the last two? Would Thor give everything up for his brother, would he give up the fame or cut him down on camera and earn the title of ruthless?

Loki had a hard decision to make, it would seem.

After he quickly stripped down to his shorts, he climbed into bed, eyes already drooping slightly. But, his brain it seemed was wide awake, despite his body being thoroughly exhausted. He was replaying the past two days over and over, each time noticing something he didn't before and ignoring the urging to shut off his mind.

The tributes were fun. Messing with one would set off another, like a chain reaction. But none dared to make a move, not with Thor glaring over his shoulder at everyone like rabid guard dog. It was entertaining how defensive and protective the blond was considering his younger brother's true heritage, and Loki was enjoying testing his limits while remaining in the blond's 'good books.'

He was quickly learning said limits as well, not just with Thor but with the other tributes. He was learning what words caused what reaction, what small threads of conversation had them tensing up or eyes misting over. It was amazing what he could learn by remaining small and quiet as the others spoke and he was relishing in the minuscule advantage he had in the form of memories and pressure points.

Of course, knowing that they had daddy issues or an inferiority complex wouldn't exactly help him during the battle, considering that harsh words would probably just make them more determined to kill him. The last thought made him pause, fingers idly playing with his blanket. Anger was helpful...If they were angry they made mistakes, and if they made mistakes...

Loki could win.


	24. Chapter 23: Heart of the Panther

**(A/N) Hey guys, before I say anything else I'd like to apologise about the delay. Exams were kicking my ass, and my writing time was non-existent during that period. I only finished last week, so could only begin writing this then, but that's still no excuse, and I'm really sorry for the delay. This is counting as the Sunday update, so you'll be getting another chapter tomorrow, and I hope that this one goes a little bit of the way towards making up for the delay. It feels a little rushed to me, probably not my best work, but I hope you'll all get some enjoyment out of it nonetheless.**

**Big thanks to VengefulVixens and Random Reader 17 for reviewing, and I hope you all enjoy where we go from here! Feel free to leave a review below!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three – Heart of the Panther**

**Training Day Three**

**T'Challa of District Eleven**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

_"Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things."_

_― Terry Pratchett, I Shall Wear Midnight_

_"There isn't a way things should be. There's just what happens, and what we do."_

― Terry Pratchett, _A Hat Full of Sky_

* * *

"Eleven, if you're not going to practice at all at my station, than may I ask you to move along now, old chap. There are plenty of others who'd like to make use of our targets, and we can't have you holding them up now."

T'Challa turned around, and offered an apologetic smile to the thin man running the station, sporting an almost-laughably pristine moustache.

"My sincerest apologies, Mr Falsworth, I must confess that I am only here to observe others train, I have no intention of making use of the facilities. I will not interfere, though, I assure you, I merely wish to stand by and watch."

The trainer stared at him for a moment, his head cocked slightly to the side, nonplussed. After a moment, he raised a hand and waggled a finger in T'Challa's direction, a grim smile appearing on his face.

"I see what's going on here, Eleven," he said, eyes locked on T'Challa's. "You're afraid of making a fool of yourself, and marking yourself as an easy victim. I'm sorry, but I really must insist that you either get involved, or move on. I'm sure that there are better things that you could be doing, mate, than standing here watching. This is the time for getting your hands dirty, after all."

T'Challa stared at the trainer for a moment, and then nodded slowly, turning around and picked up three knives off the table next to him, weighing them for a moment with a careful eye. Without warning, he spun around, the knives blurring as they spun from his fingers and buried themselves into three separate targets, the handles reverberating as they settled into place.

"Just because I choose not to place myself at the centre of attention, Mr Falsworth, does _not_ mean that I do not know how to defend myself. I grew up as the son of the mayor in one of the poorest districts in Marvel – if I could not, I would not have lived long enough to make it here," T'Challa murmured to the trainer, who was staring with mild disbelief at the targets.

"I guess you can stay then, Eleven, if you really must" the trainer replied, stroking his moustache absentmindedly. "Jolly good show, I must say. _Quite_ impressive."

T'Challa inclined his head, and waited as Kurt Wagner and Wanda Maximoff from District Nine approached the station, and began going through the drills Falsworth assigned them. Sam had insisted that Ororo and T'Challa do their best to memorise as much as they could about their opponents, and their first day had largely been spent watching the various Reapings, and going through what information the Capitol had put out on each tribute.

To T'Challa, it had been easy enough work – nothing worse than what his father had put him through back home, and indeed, was actually far simpler. Other than the Career pack, in a way, there were no groups established yet, no politics to worry about further than the fear of drawing too much unwanted attention onto yourself. So far, all he had to do was observe, and learn, and he learned a considerable amount about his fellow tributes over the last few days.

He had been avoiding the stations, by and large, except when he wanted a close look at how other tributes handled themselves there – after all, there was only so much one could learn in the space of three days, and you certainly weren't going to end up with comprehensive sword or archery mastery in that space of time.

However, you _could_ learn a lot about people, and to that end T'Challa had dedicated himself. Thankfully, while his time in the Capitol had gotten off to a rocky start, the last few days had been _far_ more fruitful. It still made his fists clench and his jaw tighten to think back on his first few hours here.

* * *

_"Dear heavens, Everett, what _have_ you brought us this year? Just couldn't have gotten them any darker, could you have? I mean seriously, Raw Umber and Ebony? What's even the point in _having_ us here – what are we meant to do with them?"_

_"Pardon?" T'Challa asked, affronted and not quite sure that he had heard the flamboyant assistant stylist correctly._

_The green-haired assistant spun around to face him, and flicked up two pieces of photographic paper from the bundle in his hands. It took T'Challa a moment to process what he was seeing, until he realised what the stylist was holding were paint samples._

_"Ebony," the assistant repeated, holding up one sample and contrasting it against T'Challa's skin with a critical eye, "and Raw Umber," he continued, gesturing towards Ororo with another. "Have you ever _tried_ writing on black paper? There's a reason why it's not the most popular kind – there's really not a lot you can do with it. Every year, District Eleven's tributes seem to get darker and darker, and we're left to create a miracle. Every. Single. Year."_

_T'Challa could see Ororo bristling out of the corner of his eye, and frowned towards the assistant stylist. "We are who we are, I am afraid. Unfortunately, _we_ are just as stuck with _you_ as you are with us. More so, in fact, as you will be the only prep team we will ever have – whereas you will have a whole new batch of tributes next year, and the year after that, and so on."_

_The assistant looked T'Challa up and down, and sniffed dismissively. "And next year, I'm sure, they'll be exactly the same as they've always been. I can't remember how many needles I broke on that Cage fellow a couple of years back, trying to tattoo some respectability onto him. Trying to cast some glamour over you people is just impossible, quite frankly impossible."_

_T'Challa drew himself to his full height, his patience wearing thin. "We are not dolls to dress up, sir. We are not _things_. We are people, just like you and the rest of your team, and I will not stand by and be referred to in such a manner. Consider yourself dismissed – I will be happy to work with your colleagues, should they prove more understanding, but I have no intention of ever seeing your face again."_

_"T'Challa," Sam murmured warningly, but the rage inside T'Challa was burning icily cold, and he was not about to stand down on this issue._

_Instead, he turned to his escort, who was standing by, wringing his hands, and looking about as uncomfortable as possible. "I can request that, correct, Mr Ross?"_

_The escort grimaced, and shrugged slightly. "It would be highly irregular, T'Challa, but yes, yes you could."_

_T'Challa nodded sagely. "Then please, have this man taken from my sight. Ororo and I are here for the Avenger Games, after all. I'm sure President Thanos and Director Fury would not be pleased if something occurred to make this year's District Eleven tributes…uncooperative?"_

_He left the rhetorical question hanging in the air, and Everett, with some presence of mind, made his way over to the agog assistant, took his arm gently, and manoeuvred him out of the room. T'Challa could feel Sam burning a hole into the back of his head with the potency of his glare, but ignored him, turning instead to the other assistants._

_"As you have gathered, I am T'Challa, and the girl with me, being uncharacteristically quiet, is Ororo Munroe. We are your tributes this year, and we are not willing to have our time wasted with mindless prejudice. Do your best for us, and we will do our best for you, do I make myself clear?"_

_There was some nodding from the assembled team, neither quite prepared to speak, worried about the reaction that they might cause._

_"We'll have to find a replacement for…um…well, we don't have anyone to prep Ororo's hair…" one of them finally murmured, and T'Challa shrugged._

_"Then find one – I cannot imagine that he was the only person in the Capitol with the qualifications to do so. Now, we can wait a few minutes while you sort that out, and when you all return let us try to get this done as quickly as we can. We are already running behind schedule, as it is."_

_He turned to Ororo as the assistants scarpered in various directions, and offered her a small smile. She, however, looked rather serious, staring up at him with a thoughtful look on her face._

_"Is there a problem?" he asked, curiously, wondering whether or not he had said something to offend his district partner._

_"Oh, no," she said slowly, a slight smile creeping up onto her face. "I've just never seen that side of you before."_

_T'Challa frowned. "What side?"_

_"The Black Panther. I'm just not sure whether or not I prefer him or T'Challa, though. Nice to know that you're not all quiet brooding and sullen stares."_

_"I have never been 'sullen'!" he exclaimed in objection, earning a laugh from Ororo, as she shook her head and made her way over to Sam, leaving him to frown at her back, until he caught himself and forced it into a less sullen expression._

The nerve of some people…

* * *

Having seen enough from Wagner and Maximoff's attempts with throwing knives – Wagner's skill with a sword did not, sadly, translate over to this particular area, while Wanda had slightly more success, but only just, T'Challa decided to move on, leaving with a cursory nod to the trainer.

He looked around the training room, spotting Ororo off in the distance, talking quietly to Tony Stark, of all people, as they dithered over the electronics station, under the careful supervision of its trainer, Herman Schultz.

She seemed occupied, and he had no intention of interrupting her – she had her own Games plan, and was entitled to it. He still had work of his own to do. So instead, he looked around for a place to stand or sit, where he could observe the entire room at the same time, and his eyes turned to the rafters above them, gauging the distance between the lower hanging ones at the far side of the room and the floor, before nodding sagely to himself.

After making his way over to the far wall, T'Challa leapt up and wrapped his hands around a low hanging edge, heaving himself up onto it and clambering up onto the room's rafters, and gazing down at the tributes and trainers below him.

_Now _this_ is what I wanted,_ he thought happily, before glancing around for a better place to lie down and observe the going-ons beneath.

It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did he realised, with a slight shock, that he wasn't the only one up there.

Staring across at him with a wry smile, from a few meters down the room, sat Clint Barton, the male tribute from District Two. He raised a hand in a mocking salute, and T'Challa slowly made his way over, his face set into a neutral expression.

"I would have thought you would be with the rest of your pack, Mr Barton, keeping a close eye on things," he murmured upon reaching the tribute from Two, who smiled back lazily.

"Well, I see better from a distance," he replied, leaning back on his perch.

T'Challa squatted down next to him, and cast a casual eye over the room. "See anything interesting?"

Barton snorted. "Pfff, only if you count watching that guy from Eight trying to use a bow, probably for the first time, and almost sending an arrow through his own foot. Not exactly been the most riveting day, to be honest."

"The calm before the storm," T'Challa murmured, and Barton nodded back to him, before dropping down from the rafters to the floor below, evidently done with their conversation.

T'Challa stared down at him as the archer made his way down to the rest of his fellow Careers, noticing how Barton made sure to stand next to the female tribute from his district, Romanoff, though of course he kept his eyes on anything but her as they made their way through the training stations.

However, Barton didn't manage to keep his attention long, that honour instead going to the blonde leader of the Career pack, Thor, and his adopted brother Loki, physically tiny next to his much larger brother.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he focused on the raven-haired Odinson, sensing, already, that this right here is where the greatest danger lied in the Games, despite all physical appearances.

T'Challa had been raised as the first-born biological son of District Eleven's mayor – his early life had been engulfed in political struggles, lessons on psychology and sociology, and instructions on duty, family and morality. His entire life had been a build-up to becoming a natural leader – even if his father didn't want him to inherit his role as mayor through dynastic means, T'Chaka had certainly shaped his son's skills and knowledge so that, if he chose to take on the mantle of leadership, he would have the means to do so.

With all of his experience with people, in how to judge them, manipulate them, and understand them, he had never yet met his match in this are outside of his father, until now.

Loki Odinson, despite his frail form, was as skilled a manipulator as T'Challa had ever met, if he was any judge, with an understanding of what made people tick that rivalled his own, and maybe even surpassed it.

Here, above all the others, lay the most dangerous threat in the Games, in his eyes, at least.

His gaze then passed over the small Career and his allies, to where Cletus Kasaday was training, sparring with the Swordsman as he was taken through his paces by the swords station.

While Loki may well be the greatest threat, Cletus was probably the most pressing. He had done more than enough to indicate that he would be gunning for Ororo, when the Games began. Just as the end of training, the day before, had made abundantly clear…

* * *

_"How did training go, Ororo?" he asked, as they made their way out of the huge room, to where Sam and Everett would be waiting for them. She glanced over at him, looking tired, but more in control than she had looked the day before._

_"Not too bad, Mr Duquesne took me through some basic sword drills, and I learned how to set three types of snares over with the Trapster. Why do they all give themselves Games-nicknames, T'Challa? You'd think _they_ were the tributes, not us!"_

_T'Challa smiled, and shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. This is all a game to them, so perhaps it just fulfils a kind of fantasy? This is as close as they can get, or want to get, deep down, to the Games, so they dress themselves up in strange clothes and give themselves odd names so that they can feel a part of things?"_

_"Maybe," Ororo replied, laughing. "Well, at least they're not bad teachers. Really starting to feel like I'm learning something here, y'know?_

_"Not that it's going to make much difference," muttered an insidious voice behind them. "You're going out in the bloodbath, kid. I might just see you there. Y'know, I've always had a preference for dark meat."_

_T'Challa turned around to see a grinning Cletus Kasaday standing a few feet behind them, his eyes flashing wickedly._

_"_What_ did you just say?" he asked slowly, drawing himself up to his full height._

_The red-headed tribute merely rolled his eyes. "I was talking to Orororor," he replied, seemingly unperturbed by the anger in T'Challa's voice. "But I'm pretty sure you heard me."_

_"Apologise to her," T'Challa said, still speaking calmly and evenly, but with a definite sense that the calm might break at any second, however this only made Cletus' grin grow even wider._

_"What you gonna do, kill me? Save it for the Games – but just hope you get to me before I get to her, yeah? I bet she tastes _delicious_."_

_T'Challa's hands shot out, catching Cletus by his collar and slamming him up onto the wall to their right. He heard the cries of warning from Sam and Everett, who raced towards him, and those of outrage from Cletus' own team._

_"You will not hurt her," T'Challa whispered furiously into the smaller tribute's ear, his grip tightening as Cletus struggled against him. "I will make sure of that, I promise. You can try, and I know you probably will, but it will be the last thing you ever do."_

_At this point, Sam and Everett pulled T'Challa off him, but he had said all he had intended to, so put up little fight against them._

_"Y'all be _cool_. Just _chill_," Everett ordered, blocking of Cletus as he lunged forward at T'Challa, not intending to let the latter's physical assault go unanswered. "Don't start none, won't _be_ none."_

_"You need to control your tribute, Wilson," Cletus' mentor, Hank McCoy, warned, glaring over at Sam and T'Challa. "There better not be another instance of this, or I'll report it directly to the Gamemakers, and God only knows what they'll do then."_

_"I understand, Hank," Sam replied apologetically, his hand clenched painfully on T'Challa's shoulder. "It won't happen again, I promise."_

_"It better not," the other mentor replied, and then dragged Cletus off with him, who flashed a smug smile in T'Challa and Ororo's direction._

_Same glanced down at the pair of them, his features stern. "What the _hell_ was that about?"_

_T'Challa looked away, afraid of what he might say as the blood boiled in his veins in a way he never would have thought possible before._

_"He said he's going to eat me," Ororo said, after a moment had passed, and Sam frowned, evidently troubled._

_"What?!" Everett exclaimed, his face wrinkling up in disgust. "That kid's got something seriously wrong with him – it's not like Hank's been starving him, or anything!"_

_Sam shook his head. "He can try, but we've just got to make sure that that doesn't go too well for him. I'm surprised at you, T'Challa. It's not like you to lose your cool like that."_

_"He's an animal," T'Challa murmured, almost defiantly. "He's a raging, psychotic monstrosity that needs to be put down, and the sooner, the better."_

_"And you think he _won't_ be?" Sam asked. "That kid's painted a target on his back a mile wide, T'Challa. He's gonna wind up face down in a ditch somewhere in the arena within a day or two, if he even makes it out of the bloodbath. Don't worry about him, there are twenty-one other tributes you two need to watch out for too, remember?"_

_"Sam's right, you two," Everett chipped in, nodding. "He's bad news, but you've got to focus on your own game. You don't need to worry about him – he should be worrying about you."_

_T'Challa and Ororo had nodded, and he apologised again to both Sam and Everett after dinner, well aware that he hadn't done anything to make their jobs any easier with his outburst. And yet, he couldn't force himself to regret his actions – sometimes you had to face down the monsters, the real honest-to-God bastards of the world, or else they'd only grow more brazen._

* * *

He snapped out of his thoughts as another tribute leapt up onto the rafters, climbing as nimbly as anyone T'Challa had ever seen, back in the orchards of District Eleven. The tribute from Eight, Peter Parker, smiled to him as he made his way over, having obviously sought T'Challa out, for some reason or another.

"This seat taken?" he asked, and T'Challa waved a hand aimlessly, signalling that, yes, it was indeed free.

"Peter Parker, yes?" T'Challa asked rhetorically after a moment of silence passed between the two as Parker sat down next to him, already fully confident in his knowledge of the District Eight tribute's name. It was as good an opener as any that occurred to him, though, and he really hadn't had much time to observe Parker previously.

"That's me, Tiger," the younger man replied with a grin, and T'Challa frowned, confused.

"Tiger?" he asked, his head cocked slightly to the side, and Parker's self-confident swagger faltered somewhat.

"What – too familiar? That what they call you in Eleven, right? Mr Osborne – my mentor – was saying something about that yesterday…" he trailed off, worried by T'Challa bemused expression.

"They do not call me…Tiger," T'Challa replied, struggling to keep a straight face. For all his own attempts at memorising every little piece of information that might give him the edge over his fellow tributes, Peter Parker had evidently taken a very different approach.

"It was some kind of big cat though, right?" Parker asked slowly, raising his index fingers to his temples, as though in intense concentration.

"Got it!" he exclaimed, after a moment had passed. "It was 'Lion'!"

"No," came the amused reply, and Parker sagged for a moment, before glancing back up at his fellow tribute.

"Jaguar?" he asked hopefully, his eyes narrowing as T'Challa merely shook his head. "Lynx? Bobcat? Cheetah?" The guesses began to flow faster and faster, as his desperation increased with each of T'Challa's dismissals.

"Leopard? Puma? Warthog?!"

"Warthog?" T'Challa asked wearily, completely baffled, and now it was the tribute from Eight's turn to frown.

"Yeah…not really sure where that came from. Some big cat kind of thing, like a lion, right? Not all that great on my animals, I have to say – really should be asking one of the Tens about this. We have textile factories back home, don't even grow the cotton and stuff ourselves – it all comes in from District Eleven. You know all that, though, of course. What was I saying, again?"

"You were telling me about warthogs."

"Oh, yes," Parker replied, snapping his fingers together triumphantly. "Beast of the gods, giant…meat-eating…cat…thing. Definitely, I could not be more sure of this."

"You are making that up!" T'Challa declared, only somewhat jokingly, for his familiarity with the wildlife of Marvel was restricted to the totems of District Eleven, and those that lived within the confines of the district, typically trying to eat the crops they grew there.

"I'm telling you, it's a real animal!" he squawked, though his tone suggested that he didn't quite have full confidence in what he was saying.

T'Challa rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Either way, it is still incorrect. No one has ever referred to me as 'the Warthog', and I can only hope that no one ever will."

"Hmmm…" Peter murmured, and then cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting down to the female tribute from District Ten, Raven Darkholme. "Hey, Ten! What's the name of that big thingy outside your district, eats all the goats?"

Raven stared up at them from below, her features indescribable from this height. "Uh, that would be the chupacabra, kid," she replied after a moment, and then continued walking to the snares station, shaking her head.

"Hey, Eleven, chupathingy?! How about that? I like it – it's got a ring to it!"

T'Challa stood up slowly, and sighed. "I think Miss Darkholme may have lied to you, Mr Parker."

Peter frowned, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. "What makes you say that?"

"Let me just say that my common sense is tingling," he replied, and dropped down to the floor below, having heard enough from Peter Parker for the day.

He walked off, a smile slipping onto his face as Parker shouted after him, "You never told me what the right answer was, asshole!"

* * *

_Ororo was looking down throughout dinner, after their encounter with Cletus, and T'Challa asked her to follow him into his room for a moment, with the hope of finding a way to cheer her up._

_"Do not worry about Mr Kasaday," he told her, as his door slid aside to let them through, leaving the Inhumans to clean up after them. T'Challa paused for a moment as he glanced back at the three human forms, shaped to inhumanity by the will of the Capitol, their tongues cut out, forced to serve their mutilators. Again, the anger rose up within him, but he bit it down, fully aware that there was nothing he could do to help them, though hating that knowledge all the same._

_"Easy for you to say that," she replied grimly. "He doesn't want to eat _you_."_

_"I am pretty sure he wants to eat everyone, Ororo."_

_She rolled her eyes. "Fine, he hasn't said he wants to eat you. Let's face it, he looks to me as the easy target – I'm the youngest here after all, it's not a big surprise."_

_"He is wrong to look at you that way, you know. You are lot more dangerous than he gives you credit for."_

_"Pfff, yeah. Right. He's got weight and experience on me, plus being insane, but _I've_ got the advantage here. I can totally see it, thanks T'Challa," she replied with a hint of desperation in her voice, before placing her face in her hands, rubbing at her eyes._

_"You have got to hold on to your hope…Wormy," T'Challa murmured, smiling at her sadly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder._

_She glanced up at him, her eyes reddened, confusion on her face. "I thought you told me to stop calling myself that?" she whispered, and he nodded slowly._

_"Yes, I did. But that was before I found this in one of the bookshelves in my room," he replied, before picking up a book off the table next to him, and passing it over to her._

_She took the book from his hands, still confused, and traced her fingers over the faded gold lettering on the cover. "The Lair of the White…Wyrm,"she murmured after a moment, struggling slightly with the last word. "I don't understand. What's it about?"_

_"A woman who transforms into a giant snake, and kills those who have wronged her," T'Challa said. "Long, long ago, 'wyrm', or rather, 'worm', was another name for 'dragon'. For you, Ororo, maybe it is more apt than I initially thought. The dragon, the legendary worm, master of the elements, heart of the storm…I think that the people of the Capitol will soon see what I see in you._

_"And what's that?" she asked slowly, still staring at the cover of the book in her hands._

_"That here be dragons."_

* * *

"T'Challa?" his mentor asked, and the tribute shook himself out of his thoughts, looking up as Sam Wilson stared over at him from across the table, his brow furrowed.

"I am sorry, Sam, I was lost in my thoughts. Where were we?"

Sam snorted. "Alliances. You've been out there with the other tributes, mingling with them, watching them, and talking to them. What are your thoughts – is there anyone you'd consider teaming up with, at least until the bloodbath was out of the way?

"As far as I can see, there are only a handful of tributes that are applicable here – the Careers can immediately be ruled out, as can Cletus Kasaday and Sinthea Schmidt, for obvious reasons. At all costs, Ororo must be kept away from them," T'Challa replied, after a moment's consideration.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "You still sure this is the route you want to take, T'Challa? This…I'm your mentor – yours _and_ Ororo's. I don't like that we're going behind her back like this, she has just as much of a right to know what's going on as you do."

"We have been over this already, many times, Sam. Please do not waste my time by going over old material, we only have a few days left. This is not Ororo's choice, but mine. Her involvement will not influence the choice that I have made, but can _only_ serve to endanger her. You know how she is – if you tell her to do one thing, she will do the opposite." The impatience in T'Challa's voice was palpable, and Sam nodded slightly, resigned but still clearly unhappy.

"So, what about the others. She'll need an alliance if she's going to make it through this thing – Kasaday's gunning for her, that's made itself quite apparent already," his mentor commented, leaning back in his seat. "The kid might get taken down in the bloodbath, but you can't afford to count on it. Of course, I can't see anyone allying with him, so he'll probably only be a danger to lone tributes, but still, a third or fourth would really be to your and Ororo's advantage."

T'Challa nodded. "I came to a similar conclusion too. There _are_ four that I would consider allying with, in that they have skills to offer that would be of benefit to us, and that I believe we could trust them not to turn on us."

"Everyone turns on each other in the Games, sooner or later," Sam murmured, and T'Challa inclined his head once more.

"Well, within reasonable conditions then," he conceded, and returned to his original point. "The four, in order of preference, are Steve Rogers, James Howlett – or Logan, as he seems to prefer – Kate Bishop and Tony Stark."

"You know I've already vetoed Bishop," Sam reminded him, frowning. "She's already brought too much attention onto herself from the Career pack – teaming up with her would be painting a target on your back. And _Stark_, really? I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, and I'm pretty sure I could get a decent spiral out of him."

T'Challa stood up, and walked over to the window, gazing out upon the streets of the Capitol for a moment, far, far below, before turning back to his mentor.

"We all have targets on our backs, and that is not going to change any time soon. While, yes, Kate Bishop will certainly attract unwanted attention, she also has the skills and abilities to deal with whatever comes her way. Better to face your enemies with another, than alone. I have no doubt that Ororo will be able to keep out of the Careers' path for a while, sooner or later she will have to stand and fight. That, Sam, is why we need others in our corner."

Sam grimaced. "Why not Parker, or Wagner? Both seem to know how to take care of themselves, and neither exactly scream out 'cold-blooded killer', or at least not at Kasaday or Schmidt's levels."

"I feel that Kurt Wagner is the kind of man to…disappear, when push comes to shove, Sam. I would not feel confident in placing my life in his hands, and I _need_ to feel confident in my decisions," T'Challa replied, hands balling into fists. "Likewise with Parker…I don't appreciate his outlook – he is treating all of this like a game, and, despite what the Capitol calls this event, it is _not_ a game."

"Preaching to the choir, kid. Rogers, Howlett, Stark and Bishop it is," Sam agreed, stroking his chin while deep in thought. "You know, I think I might just be able to arrange something with Rogers' mentor – Quill and I go way back. We're both big fans of flying, and I'm pretty sure that I can set something up – might have to offer him a glimpse at my latest suit design though."

"Your sacrifice would be much appreciated," T'Challa remarked wryly, and Sam dipped his head in acknowledgement and raised a hand.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll see what I can do anyway; you just leave it to Sam Wilson. Hell knows that you're right; it probably _is_ going to be your best chance out there. Ororo's got plenty of attitude, but she's just a kid. Seeing her go into the Games…well, it's…it's…" he trailed off, his face tightening, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

"I know, Sam, I know," T'Challa murmured, sitting back down once more. "I know you understand why it is so important to me that we give her every chance at surviving. We live in an unfair world, and meander through it, powerless, fragile, and insufficient. My life is worth little, but if I can save hers…then maybe it is not entirely in vain."

It was Sam's turn to stand up and make his way over to the window, and T'Challa waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts. After all, time was all they had left now, and he wasn't going to begrudge his mentor any of it, if it led to him making the correct decision.

"I understand, T'Challa," he finally murmured, gazing off into the distance, as though his mind was somewhere far, far away, swooping and gliding through the air of District Eleven. "We can't be good men just for the good days. We _can't_ be. _I_ can't be. I've had some bad days, and I only see worse ones coming in the future, for me, you and Ororo. But our worst day is only where we _start_ from, where we _rise_ from. I'm here for you, whatever you need, and I always will be."

He paused, and finally turned back to T'Challa, and there were faint hints of tears in the corners of his eyes.

"If I can't help the two of you…then God help us all. If I've got to work _harder_ now? _Prove_ myself more? That was _always_ true. And that's a weight I'm _proud_ to carry. With what you're prepared to give up, not doing all I can would be to fail the pair of you, and to fail all the people back home...Thank you for showing me that, T'Challa."

T'Challa stirred in his chair, uncomfortable. "There is no need to thank me, Sam. You have done all you can for Ororo and myself, and been more than I had hoped for in a mentor."

His mentor chuckled grimly, evidently still struggling with something, before sighing. "No need to 'Sam' it up – you can call me Falcon, T'Challa."

"Pardon?"

"People that... know me, call me 'Falcon'. God knows you've earned it, kid."

A moment passed, before T'Challa slowly inclined his head. "Then thank you, Falcon. For the first time since my name was called out, I actually do not feel quite so hopeless about our situation. Maybe, just maybe, we will be able to get Ororo out of this – if the odds are in her favour, of course."

"And if the odds _aren't_ in her favour?" Sam murmured.

T'Challa smiled widely. "Then we change them, so that they are."


	25. Chapter 24: Member of the Pack

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with an new update, and I'm going to keep this short and sweet because it's a long one, and it's pretty late on my end. Fantastic new chapter, written by JGrayzz, as we return to Elektra, and I hope you enjoy it!**

**Created to Write: Cheers for the heads up on the Rodgers/Rogers situation, have fixed it now. Problem with being a Liverpool fan, you see the other version too often and it gets stuck in your head. Also, Steve is coming soon! Very soon!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four – Member of the Pack**

**Evening Day Three**

**Elektra Natchios of District One**

**Written by JGrayzz**

* * *

_"If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else, it will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them._"

– Bruce Lee

* * *

Thunder rumbled through the darkness of the training centre like an unseen beast. With every roar it brought, the walls seemed to vibrate harder and harder – the weapons shaking in their racks, threatening to come loose and tumble to the matted floor.

With the ring of the bell, the final day of training had at last come to an abrupt close – it was shorter than Elektra had initially expected. The previous two training days had lasted nearly twelve hours long; at least six hours of attendance at training was required, and if anyone hadn't put in the hours, tributes were forced to stay the entire time.

Most of the Careers had stayed the full twelve hours, however, testament to the amount of dedication some of these kids possessed. In a way, Elektra admired them for that. Nothing pissed her off more than people who didn't try, and Elektra found this mindset was commonplace in the Career pack.

Elektra didn't even realize she was supposed to be a Career until late in the first day of training. The large, shy boy from Four approached her out of nowhere and simply told her, rather awkwardly, "that they would be working together."

And then, just like that, the boy walked away with his hand behind his neck – slightly slouched over as if he was carrying a heavy load on his back.

She didn't quite know what to make of it, and for the next few hours afterward, tried to appear inconspicuous as she spied on the boy. In the end, Elektra caught whispers from some other tributes about a traditional alliance that formed every year called the Careers. Apparently, Elektra _needed_ to be in the alliance whether she liked it or not, according to Johnny Storm.

Elektra didn't like it, as she had planned to fly solo from the beginning and keep her ear to the ground. Now her plans had unfortunately changed.

Being in the Careers certainly had its perks, as Elektra had discovered. People began to give her looks that she never got before – looks of fear, distrust, and outright paranoia, like everyone was walking on eggshells as soon as she came near. It was strange, though oddly flattering. The downside was that being a member of the infamous alliance got her attention in all the wrong places just as much.

Take the two perverted janitors standing near the exit, for example.

"See that girl over there? Kid is good, _real_ good – she's got potential, I'm tellin' you." The short man with the greasy hair looked up and down at her like a piece of prized meat, and he didn't bother hiding it. The mop in his hands swivelled across the floor in a pattern that made no sense – he'd gone over the same spot for ten minutes now. "Mhm, she's nice. I think she just might make it into the final eight if she's lucky. Thinkin' about using some of my paycheck to sponsor 'er a thing or two..."

"Sure, sure. Nice body on her too, eh?"

"Oh yeah, she's got a body on her, definitely. See the size of her arms, though? Chick is built like an athlete." He nudged his friend and chuckled, keys on his waist jingling loudly with each chortle as their eyes lingered on her back.

Elektra snorted, paying neither of them any mind as she put away her favoured sai knives on the rack for the final time in her miserly stay at the Capitol. Her fingers lingered on the rubber handles for a bit before letting them slowly slide away.

It admittedly hurt her to part with them so soon. It only felt like yesterday that Elektra first spotted the wicked daggers hanging solemnly in between an assortment of other elusive, exotic weapons. In a matter of only three days, Elektra had easily managed to perfect her form to the point where she could now twirl her knives between her fingers with ease – the daggers practically becoming fingers themselves.

Most of the tributes had left the Centre by now, though a few still lingered, looming around the food court and the bathrooms. Elektra considered heading to the bathroom to wait out the obnoxious janitors giving her looks, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Who were they anyway? She'd never see them again, and they didn't even know her name. They were nobodies, but her? _She_ was the star of this show, and that demanded respect.

Elektra grabbed a folded towel from off a table and headed toward the exit, beads of sweat pouring down her face from training. She made sure to focus on several areas this evening, but unfortunately it was cut short. She had originally planned to work on survival skills for the other half of the day – her plant recognition skills were getting better, yesterday she managed to identify most of the poisonous species, and she had the strangest feeling it would become important later on. Wade had given her a brilliant idea regarding using poisons in combat, and for the first time, he actually_ didn't_ sound like an insufferable dolt.

Elektra recognized Clint sitting at one of the far tables as she passed by; the boy recognized her immediately, giving her a nod in the darkness.

As Elektra neared the exit, the janitors stopped talking and stepped away. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of the janitor's glares looming below her back.

This annoyed her.

Before she exited, she kicked the mop bucket sitting near the door with her right foot, sending all of its soapy contents to the floor. "_Oops,_" she muttered as she walked through the double doors.

She could hear their muffled curses from inside the Centre and this _almost_ satisfied her. She eagerly wanted to do much more incredibly violent things to the poor bastards, but she knew if she did, it would draw too much attention to her – much more than she needed at the moment.

Elektra sighed and slammed her throbbing back against the white wall of the Training Centre; she felt like she was about ready to collapse at any minute now. Training _killed_ her, she had to admit. When she first walked through those doors, she almost laughed. They called _that_ training?

But then after the first couple hours of getting acclimated with all the stations and equipment, it became overwhelming for her, and eventually, all she really wanted to do was leave.

Elektra brushed back the dark, damp veil of her hair past her ears, and placed her palm over her forehead. She frowned.

A migraine was coming on, she could feel it now. She felt the early signs since this morning, a muted throbbing that wouldn't go away. It made her grumpy the entire evening, and every time she leaned over, her head felt like it was going to explode.

She thought it might have been hunger, but she ate enough – _too much_ in fact. She had already gained about fifteen pounds since her time in the cell. She couldn't help it, though. The food _was_ good. She regularly went up for seconds – sometimes thirds. The Careers gave her funny looks, but she didn't care. She hadn't eaten warm food in _forever_.

Thor seemed to understand her plight, though. Back at lunch, it seemed every time she looked up from her plate, the boy was always back at the counter, his plate piled high with meats she hadn't ever even heard of, like venison and even _bear_. She believed he was on some sort of secret diet plan, but he insisted that that was just how he ate.

Elektra didn't argue.

Elektra sighed and closed her eyes, listening to the silence within the long white hallway. She didn't want to admit this to Johnny, or Wilson, or even Wade for that matter – but the stress of the situation was getting to her head. This place made her sick – literally. Every morning, the reality of where she was seemed to smack her in the face, hard. She didn't expect being here to be so...eerie. But she couldn't fight off the strange feeling that ninety-five percent of everyone who has ever walked through these halls has died. It made her sick to her stomach. This morning, she hadn't even eaten breakfast.

Were the other Careers feeling the same way? Wade seemed to be adjusting fine, which quite honestly annoyed her.

Elektra pushed herself off the wall as she began the gruelling process of drying herself off with the towel – which was already mostly damp from the sweat earlier. She started with her arms, and then slowly made her way down.

Elektra paused in movement at the sound of one of the doors squeaking open. A burst of cool air escaped from the door before it closed, sending a strand of hair into her eyes. She blew it back, irritated.

"Oh! Uh, hey! You probably don't know me...Actually, _do you_ know me?"

Elektra peeked up from patting down her right leg – a slender boy with brown hair and a sheepish grin stared back down at her, hands shoved in his pockets.

Elektra thought about it, but couldn't remember off the top of her head. "Sorry, I don't," she said, and returned to drying off.

The boy's smile remained, however, though a bit flustered, now. "Oh...Well, that's cool I guess," the boy coughed into his hand, "I'm Peter! Peter Parker. It's _so_ cool to finally meet one of you guys...Er...Girls...Wait, I mean... _Ugh._"

Peter sighed, another sheepish grin on his youthful face. Elektra glared up at the boy again, trying to figure him out – but it was very hard to place him. He was almost too...innocent? Normal?

Peter noticed Elektra studying him and smiled down at her again. "Hi." He stuck his hand out for a shake.

Elektra's dark eyes scanned him up and down. She didn't intend to leave him hanging, but that wasn't her main priority at the moment. Elektra may have seen the boy once or twice at the plants station, and she kind of remembered an awkward exchange of glances taking place – but it was nothing that stuck out to her.

Elektra smirked a little, "You're an interesting kid, Peter," was all she managed to say, before returning to patting her face and limbs with the towel.

Peter lowered his hand and shoved it in his pocket again, still smiling however, "Well, anyway, just wanted to tell you that I saw what you did in there...with the janitors...and the bucket. _That_ was pretty funny, I gotta admit."

At this point, Elektra had slightly grown annoyed with Peter. She half expected him to leave by now, as everybody else did – but knowing his personality, Elektra had a feeling he was going to stick around. He wanted something – people _always_ wanted something. The question was, _what?_

Elektra continued drying herself off, though the sweat had actually dried by now. Elektra's eyes flickered to Peter for a second, and apparently he took it wrong.

"No, no! I'm not trying to offend you or anything...I actually woulda done the same thing! Like...if I were a girl and there were some creepy guys staring...you know what I'm saying?" He rubbed the back of his neck, nervously.

"Just wanted to say that I_ really_ admire you. Like...I think you're a pretty cool chick. Seriously, you're like the first person out of the Careers who actually bothered to talk to me," Peter laughed to himself, but it died down quickly when Elektra didn't laugh back.

Peter placed his hand on his chin, "Well...actually that's not _totally_ true. There was this one guy with a mask that was pretty cool...Oh, and that girl with the red hair – she wasn't really that bad..."

Elektra noticed a red mark on her left forearm – must have gotten it from training. Wade _insisted_...no, _begged_ to try out the snares station, which was a bit strange considering on the first day he said trapping looked boring and stupid. Long story short, Wade accidentally set off a trap the instructor made, which caught on her arm. She didn't talk to him for the rest of the night.

"I mean, you guys are a pretty serious bunch, you know? But I completely understand..."

Elektra found it easier and easier to tune the boy out as she finished cleaning herself up. Eventually, she barely even noticed he was there.

At one point, a short, dark-haired boy with a scowl on his face burst out of the Training Centre, and of course, Peter felt the need to talk to him as well. Peter was in the middle of asking Elektra if she got food poisoning like he did after eating the pizza.

Peter then asked the angry looking boy, "Hey, dude? Was it just me or did that pizza have a weird after-taste because-"

"Piss off," the boy muttered, quickly storming away into the elevator without saying another word.

Peter seemed to ignore Elektra's mute responses, which she found rather amusing, though she tried not to smirk. Peter seemed to be content with carrying on the completely one-sided conversation, and despite Elektra's refusal to answer the poor boy, she did learn quite a bit more than necessary about Peter Parker.

Eventually, however, Elektra snapped out of her daze when Peter asked her a particular question she was not expecting.

"...So, that leads me to this. How does one exactly...join your group? I mean...like getting in the Careers...Is there like some sort of weird ritual you gotta do? Blood sacrifice? Sell your soul? I'm kinda curious..."

Elektra had finished drying off nearly twenty minutes ago. She had had enough of Peter Parker for one day. And so, annoyed and frustrated, she decided to answer his question in the most completely random way possible.

Elektra looked at Peter for the first time since he first walked out. "...Chimichangas."

He jumped back, perplexed and amazed she had actually responded. For Peter, though, it seemed to be enough. "Wow...Okay! Yeah...that helps!"

Elektra rolled her eyes, and handed a confused Peter Parker her damp towel, "Take that for me? Thanks a bunch."

Peter held the towel tight in his hands like it was some sort of ancient relic. He followed Elektra all the way to the elevator, "Hey, I really appreciate you giving me a chance, ya know? Your blonde friend was awfully mean...What was her name again? Helga? Hilga? Some weird Viking name..."

The elevator dinged, and Elektra had never been more grateful for the contraption in her entire life. Elektra turned around, and awkwardly patted Peter on the back, interrupting his speech of gratitude. "Nice meeting you, Peter."

Peter frowned. "Oh, you're leaving? I mean...Oh! You're leaving! Right...I better let you get to that..."

Elektra tapped her leg impatiently, "It's pretty late..."

He nodded. "Right, I know...I know. You Careers gotta get your rest and all that...Oh hey, what's your name, by the way?"

Elektra rolled her tongue in her mouth, her mind unfocused and her thoughts hazy. "Um...Elektra."

Peter looked confused at first, and had to say the name under his breath first. "Oh! Like _electricity_. Right, gotcha. That'll be pretty easy to remember."

Elektra half-smiled at that. "...Right." She swivelled on her feet and headed inside the elevator, quickly searching for the button labelled **"1".**

Before the doors could close, Peter stopped them with his foot. Elektra frowned. "Sorry, sorry! One last thing, though...Uh, so what exactly _is_ a chimichanga?"

Elektra sighed. "Ask Wade. He should know." She made an effort to smile.

Peter grinned and saluted her, allowing the doors to shut, and once they did, her fake smile quickly morphed into a tired frown. Her eyes had become devoid of any feeling besides weariness, and felt like they were about to shut at any moment. Her entire body – from head to toe, ached beyond belief. Only one singular thought coursed through her mind at that moment, and it involved a pillow, a cushion, and absolute darkness.

Elektra waited impatiently as the generic 'happy' music played through the speaker. She felt like taking her fist and sending it through the ceiling. If she wasn't as tired, she probably would have done it.

As soon as the doors opened, cool air met her face which she was beyond thankful for. The corridor to her compartment was long, narrow, and lined with tacky Capitol propaganda posters. Many of them showcased victors from years ago, such as the famous 'Fantastic Four' standing proudly with dozens of smiling Capitol officials.

One poster was colourful and depicted President Thanos standing tall and proud with his hands clasped behind his back, staring into the mountainous horizon while S.W.O.R.D. jets flew over him in some triangular formation. The text on the top was bold and chillingly read: '**LONG LIVE THE ALL-FATHER.'**

Another one she passed was mostly red with strange creatures depicted in the foreground; this time, it showed Nick Fury pointing his finger at her. This text read: '**ENTER THE ARENA. DESTINY AWAITS YOU.'**

It seemed the more she walked, the creepier the posters became. One of the ceiling lights flickered a bit, which made the entire ambiance of the hallway all the more chilling.

Once again, she was reminded of all the children who may have walked this hallway years prior, and how surreal it was now that it was her turn. She shuddered instinctively, and kept her eyes on the door at the end of the brick hallway, eager to get inside.

At long last, Elektra shoved through the entryway with a click. The marble District One chamber teemed with life. Several of her stylists, including Doop – a green skinned, foreign-speaking humanoid with no ascertainable gender – were eating in the dining room, waving as she passed.

Elektra ignored them, and caught one of their whispers, "Is Leksie pissed again?"

Elektra hated their little nickname for her, but she couldn't do anything about it. The last time she clocked a stylist, Johnny threatened to have Sentinels escort her everywhere for being a dangerous hazard.

Elektra spotted Wade and Wilson Fisk watching television. She believed they were watching recaps of the Reapings – that's all they seemed to broadcast here in the Capitol. Either that, or strange reality shows and a twenty-four hour newscast where the only topic of discussion seemed to be the Games, as well as rumours about the Games, and speculations on...the Games.

Somehow, Wade managed to spot her walking in. The mask was pulled up just enough so he could shove food in his mouth, but even from what little she could see of his skin, the boy looked utterly grotesque.

"Yo, 'Lektra! You hungry?" the boy asked, food spittle flying out of his mouth.

"No," she muttered furtively, peeling off her damp sweater and casting it to the ground.

Fisk was plopped down next to Wade on a black-leather couch, chowing down on some exotic cuisine that reeked even from all the way where she stood.

"You haven't eaten a single thing all day, Elektra. And you look sickly as well, what's the matter?" Fisk asked through a mouthful.

Elektra snorted, "What do you mean? I ate something at lunch." Elektra faltered on the last part. In truth, she really hadn't eaten anything.

Fisk paused, fork halfway into his mouth. "And what was it?"

For some unfathomable reason, she honestly couldn't think of anything, but then she remembered Peter saying something about pizza earlier. "I ate...pizza," she shrugged.

Wilson Fisk chuckled. "'_Pizza'_, she says." The large man set his plate on the table – which was occupied by what looked like hundreds of empty plates already.

Fisk beckoned with his hand. "Please, Elektra, eat something. I insist. I'll worry if you don't."

Wade burped, arms dangling lazily behind his masked head. "Trust me, you can't pass these burritos up...They are freakin' _heaven,_" he sang.

Elektra scowled. "Listen, I'm exhausted, alright? I have a migraine, and I'm aching all over...I _just_ want to sleep right now. I'll eat tomorrow." She brushed her hair back and threw her shoes off, padding away to her chamber.

Wade shrugged. "Suit yourself then, sweetheart. More burritos for _yours truly._"

Elektra's head felt like it was on the verge of eruption. She needed peace...she needed quiet. She needed darkness. She couldn't take it anymore.

She _almost_ got her wish, but then Johnny appeared right in front of her. She didn't even know where he came from. Elektra tried to brush past him, but the man moved with her. "Where are you going?"

Elektra glared at him. _What is he, a child? Does he really want to get killed right now?_

"I'm tired. I'm going to sleep," she said in her nicest voice possible, her black eyes fixed and unflinching. "Johnny, please move out of my way."

Johnny measured her with his affronting cyan eyes, scowling at the younger girl. "Where's your hat?"

Elektra ground her teeth together so hard they almost cracked. "Johnny..."

Johnny grinned now – he got off on annoying her. She knew he did. But he also knew she hated him, and that was never going to change.

"Actually, Elektra, you won't be going to sleep right now. First thing you're going to do, is take a shower and put on some fresh clothes, because you – pardon my French - smell like shit, love."

She stared daggers at the man. "And I suppose you're going to help me with that, right?"

"And then," Johnny began, ignoring her. "Once you've finished with that, you and Wade are going to take the elevator up to the roof – where you'll be meeting with your allies. This isn't a question."

"I don't give a _damn_ about my 'allies' right now," Elektra growled, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring.

This seemed to be the tipping point for Johnny,."But you _should! _Because, believe it or not, those allies are going to save your rotten ass!"

Elektra lurched forward, inches from Johnny's face, her instincts urging her to beat the living hell out of Johnny Storm until he was a bloody, incoherent mess on the floor, begging for mercy. Elektra's smile was almost twisted, hatred so palpable you could have seen the red haze with your own eyes.

"_Make me._" Elektra clenched her fists so tight, deep cuts began to form. "Go ahead, Johnny Storm. I dare you...Make me go and see what happens."

It was difficult for Johnny to hold back – as he had never faced such a level of resentment from any tribute in his entire life. Every time he had coached the girls in the past, it always seemed to work out. This is the first instance he'd been hated from the get-go. His ego found that difficult to comprehend.

Something would have happened if it had gone on any longer, but fortunately, the genius of a Mr Reed Richards intervened, pulling them apart before an inevitable bloodbath began.

"_Alright_, alright. I've seen and heard _enough_. Let's calm down, you two." Reed gently steered Johnny away from Elektra with a hand on his chest, glancing at both of them with exhausted deep brown eyes. Both of them were bloodshot beyond belief, his breath reeked of coffee and grey uneven hairs lie scattered underneath his chin.

"...Elektra," Reed called, coughing weakly.

Reed whispered something to Johnny – most likely to try to calm the man down. Elektra almost sneered at him, Johnny looked like he was about to cry. She couldn't remember the last time she made anyone cry, but she thoroughly enjoyed the show. It meant a win in her book, at least.

_"Elektra!_" Reed yelled, which seemed to take most of what little energy he had left pumping inside of the reserved man. Elektra jumped from her stupor, her haze gone, her mind clear once again. Reed had never yelled before; in fact, the man barely said anything at dinner, and he was stuck in his room all morning through the afternoon – his only breakfast came in the form of a whole pitcher of black coffee at about five o'clock in the morning. It's the only time she ever sees him.

"_What?_" Elektra inclined her head to meet Reed's drowsy eyes, which practically mirrored her own. She had to admit, he looked_ terrible._ He didn't need any of this right now, and even she knew that.

Reed regained his composure, pressing his hands firmly on the back of a chair. "_What_...seems to be the issue, right now...between you two?" Elektra noticed he had a tendency to nod as he talked, as if to encourage them both to respond.

Johnny looked embarrassed. "Listen, Reed-"

Elektra cut in before Johnny could answer. "-Reed, I'm tired. All I want is to _sleep_, because I feel _horrible_ right now." Elektra brushed her matted dark hair away from her face. "Reed, _Johnny_ here wants me to attend a _meeting_ with my...alliance on the roof." She gave Johnny a dark look, but he ignored her.

Reed perked up immediately. "And that's _exactly_ what you're going to do," he informed her, crossing his arms. "You know why? Because I'm telling you right now, it's going to send a_ bad_ message if you were the only one who didn't show up."

Elektra flared up again, her temper rising to a boiling point that she could feel rushing through her veins, but she wasn't stupid. She bit her tongue and tried to look as calm as absolutely possible, remembering her training, remembering her promise to redeem herself. So she listened as Reed spoke, despite compulsively imagining in her mind rushing over and skinning Johnny alive.

Reed sighed. "Listen, Elektra. I _understand_ you're tired, I can see it in your eyes right this very moment. All I ask is that you do this for _me_, and for your _alliance_. You don't even have to talk, if you do not wish. Just..._be there_. I will let you sleep all morning if _that_ is what you really desire."

Johnny nearly choked, and almost protested, but Reed silenced him with a finger. "Johnny, I _can_ and _will_ make it happen."

It was hard for Elektra to refuse the offer Reed was suggesting, especially with the way he kept nodding to her, like he actually understood her plight. Perhaps he did. He _was_ a victor.

Elektra bit her lip, shifting her weight. "So how long do you think this will take, then?"

For the first time, Reed hesitated, blinking rapidly. "Elektra, believe me, if I knew, I'd tell you. It could take _hours,_ or only a couple of minutes. It _all_ depends on what Thor wants to do."

Reed nervously glanced at Johnny, and then back at Elektra. "Alright? Are you both fine, now? Any other issues you wish to discuss while we're all here?"

Both of them were silent – neither Elektra or Johnny willing to make the first move and walk away, but at least she could say her heat had risen down again.

Reed clapped his hands together. "I'm going to take that as a sign that you both are..._sufficiently_ cooled down. And for Johnny, that's definitely saying _something_..."

Before anyone could walk away, Wade Wilson butt into the tense conversation with a plate literally piled high to the brim with chicken wings – his mask lifted up just enough from his mouth to reveal thick sauce surrounding his lips like makeup.

Much to Elektra's chagrin, Wade placed his arm around her shoulders, while one hand tried to balance the ridiculously large plate of wings. "Damn, girl, you been workin' out? Back is all hard and rigid..."

Elektra remained stoic, too exhausted to fire back with a sarcastic insult, and her brain too fuzzy to say anything anyway. Johnny looked utterly repulsed with Wade, while Reed looked almost amused.

Wade licked his fingers and studied Reed. "So, where we goin'?"

"The roof. You two will be attending a private Career meet." Reed flicked his wrist up and looked at his watch. "And...I'd say you have about ten minutes to get up there."

Reed hesitated. "Wade? Leave the chicken here...please?"

Wade had a sombre look in his eyes and picked up a chicken wing, bringing it in front of his face. "I'm afraid this is where we part ways, my love. I'll never forget you..._NEVER!_ Do you understand me? I love you," he sobbed, before shoving the entire wing in his mouth.

Elektra padded away to the showers, muttering curse words under her breath. Johnny watched her as she went, but she couldn't care less about the man at this point. He was no more a mentor than he was a distraction. If she could have it her way, she'd rather not be coached it all – that is if she could even remotely call what Johnny Storm does "coaching". All she'd ever seen him do for the past few days is drink champagne in a bathrobe and watch dumb reality television with Wade.

"And Elektra?" Reed called.

Elektra paused in stride, shoulders hunched and rigid. "When you get in the shower, whatever you do, _don't_ press the orange button...Or was it the _blue switch_? I forget which one..."

For the next several minutes, the sound of shrieks and curses echoed through the marble halls of the District One sanctum, as Elektra faced her greatest foe yet – the shower.

The elevator doors opened, and she was the first to head inside. Elektra rubbed her burning, red eyes, hastily trying to fasten her soaked hair into a ponytail before it got too dry.

Wade chuckled softly as he ran down the hall and into the elevator, turning his head to check behind him once before he quickly shuffled inside, holding his pants up with one hand. "Hurry, hurry! Close the freakin' doors!"

Several angry shouts echoed through the brick hall – and the voices sounded very familiar. The elevator doors shut with a loud "ding", and even though his face was hidden, there seemed to be a profound sense of satisfaction in Wade's voice.

"Holy shit!" Wade leaned against the rail, regaining his breath.

Elektra gave the half-crazed boy a strange look. "What the hell did you do?"

She had to do a double-take when Wade began to reach his hands down his trousers, pulling out a large, obnoxiously loud bag of chips.

Elektra tilted her head and smirked at him, "...Chips? Really? Whoa, did you _steal_ those, Wade?"

Wade tucked the chips under his arm, "Pfft, _please._" Wade reached down even further and pulled out something else – a _very_ expensive looking bottle of wine. Wade held the intricately designed bottle close to his chest, still with the price tag on it.

Wade ran his hand along the golden surface, "Elektra, I introduce to you...'_Le Flambeau'_."

Elektra squinted at the tag, "...That cost _7,000 credits!_"

Wade turned the bottle around and gasped, "Why, indeed it did, my dear! And I intend to drink _every last drop_ of it," Wade leaned in close to Elektra's face and shook the bottle, "With or without your help."

Elektra clicked the button labelled **'13'** and they began their ascent to the roof. She peeked again at the golden bottle Wade was ogling over. "That's Johnny's, isn't it?"

"You said it, not me." Wade smiled through his scarlet mask. "I don't know, honestly. Could be Wilson's, could belong to one of the Cappies..."

Elektra raised an eyebrow. "_Cappie_?"

Wade shrugged, "Yeah, that's what I call the creepy people who live here."

The elevator doors opened and immediately, the night breeze struck her skin in calm waves. At last, it was _freedom._..or as close as Elektra could get to it.

Elektra peered up, only to find the sky overcast and filled with thick clouds. Unfortunately, life was often too good to be true.

Wade paused next to her, his mouth already filled with chips. "I don' see anybody..."

He was right, the entire garden was dead silent, not a visible soul in sight. Elektra scowled. "We made it on time, didn't we?" Wade shrugged. The sound of crisp leaves in the garden shook like rattles, small whispers in the darkness.

"Hey, wait," Wade gestured to a spot in the shadows near the edge, there appeared to be two people sat in some chairs, waving at them. They both trudged over to confront them, Wade still holding his giant bag of chips and Johnny's stolen wine in each hand. Luckily, it was their allies from Two.

"Come, come," beckoned Clint, with his feet propped up on a table, picking his teeth with some crude tool. Natasha looked giddy when she finally saw them; her scarlet hair was in a braid, and she gave them a small wave as they approached.

Clint looked bored and tired, and his gestures were lazy. "There's some chairs here, if you guys wanna sit or anything..." Elektra nodded and practically collapsed in a chair near the shadows. "Who knows when Thor will lug his big ass over here."

Wade placed the chips and wine on the table with pride, and gestured to Natasha and Clint. Natasha brought a hand up quickly. "No thanks," she smiled.

Clint gave Natasha a look of disdain and shrugged. "Mmm, why the hell not? I'll take some wine – the name's in some old language, right?"

Wade nodded. "_Correct-o._ It means...erm...Actually I dunno. I failed English, for crying out loud – never really had a head for languages," he admitted.

Clint smirked. "Well, wine is wine, right? Cups...cups...No cups? Whatever," Clint yawned, before taking a swig straight from the bottle.

Elektra leaned back in the slightly uncomfortable plastic chair, listening lucidly to the exchange between Wade and Clint. They appeared to be getting along swell. If it meant Wade getting out of her hair, then she didn't care who the kid bothered. Hell, maybe she could even take a much needed nap up here.

"We're just as surprised as you two," muttered Natasha, rubbing her hands together. Elektra hardly noticed Natasha said anything until she caught the girl staring at her awkwardly.

Elektra half-smiled and nodded, unsure of what Natasha had even said. "Oh, yeah...Well, you know..."

Natasha gave her a funny look, but giggled softly. "So, you're sixteen, right?"

Elektra paused in thought. _Was_ she sixteen? She couldn't even remember. She hadn't celebrated her birthday in years. "I...think so...Yeah, that's about right." Elektra almost shrugged, but stopped herself. Natasha gave her another strange look, but once again, smiled.

Natasha leaned her head on her palm. "You nervous?"

Elektra knew what Natasha was doing. She was trying to get a read on her – trying to measure her up. To see if she belonged there, to see if she could find something to latch onto. A weakness...a fear.

But Elektra was too guarded, even in her half-dead state. "No, not really. Tired? Yeah, but not nervous," Elektra crossed her arms and leaned further back. "What about you?"

Natasha giggled. "Honestly? A little bit...but I guess if _you're_ not nervous, then I shouldn't be either, right?"

Elektra nodded. "Right."

Natasha looked like she was ready to end the conversation, but it was merely a ruse. She shifted, only to spring back and study Elektra, seemingly interested. "So, Elektra, how's your training been going? Clint told me he saw you earlier," Natasha asked, crossing her legs.

Elektra stiffened a little, her dark eyes zig-zagging slowly, searching for an appropriate response. "It's been...pretty good, I suppose. I've been working on plants and that kind of thing. And you?"

Natasha brushed back strands of crimson hair that had fallen. "Oh, a bit of this and that...Knives, sparring...typical stuff. So, you found your weapon of choice yet?" Natasha grinned, interested.

The conversation was getting tense. Natasha was on cue with every answer, never missing a single beat. Elektra lulled, but Natasha knew exactly what she was asking. She knew exactly what to say, and when to say it. Answering questions with answers – that was how Natasha worked. It's as if she'd been planning these questions in her head for days. This concerned Elektra deeply. Natasha's mind wasn't in the game – it was _ahead_ of it.

Elektra gritted her teeth, annoyed with the interrogation. "Knives. Plain and simple," Elektra half-lied.

Luckily for her, Wade was beginning his usual antics – already half-drunk from the wine he consumed. Clint cheered him on, finding his source of entertainment for the evening. "Now do the _Thor_ one!"

Looked like Wade was doing impressions now.

Wade butted out his chest and pretended to brush away invisible golden locks – he also began to walk like he was constipated. "Oi, look at me and ma' giant hammer! Oi, look at me beautiful, flowing hair in the wind, aren't I so pretty?"

Clint clapped, howling with laughter. "Oh! Do that thing he always does at lunch!"

Wade pretended to eat from a plate. "Oi, is that cake I see...?" Wade suddenly froze in terror.

Clint looked on in anticipation. "Wait for it...Wait for it..." he whispered.

Wade jumped up on top of the table and threw the entire bag of chips in the air. "NAY! I SAY THEE NAY! NAY TO CAKE! DEATH TO CAKE! MUST RESIST CAKE!"

Clint howled as Wade went up to Elektra and Natasha. "OI! WHERE IS ME COW? WHERE IS ME BEAR? WHERE IS ME DELICIOUS MEATS!? MMM, YOU LOOK DELICIOUS! FEED MEH!"

Wade pretended to bite down on their arms, shaking his head to-and-fro like a hungry dog. Natasha giggled, seemingly finding it funny, while Elektra instinctively reared back and rolled her eyes.

Though Elektra had to admit, the impression, while exaggerated, was pretty spot on. Thor _never_ ate sweets. The large boy literally panicked at lunch the one time Wade even threw him a sugar cookie. Thor ate meat, and _only_ meat.

Clint was still choking back tears. "Priceless, dude. Just priceless." Clint wiped his eyes, chuckling.

Wade pushed his mask back up past his mouth. "I think _that_ is deserving of some wine, eh?" Wade paused before taking a swig. "Hey...you guys wanna see my impression of Thor wiping his ass?"

Clint burst into laughter at the thought. "Oh man, I've gotta see this."

Elektra noticed the doors of the elevator opening in the distance, and a tall, willowy figure walking out.

Wade began his impression of Thor once more. "Oi! Me, Thor, Son of Odin, has run out of toilet paper!" Wade put up a finger in the air like he suddenly had a brilliant idea. "But wait! I have me this hammer sitting right here!"

Clint suddenly stopped laughing, clearing his throat as the tall figure loomed behind Wade's back. "Uh, Wade...Dude..."

"OI! WHY DON'T I TAKE THIS HAMMER AND – What? Why is everybody so awkward? Did my pants fall down again? Because if they did, that was part of the impression..."

Wade's head bowed and sighed. "Wait...Thor's actually behind me, isn't he?"

"No, worse," Brunhilde muttered, staring at the scene.

Wade laughed sheepishly, "Whoa! Hey, _look_ who it is! Long time no see! I missed you, did you miss me? 'Cause I _really_ missed you...and your scary...serious face...and big muscles," Wade held his hand out for a shake.

Brunhilde's blue eyes narrowed and she scowled at the boy. "Wade, Son of Wil, I've already shaken your hand this morning, and the morning prior. Do not test me." Brunhilde shouldered past him.

Wade rubbed his shoulder. "Sorry, I won't test you ever again..._sheesh_."

Brunhilde's confident, burly form paced the roof. "Thor will be arriving shortly – he needed to retrieve something."

Brunhilde's eyes scanned everyone at the meeting several times over, nodding her head slightly at each and every person. Elektra believed this was her way of making sure nobody skipped out. Secretly, Elektra was glad Reed forced her to go. If she hadn't come, Brunhilde probably wouldn't have been pleased.

Elektra rarely saw much of Brunhilde at training, and she stuck behind Thor like an older sister would, keeping close tabs on everyone who dared approach the boy. Elektra could count on her fingers the number of times she and Brunhilde actually spoke to each other. She couldn't make up her mind yet if this was a good or bad thing.

Elektra admired the girl the most out of everyone – she held herself with a certain air of nobility and confidence. Brunhilde was no-nonsense, a natural leader in the flesh. She wasn't sure of Brunhilde's history, though bearing similar appearances and height, it was likely Brunhilde was related to Thor in some regard.

Brunhilde's eyes flickered over to Elektra and Natasha then. Brunhilde nodded at Elektra, but paused a bit at Natasha. The girl smiled at Brunhilde giddily, just as she had with Elektra. Brunhilde didn't seem to be affected, her frown seemingly etched onto her face permanently. Brunhilde's eyes lingered on Natasha far longer than anyone else, and Elektra couldn't help but wonder if there was some strain between them. Perhaps even distrust?

Natasha broke away from Brunhilde's gaze, bringing up her leg in the chair and resting her chin upon her knee, looking awfully somber all of a sudden.

Brunhilde clasped her hands behind her waist, looking on past the edge of the roof, onto the city of glittering lights below.

Wade, however, was persistent on getting the girl to notice him. "_Heyyyy_, Brunie', my main lady. Can I call you Brunie'? You hungry? You want some chips? How about some _very expensive_ wine...that's French...that I _did not_ steal by the way. Did I mention it was _French_?"

Wade popped over her other shoulder. "Or how about a nice, crispy chicken wing? It's in my – _Actually,_ I think it's better you _don't_ know where it is right now, but I have it with me..._That is_ if you want it though. I mean...I can always just brush the gunk off -"

Brunhilde brought up her hand. "-Wade, please. Haven't you had your fill by now?" she interrupted, looking repulsed.

Wade shrunk back. "Oh Gods no...I still have plenty of room in the trunk. Food kinda disperses through my body, you see, and...well, you know, it's a bit of a touchy subject for me. Honestly it's been awhile since I've kept track of my bowel movements..."

"How delightful, scarface made it to the party in _one piece_!" A voice Elektra didn't recognize rang in the distance.

"Hey, Thor's here. Bout' time," Clint muttered.

"Oh, good." For the first time in the entire evening, Brunhilde _smiled_. Brunhilde walked away from Wade, leaving the poor boy in the dust.

A slender, dark-haired boy walked confidently ahead of the massive but slouched form of Thor. Elektra wasn't sure who the boy was or why he was here, but he had quite the mouth on him. Actually, Elektra had seen the arrogant boy before, slinging insults with various tributes throughout the training days. She had never seen Thor talking with him prior, though she wasn't really paying attention either.

Thor looked relieved to see Brunhilde, and was the first person his eyes fell on before they embraced each other. "Good to see you again, Brunhilde."

Brunhilde grinned and embraced the dark-haired boy as well. "Aye, I'm glad you two could make it."

The dark-haired boy hugged himself several times. "_Quite_ chilly up here, don't you think?" His tone exuded great indifference and dissatisfaction, with an unmistakable accent that was nearly identical to the ones in the Capitol.

Everything that came out of the boy's mouth was either an insult or a complaint. Thor seemed to tolerate it just fine, as well as Brunhilde – as if they were used to dealing with it. Elektra deduced they shared a history of some sort.

Thor looked sheepish and uncomfortable as he stood in the centre, addressing only Brunhilde's direction. "Sorry...It was the only place I could think of at the time."

The slender boy scowled, looking over everyone with great disdain. "No matter, I'll just have to keep moving about I suppose – which will honestly get quite _annoying_."

Wade, always the charmer, is the first to introduce himself to the newcomer, stumbling over with the bottle of wine in his hands. "I'm Wade, and you must be...?"

The boy looked even more repulsed than Brunhilde had. "_Loki._ You're drunk, boy. Go sit down before you hurt yourself...or the wine," he sneered, dismissing Wade with a wave.

Elektra couldn't help but notice how excited Natasha had become the second Thor arrived – as if she wanted to be noticed. For some odd reason, she wouldn't budge from the seat, though a bright, anxious smile was plastered on to her face, as if she had something she wanted to prove.

Loki began the hasty process of introducing himself, despite how obviously annoyed he was that he needed to even do so.

Quickly enough, Loki arrived at Elektra's table, first greeting Natasha, seemingly already having seen her in the past. Loki leaned over the table to shake Elektra's hand, with a wry smirk. "Elektrik, I presume? Thor's told me about you," Loki's handshake was cold and firm, his eyes piercing and unreadable.

Elektra grit her teeth. "It's _Elektra,_ actually."

Loki didn't appear to react, but eventually shrugged and smiled wryly for only a second before it disappeared. "Hm. My mistake, then."

As soon as Loki wandered off, Elektra's gaze fell back on Thor and Brunhilde, who were engaged in a conversation far from everyone else. She again picked up on Thor's discomfort as he nervously shifted from side-to-side, his face set in a pensive frown, nodding compulsively as Brunhilde talked in his ear. Brunhilde came off as more of a leader than Thor, oddly enough. The boy didn't even look comfortable in his own skin.

Finally, after some time, Brunhilde and Thor relocated to the seating area, Loki in tow. Loki sat down regal-like in one of the chairs, rubbing his chin in thought.

Thor took a seat at Clint's table, though Thor struggled to even fit in the chair – he looked like a child. He cleared his throat before he began; Brunhilde sat in the chair nearest to him, nodding encouragingly as Thor spoke. "So...I guess we should get this over with. Don't know about you folk, but I'm pretty tired."

"Aye, as we all are," Brunhilde agreed.

Thor crossed his burly arms and cleared his throat again. "Just to get this out of the way...As you all may know, we have a new member of the Careers. Some of you may have met him earlier – I don't think he needs to introduce himself."

Loki grumbled. "No, _definitely not._..Look, I don't see the reason why_ this_ needs to be a matter of discussion," Loki shifted uncomfortably.

_"Loki,_ we talked about this. It should at least be gone over, just so we all can get on the same page," Brunhilde said, sternly.

Loki still didn't see it, but relented, throwing his hands up in a passive-aggressive manner. "_Well,_ if my being here means _so_ much to the lot of you..."

"Of _course_ it does, Loki." Thor gave the boy a longing look before he continued. "I brought Loki into this group for reasons...I'm not comfortable going into right now." Brunhilde gently kneaded Thor's shoulder, comforting the boy. "All I can say is that Loki is my _kin,_ and...if he's not here, then I am not either."

"_Oh,_ how _touching_ of you, Thor. I feel so _loved,_" Loki quipped under his breath.

It looked difficult for Thor to find the words in his head. "So...if we can just...go through?" Thor looked at Brunhilde for approval; she nodded. "Yes, let's go through and just...if anyone has any issues with Loki, this will be your only chance to speak on the matter."

"I, for one, fully stand behind Thor in this decision, as I think we all should," Brunhilde added.

Natasha was eager to voice her opinion first, shifting in her seat until she sat straight up for everyone to hear. "I _completely_ agree with Thor. If Loki is family, then why shouldn't he be with us? Family should stick together, _no matter what_." Natasha smiled at Thor. "Thor, I think what you're doing for your brother is..._so, so_ admirable."

Natasha violently nudged Clint's chair with her foot, hard enough that it actually moved an inch.

Clint looked like he just burst out of a deep slumber. "Yeah! Yeah I agree. Uh-huh, definitely. The more the merrier, right?"

Clint wearily looked at Elektra next. Unfortunately, this meant she had to burst from her half-dazed state. Elektra shot Clint a hard look, and he shrugged in response. Elektra sighed as she raised herself up in her seat, her back cracking a little. "Uh, what Natasha said. Family is important so...It just seems right."

Last but not least, was Wade, who was crossing his arms and bouncing his foot impatiently. "You guys kidding? I mean, that's really it? Loki gets to come in 'cause _he's family_? I'm not buying it...I need a little something else here." Wade took another swig of wine, burping as he propped his feet on the table.

Elektra wanted to roll her eyes at Wade's unnecessary voice of disapproval. Everyone shifted in their seat uncomfortably, and Loki began to mutter under his breath.

Natasha shot Wade a hard look. "What does _that_ mean?"

Loki looked annoyed. "Yes,_ I'd_ like to know as well. How about _you_ tell me why you never show your face, boy? And please don't say it's because you're _ugly_."

"You really wanna see? Well, you shoulda said so!" Wade proceeded to take off his mask, cackling as he revealed his horrid scars that covered the entirety of his head. "Take it _all_ in, ladies! Hey, _you_ asked for it! I'm not responsible for any psychological trauma you sustain from this."

Loki gasped, covering his eyes. "By the Gods, he's hideous!"

Thor winced as he put his arm up. "_Alright_, put it back on for Gods' sakes, Wade, please. Now listen, I'll explain all this with Loki when the _time comes_, but as I said...The time just isn't right. Now if we're all done, let's move on."

"_Yes,_ let's do that," Loki added, promptly turning his chair away from Wade.

Thor cleared his throat. "Next, I'd like to discuss my strategy for the...erm...The _beginning_, at the Tesseract..."

Loki seemed to enjoy Thor's discomfort on the subject. "I think you mean to say 'the bloodbath', do you not?"

Thor sighed. "Yes, well...I...Let's just refer to it as 'the beginning' for now, alright?" Thor animated the layout in the air with his finger. "Basically, my plan is we find each other – group up as soon as possible. The more people that see us in a group, the more we _intimidate_ them. If they're smart, they'll run, simple as that. By default, we should _easily_ be able to take over the Tesseract – gear up, grab our weapons and supplies, and then...we begin our hunt at dusk."

Everyone was silent, for the most part. Natasha nodded, as did Clint. Thor looked at everyone for approval. "Does _anyone_ have any input?"

Brunhilde spoke up first, as usual. "Aye, I think it's the best one yet. It was far better than mine."

Clint, for the first time, looked more awake, hands behind his head, mouth upturned as he mulled over a strategy of his own. "...Not to disagree with Thor here – I actually think it's a decent plan, for the most part. Though I gotta say, I think I could be more help from a distance...Pick off any stragglers. Only reason I say it is because I'm not too good in close-quarters – but give me a bow and I could do some serious work."

Elektra actually agreed with Clint's suggestion. When it came down to it, Elektra didn't really want to hurt anyone. She was aiming for redemption, not a relapse. If Elektra could be of any use, it would be assisting Clint.

Elektra raised her hand, Thor saw it immediately and nodded. "I like what Clint said. I'm pretty fast – I mean, I could easily get to the Tesseract, grab Clint's bow and throw it to him, that way he wouldn't have to risk hurting himself." Elektra glanced at Clint for approval, and he gave her a thumbs-up signal.

Thor seemed to like the idea, nodding briskly to Brunhilde. "We'd really appreciate that, Elektra."

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha shot Elektra a hard glance – a glance Elektra couldn't read clearly.

Natasha sniffed loudly and raised her hand, her leg shaking fervently. "I can do it as well," she looked at Elektra and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "You know, just in case _she_ doesn't make it."

_Huh?_

Elektra didn't quite understand what the girl was trying to say, exactly. _This_ pissed Elektra off, to the point where she smirked to herself in disbelief. Elektra didn't even look at the other girl as her tongue rolled around in her cheek. "Oh, _I'll_ make it," she mumbled.

Natasha was quite frankly getting on Elektra's nerves. Her giddiness came across now as fake – the way she smiled at someone until they looked away, assuming the girl was just being nice. But if someone were observant, they could easily notice the long, cold stare Natasha gave them out of the corner of their eye – measuring them up, trying to crack their code.

Elektra saw it as ridiculous, plain and simple. Elektra could only tolerate lies for so long before she snapped – and Natasha was coming _real_ close to setting her off.

"I have a suggestion!" Wade burst out of his seat, unfolding a crinkled piece of paper with old stains all over it, rendering it hardly readable.

Thor looked a little annoyed at Wade, and Loki even groaned, smacking his hand on his face.

"Check_ this_ out," Wade held up the crinkled paper, which depicted numerous drawings that Elektra couldn't even comprehend or follow. Wade winced, covering his hand over a part of the page. "Eh, don't look at _that_ part – I just got a little bored there and felt like drawing tits." Elektra sighed – Wade, always being the gentleman.

Wade obnoxiously cleared his throat as he gestured to the main centrepiece, "So this is _my_ idea; I say as soon as we're off our plates, I take off all my clothes, right? And then maybe one of us can find some grass or straw or whatever and fill my clothes with all of it, and we _build_ a dummy...of _me_. And then, I'll go hide in the bushes while my girl, _Brunie_, stabs the dummy through the freakin' chest!"

At this point Wade began fully animating his plan.

"Are you all following? So then, if it works out, the Cappies will come down in their UFO and try to pull the dummy up, right? Because they'll think it's _me_, but in reality, _I'm_ just hiding in the bushes. So then – this is where it gets real good...My home-girls, _Lektra_ and _Natasha_, will get sucked in the giant ray with the dummy, and then, _Clint_ and _Thor_, you guys will be shooting freakin' arrows at the UFO providing cover-fire, right? And _then,_ Elektra and Natasha will freakin' take over the entire ship like bad-ass _ninjas_, hold the captain hostage, threaten him, seduce him, whatever _girls_ do...yada, yada."

Thor gave Brunhilde a strange look, but the girl was busy frowning. Clint, on the other hand, was trying to hide his chuckles. Loki had begun drinking some of the wine.

"So_ then_, my _girls_ up top will get the captain to lower down the UFO, get all of _us_ inside, right? We'll all get in, and if it works out, we'll have _our own freakin'_ UFO to fly around the whole arena! We'll man the laser turrets, hunt down _everyone_, lock on em'...and BOOM, BITCH! Pretty soon, before we know it, we'll all win the freakin' AVENGER GAMES, BABY! We'll fly out in our UFO to space, and settle our own colony. My home-boy here, Thor, will become dictator and enslave a bunch of alien strippers, and then we'll _all live happily ever after._ So whaddya all think, eh? It's awesome, right?"

Wade looked at everyone, arms stretched out, smiling under his mask, proud of his _genius_ plan to dominate the arena.

Clint chewed on his fingernails, spitting them out of his mouth. "...That _has_ to be the worst looking tits I have ever seen in my life." Clint gestured at the drawing on the paper.

Loki stormed over and snatched the piece of paper out of Wade's hands. "Give me that, you _babbling fool._" Loki's eyes scanned over the crumpled paper, a profound scowl overtaking his features the more he read, like his mind was being tainted. He looked over at Thor, and brought the paper up. "This is _bloody_ indecipherable – It...It looks like a bunch of..._phalluses_...drawn by a_ five-year old_."

Wade scoffed and took the paper back. "What? Lemme' see that," Wade looked it over and smacked his forehead. "Ah _shoot._..This is the _wrong_ paper! Knew I should have brought that _chart_..."

Thor looked frustrated. "Wade, please, just sit down. I appreciate your...input, but I'd prefer we aim for...a more _down-to-earth_ approach."

Wade plopped down and shoved the paper down his pants, feeling defeated. "Worth a shot..."

Brunhilde tapped Thor's shoulder. "We should move on."

Thor agreed. "Indeed – so if there aren't any other concerns or..._actual_ suggestions, we stick with my strategy for 'the beginning' – we group up, conquer the Tesseract, and begin our _hunt_ at nightfall, when the other players are at their most vulnerable. Sound good?"

Everyone nodded, except Wade, who looked glum after failing to inspire his allies.

Thor constantly shifted in the uncomfortable seat, his bulging muscles threatening to break free from the plastic constraints. "Next, I feel we should quickly go over the tributes who might potentially be a _threat_ to our group – anybody who looks like they could be a problem." Thor gestured at everyone. "Who would like to start first?"

Wade raised his hand up higher than everyone. "Ooooh! Me! Me!"

Thor sighed and chose to get Wade out of the way first. "Yes! Okay...I've got two...First one is Cletus – that dude straight up lost his marbles, and I think we need to also give him a 'cannibal alert', becaaaauuuuse...I _may have_ made a bet with him about how many people he thinks he could eat whole in a week. _For the record,_ I_ only_ said two people. One of em' is his partner, because come on...she's really skinny and is like an appetizer, you know?"

Loki took another swig of wine. "Gods, kill me now," he muttered.

Thor coughed impatiently. "_Anyone_ else, Wade?"

Wade thought for a second, hand on his chin. "...Ah! Bruce. I think that guy has anger issues."

Thor chose Natasha to speak next. "Logan...definitely. He needs an attitude adjustment, and he's also _really_ good with knives." Natasha scowled just thinking about the boy.

Brunhilde was next, sitting straight up in her chair for everyone to hear clearly. "Aye, I concur with Logan and Cletus. Those two are dangerous. Though I also think Carol Danvers is not to be trifled with. We must keep an eye on her. The same goes for T'Challa – he _is_ intimidating."

Thor nodded and then gestured at Elektra. "Elektra, you've been pretty quiet...Got anyone?"

Elektra's eyes widened slightly. She is caught off guard by the sudden question – she hadn't really paid too much attention to anyone while she was training. She was often in her own world, focused on herself instead of moping about any other nonsense. But she _had_ to say something.

Elektra propped her foot up on the table, absentmindedly playing with the sole of her boot. "Um...Steve, he's pretty good. And...then...Benedetta. She's pretty good with knives, like Logan. And...Peter Parker..."

Elektra made a mistake...she knew it the second she opened her mouth. Natasha gave her a curious look, as did Loki. Hardly anyone knew or cared about Parker – if she made him a target, he'd surely get killed if they saw him. She kind of _liked_ Parker, to be honest. He was a good kid...he didn't deserve to be _killed_ because she decided to open her stupid mouth.

Thor thought about the names Elektra suggested for a second. "Hmm? Parker? The short, scrawny kid?" Thor snorted darkly, like he had met Parker before and was remembering something. "Eh, he won't be a problem, trust me."

Elektra didn't let it show, but inside, she was grateful Thor had just said that. Now at least Peter wouldn't be targeted _first._

Clint spoke up, looking around to see if anyone had anything else to say. "Uh...well, I agree with Elektra about Steve. I've seen him run the combat simulator, he's pretty good, I guess. _Real_ good with ranged weapons..." Clint struggled with his answer, like he was biting his tongue.

Loki seemed to have a vested interest in Clint, glaring at him with that usual cocky smirk on his angular face. "And Kate? What about her, hmm? She looks like an_ excellent_ shot with that little _bow_ of hers."

Clint turned to face Loki, a strange look of confusion and inner turmoil on his features, "Who? _Kate_? No...No she's a _decent_ shot at best. Hell, not even decent..." Clint scowled, biting his lip.

Loki raised his eyebrows, obviously knowing something about Clint that no one else here seemed to know. "_Whatever_ you say, Clinty-boy. I witnessed that girl get a _bulls-eye_ twice in a row – but I suppose it's trivial, isn't it? I mean, _he_ was right there with me, watching...weren't you, Clint?"

Clint looked tense, distinctly different now from his usual calm, collected self. He seemed deeply troubled, his teeth gritted and his eyes firmly fixed on Loki's smirk. "So what? She's an amateur. She got lucky...That's _it._"

Loki nodded in a sarcastic manner. "Mm, I see. The second time as well? How about the_ third?_"

Clint went on the defensive. "What would you know, huh? Have _you_ ever shot a bow before? Look, she got _lucky,_ plain and simple." Clint scanned everyone's eyes, making sure nobody doubted him, that nobody questioned him. This was the first instance Elektra had seen Clint get worked up about something; usually, the boy had been rather cool and confident. Something was bothering Clint greatly.

"I _assure you,_ Kate Bishop is not a problem. If we hunted her...we'd only be wasting our time." Clint turned around, refusing to say anymore on the matter.

Thor looked troubled as well, and didn't like where this was going. "People, look, Kate's dangerous either way, as is everyone -"

Loki stared daggers at the back of Clint's head, laughing to himself. "- You're making a _terrible_ mistake, Thor..."

Thor shot Loki an irritated glance. "I'm not, Loki! Can you just let me handle this? Clint?_ Clint!_"

The boy's arms were crossed as he turned around, chest moving rapidly, evidently in a worse mood than when he first arrived. "It doesn't even matter."

Thor leaned forward. "It_ does_ matter, Clint, it's why we're all _here._ _Look_ at me, we won't hunt down Kate, alright? We'll keep tabs on her, and_ if_ we_ do_ catch her, we'll...It'll be your decision to make."

Clint's eyes wavered, and if the boy felt anything, he didn't show it. Instead, he breathed in deeply and began fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.

Thor rubbed his temples like he was distressed, speaking as he did, "According to what's been said, it seems the most dangerous tributes this year are as follows – please someone correct me if I left anyone out," Thor squinted his eyes as he counted the names off with his fingers, "Logan, T'Challa, Cletus, Steve...uh...Kate, _possibly_...Carol, Benedetta. I believe that's it...?"

"Don't forget Bruce," Wade piped in.

Thor rolled his eyes and sighed. "_Fine_, Bruce, too. Is that all of them?"

Everyone nodded collectively.

Thor seemed to falter again. "...Alright, so until we're in the Games, just...Just keep an eye on them, I suppose."

Brunhilde looked oddly worried for Thor, and decided to speak up in his behalf. "Thor, I believe it's best we finish this up. Do you have anything else you wish to discuss?"

Thor sighed through his nose and looked beyond the roof – past the shining city – past the springs and the mountains. There was a sense that he had something else to say, but was having trouble finding the words to say it.

Brunhilde gently placed her hand on his right shoulder. "Thor?"

Thor rose from the tiny chair. "Actually, I do have one more thing I wanted to discuss. I should have asked it earlier...get it out of the way. But...I guess it's now or never," Thor looked more troubled than ever before.

Brunhilde looked down, her eyes flitting around, possibly trying to figure out what Thor could be troubled by. "What is it?"

Thor placed his hands firmly on Clint's table, leaning forward. "...When we get in _there_...eventually the time will come where we will...have to _hurt_ people. It troubles me to say it, but it can't be avoided, and it's something all of us have to accept. _It_ could happen in the beginning, at the Tesseract, or...or it could happen later on the hunt, but at some point, all of us will be faced with that task."

Thor looked a little lost, and more than a little uncomfortable as he continued. "I just want to know that everyone sitting here is comfortable with.._.that_. With hurting people... doing what must be done..."

There was a pervasive silence in the garden, the breeze flowed gently still, rattling the leaves behind them. But it was no longer a comfortable silence. It was an eerie silence. None of them wanted to look at each other directly, instead, they all cast their heads down. Some sneakily peeked up to check what everyone else was feeling, but only once, and never again. Even Loki seemed to have a difficult time processing this, his cocky smile no longer there. Wade's chin was in his hand, for once – seemingly silent, transfixed on a solitary crack in the ground.

This was a change in their dynamic that Elektra never expected to see. It quite frankly made her feel uncomfortable, tense, and sickly. The fact that _this_ needed to be discussed...It was strange to her. Essentially, Thor was asking them if they were willing to accept the notion of becoming murderers. How can someone possibly react to that?

Clint coughed into his hand and spoke up. "...That's what our role is, right? We're the _Careers_, we've gotta be _big,_ we've gotta be _bad._ In the end, I guess true Careers learn to accept that, huh? Forget about home, forget about values, we're just here to put on a good show," Clint spat, shaking his head and chuckling darkly, "It's a wonder everybody hates us..."

Thor rubbed his eyes with a fist, refusing to show weakness. "...Yes, well..." The large boy began to pace back and forth, refusing to look at anyone if he couldn't help it. "I suggest we...get _rid_ of everyone that we see – don't hesitate – don't feel anything. Just.._.do_. Don't think about it. Just push...Just push all the things we know now to the side. There's no room for that where we're going."

Elektra couldn't tell if Thor was trying to convince himself or everyone else as he spoke.

"Thankfully, we have someone in our group that...has _experience_ with this sort of thing," Thor looked at Elektra, nodding. Elektra's heart sank, her face going pale as Thor revealed to everyone what she had done.

Thor didn't notice, he was too busy off in his own world, trying to come to terms himself with becoming inhuman. Elektra couldn't really blame Thor for it, but the fact he even mentioned _it_ was her greatest fear all along. Elektra sank further into her seat, her leg bouncing nervously.

"If anyone could assist us, other than our mentors, it's Elektra. So, as we go around, if anyone has _any_ questions about this, you could either address them to me, or to Elektra." Thor continued to pace, his hands scrunched in his pockets, eyebrows furrowed.

Elektra didn't even want to look up, but she could _feel_ the stares lingering on her – she could feel Natasha peering at her under her scarlet veil, she could feel Clint sighing as he studied her. It was nerve-racking.

"So it's true, then? We have a _murderer_ in our midst?" Loki almost sounded impressed.

She didn't want to answer, not like this. But if she didn't, then they'd never trust her. She had to say _something_.

Elektra sighed. "Yeah, it's true. I killed a man when I was fourteen – it's why I was sent to prison," she murmured.

Loki almost didn't seem to _care_. Like he's heard it all before, like it really wasn't a big deal. His eyebrows raised, but his voice was nonchalant, "How _convenient._" Loki took a small swig from Wade's wine once more. "Really, congratulations, dear. You did what I should have done _years ago_. Maybe then I wouldn't have ended up in this _shit-hole_."

Natasha, for the first time, seemed to struggle with her words. This was the only question she seemed to not be expecting. "I mean...it can't be _too hard_. If we just push our feelings away, I think it could get easier over time. But...if one of us were in danger, there's no question. I'd save any one of us if it came down to it..."

Elektra had a hard time deciding if Natasha was being genuine, or was just using her skill with words to make it seem so. She certainly looked troubled as she silently fiddled with her braid.

Clint sighed. "Look, if need be, I could do it. Considering where I've come from...the things I did, it wouldn't be too hard to go the extra mile and finish the job."

Wade was silent under his mask – the boy hadn't even uttered a word for the past several minutes. Considering Wade's personality, this was rather unusual.

Brunhilde looked like something was troubling her, and finally stood up from her seat. Thor paused in pace, staring at her with full attention. "I believe it's appropriate, in an instance such as this one, that we make a pact. A pact to do what must be done, until our dying breath. A pact that once the Games begin, we will not discuss the fallen, nor should we be prideful. For we are not animals – but _warriors_."

Everyone stood up, extending their arms and placing their hands in the centre of the table. Elektra was incredulous – Loki even more so, looking at Brunhilde as if she had gone insane. Thor was the first to place his hand above hers on the table, followed by Clint, Natasha, Elektra, Loki, and finally, Wade.

Brunhilde looked at each of them, her blue eyes piercing through the fog of confusion, a light in the darkness. "There is no coming back from this, understand? This pact will die when this alliance does."

Slowly, everyone removed their hand, the full weight of their decision firmly placed on their shoulders, visible in the darkness of their eyes, the silence of their scowls.

The rite was complete. They had officially become Careers, and there was no turning back now.

Thor gathered everyone once more, a serious look on his features. "Again, I appreciate you all coming here tonight – it meant a lot to Brunhilde and me. It's time we rest – tomorrow are the uh...What _is_ tomorrow?" Thor looked at Brunhilde with a puzzled look.

Brunhilde knew instantly, as if the date were marked on a calendar. "Tomorrow are the private training assessments – I suggest you all consider what you wish to demonstrate for the Gamemakers. Our scores will not only determine our survival, but our reputation."

Thor yawned, pushing back his thick blonde hair. "Exactly. So we rest, and show them everything we've got. So, if there are no other questions, this meeting is concluded."

Loki was the first to head for the elevator. "_Yes, yes,_ farewell, sweet tidings, dream about...bunnies or something...bed-bugs..._Bah_, whatever the hell happy people say."

Thor and Brunhilde followed Loki into the lift, never once looking back. They carried themselves in an exhausted manner. The meeting took a chunk out of everyone, mentally and emotionally.

Soon enough, Natasha begrudgingly convinced Clint to rise from his seat. "Clint, come on, get up!" Natasha tugged on Clint's arm until he fell out of the chair.

Clint groaned in protest. "Aw...come on, Natasha. But it was _so_ comfy..." Natasha aided Clint as they ambled to the lift. Clint was so tired and drunk the boy could barely walk straight. Clint waved behind him. "Cheers to hangovers!" Clint raised his fist in victory.

At long last, Elektra and Wade were the final two on the roof. Elektra's eyes were shutting involuntarily, her mind becoming slightly disoriented. She stretched her aching muscles like a cat, hoping the pain would wake her up enough so she could walk herself back to her room.

Elektra noticed Wade, very much unlike himself, standing near the edge of the balcony of the roof, looking far into the horizon. Elektra slowly approached, the breeze from the edge causing the strands of loose hairs near her forehead to flow back. "You coming with, or should I just leave you up here?" she asked the boy, his back turned to her.

Wade actually seemed surprised to see her. "Oh, hey. Eh, just...admiring the view, you know? So many lights down there..." Wade's voice cracked a little, like he was fighting back tears. His voice seemed uncharacteristically hollow.

Elektra wasn't good with comforting people...not at all. It was one of her greatest faults, and if she even tried to comfort _Wade Wilson_, a boy she was sure was half-insane, it would only end in disaster.

So Elektra did what she did best, kept her mouth shut, and walked away. Whatever issues Wade had, he needed to solve them alone. After all, that's how she grew up.

"Hey, Elektra?" Wade called after her, a hint of desperation in his voice. She paused, and looked back.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Depends," she muttered.

"What...what was it like to kill that guy?" It would have sounded funny had Wade said it like normal, but it wasn't funny. It wasn't even strange. It was...sad. Wade seemed torn, she could hear it in his voice.

Elektra didn't expect the question, her eyebrows furrowed, mulling for some answer in her mind – a recollection of all the feelings that coursed through her brain at fourteen, when she took a dagger, and began viciously stabbing the boy involved in her father's death in the snow – once a friend, then an enemy. She remembered getting to her knees first and stabbing him in the tendon – above his left ankle. And she didn't stop until he fell. She didn't stop until she no longer heard his pleas for mercy, his jumbled curses, his sobs.

But in all that, the lust for vengeance clouded her mind like a red haze – any feelings of remorse for the boy named 'Bullseye' flew out the window the second he told her how he got his scar a week before. Elektra knew she was sick in the head for being able to plan and carry out the murder so calmly, even as a kid. But it helped to know the boy deserved it, and that the world didn't deserve him.

As Wade anxiously waited for an answer, all Elektra could think about was all the blood, and how she knew there was no way she could possibly hide it from the Sentinels. It was the reason she turned herself in.

So Elektra told Wade the truth. "It was...messy," she muttered, nodding slightly as she remembered.

Wade looked at her with an abject look of disbelief, but she couldn't understand why. She told him the truth, did she not?

For the first time, Wade didn't laugh at her sarcasm. He laughed, but it was a normal one – a laugh much like Natasha's laugh – nervous. "You're joking, right?" Wade sort of tilted his head, trying to figure out if Elektra _was_ joking, just being her usual sarcastic, moody self like always.

But Elektra wasn't laughing, and she felt more offended than anything. Why would she _joke_ about it? She couldn't fathom it.

Wade hesitated. "I mean...there has to be more to it than _that._ 'Messy' is a _given_, considering..."

Elektra felt a little guilty. It seemed Wade _really_ wanted to know, but it's like trying to recall her dreams in vivid detail. She couldn't describe it, not clearly. "Wade...I _don't_...know how to answer that," she admitted, sadly.

Wade sighed and nodded his head, "Yeah, I figured as much. Well, tell me this...Indulge me, did you feel _bad_ about it afterward? Were you...I don't know, haunted by visions or anything? Nightmares? Was it easy to cope with what you did?" Wade was desperate for an answer, and even if she _didn't_ feel any of those things, she could at least _try_ to help Wade.

Again, it was incredibly difficult for her to put it into words for someone like Wade to understand, or anyone for that matter. Nobody had ever asked her these questions before.

"At that...point in my life, I guess I was just so..._angry_ at the world, that nothing else mattered anymore. When I killed that man, I had _nothing_ left to lose. Having that mind-set...It's dangerous, Wade. I _was_ in that place once, and I can tell you, it's not really a good _place_ for anyone to be."

"Being in that mind-set," she continued, "I can honestly say – that no, I didn't feel guilt when I did it, I didn't feel guilt after I did it, and I still don't – but everyone's different. As for the nightmares...I don't really remember them." Elektra hoped it was good enough for Wade, despite the boy having turned away again, looking down at the glowing city.

Elektra glanced at the bottle of mostly drunken '_Le Flambeau_' sitting on one of the tables. "Hey, what are you going to do with that wine?"

Wade smiled softly through his mask. "Ah, you know...I think I'll stash it up here somewhere. Leave it for the next bunch."

She looked at him curiously. "Next bunch?"

Wade chuckled, "Elektra, this'll probably be the last time we'll _ever_ be up here. A year from now, I bet you there'll be six more tired, dull fellows who would really appreciate a little pick-me-up. Gods knows they'll need it."

"Think they'll ever find it?" she wondered.

Wade looked longingly at the expensive bottle. "We can _only_ hope."

As Elektra turned to leave, Wade called to her once more. "Hey, Elektra? Are...you still in that _place_?"

She mulled it over a second, the sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze the only sound to be heard. "I don't know, Wade."

She swivelled on her heel in deep thought, walking to the elevator and leaving Wade Wilson to his lonesome in the night.

* * *

As Elektra entered the main room, the entire sanctum was dim and silent, save for the ticking of a neon wall-clock. It was exactly midnight.

She shoved off her boots and let her dark hair fall loose past her shoulders, padding barefoot into the dining room, where her mentor Johnny Storm sat in the darkness.

Elektra wasn't startled when she saw the man, she half-expected him to still be up, watching television. What she didn't expect to find was Johnny sitting in the dark, both hands under his chin in silence.

Johnny shoved out one of the chairs across from him with his foot. "Elektra, glad you could make it back. Would you sit down for a minute?"

Elektra narrowed her dark eyes at him warily. "What's this about?"

Johnny crossed his arms, his face pensive. "Just wanted to talk for a minute – I'll make it quick, I know you need to sleep."

Elektra slowly slid down in the chair, keeping her body side-ways as she sat down, facing the wall instead of Johnny.

"I thought a lot this evening about what happened earlier," Johnny leaned forward on his arms, "And...I'm going to be honest, it seriously made me reconsider my decision to mentor you."

Elektra smirked and nodded, leaning back in her seat. "So _that's_ what this is about. Well, Johnny, I _do_ tend to have that effect."

"See, there you go again...Being _difficult_, and I_ don't_ understand why," he argued.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. "I don't either, Johnny. Are we done?"

Johnny slammed his fist on the surface of the table. "No, we're not, actually! And if we don't resolve this issue right _here_ and right _now_, it's going to make _me_ look bad."

Elektra grinned. "So it's all about you then, isn't it? No wonder you haven't had any _victors_. On second thought, Johnny, I think I'll pass on being mentored. Turns out, I'm better off _without_ one."

"So I'm guessing you don't want any sponsors either, right? Well, sunshine, don't come _crying_ to me when you need bandages, or water, or medicine...I guess you can handle _all that_ on your own, can't you?" Johnny snapped.

Elektra didn't respond. Her temper was flaring up, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to control, so she tapped her fingers on the table, letting Johnny go off.

"You know, it's looking more and more like this'll be another_ fucking failure_ of the year for me. I'm serious, you have to be _the most_ difficult human being I have ever had the displeasure of working with, and that's no joke. Don't get me wrong, you're a beautiful–"

She smirked at that, making a sarcastic face at the irate man to piss him off more, and it worked.

Johnny nodded his head angrily. "Yeah, go ahead and smile. I'm sure you like being called _beautiful_, don't you? But you didn't let me finish, you're beautiful, but inside, you're _ugly,_ and I saw that from the very beginning. I've _tried_ and _tried_ to make you like me, and I've tried to work with you, but quite frankly, Elektra, you're _impossible_ to like."

Elektra began to imagine the many ways she would like to kill Johnny Storm. Right now, she was fantasizing about using the wall-clock to bash his skull in, and using the glass to slowly carve out his eyeballs.

"Here's a little _fun-fact_ for you, sunshine – right about now, your odds of winning this thing are _zero._" Johnny made a symbol with his fingers. "You have a better chance of walking outside and getting struck by lightning. At the rate you've been going, I can't imagine anyone who would _ever_ sponsor you. You _don't_ smile, you _don't_ wave, you _don't_ even look at these people. And let me tell you, that's just _not_ how this thing works!"

Elektra leaned forward in her chair until she was right in front of his face. "So how _does_ this thing work, Johnny? What, do I jump into bed with you like all the other girls do? Is that the _secret_? Well tough shit, because_ I don't care_."

Johnny was dead silent as she spoke to him. "I don't care about anyone or anything. I don't care about _you_, I don't care about any of _this_...I never have and never will."

Elektra rushed out of her chair, and climbed up onto the oak table, kneeling until she was right in front of Johnny Storm. His eyes widened, but for some reason, he stayed seated.

The man instinctively turned away and flinched as she got up in his face, gesturing with her fingers at her own dark amber eyes. "Here, look at my eyes and tell me _exactly_ what you see, Johnny Storm. Come on, look! _What do you see?_"

Johnny gritted his teeth, a hint of fear she perhaps noticed in his blue orbs, but there was more hatred there indeed.

Johnny Storm would never admit to Elektra that he did _indeed_ see absolutely nothing. He would never give the brat the satisfaction – but Johnny Storm knew those eyes anywhere. Johnny would never forget them, because he had seen them before.

Johnny saw them many years ago, just days before he would launch the flaming arrow into the gasoline soaked prairie around the Tesseract. As Johnny Storm hung upside down from a snare, he watched Roberto da Costa slay his allies, one by one, until finally the boy got to him, and just before Roberta would plunge the dagger into his gut to try and kill him, Johnny saw up close the near pitch-black eyes that would haunt his dreams forever – eyes so devoid of any humanity or compassion, Johnny wondered how someone seemingly so normal could even reach that point.

Sitting there, looking into Elektra's eyes, Johnny felt like he was back in the arena, hanging upside down, watching his world crumble around him all over again.

This girl was already _there_, and she wasn't trying to _scare_ him, she was trying to ask him for _help_. But Johnny was too vain, too frightened of his memories to possibly tell her this.

So he told her what he'd been trying to tell her all along. "I see a girl who won't be walking out from that arena alive," he whispered.

Elektra stared at him for a moment with great ferocity, before giving him her final answer. "Watch me."

Elektra climbed off the table, knocking a chair down and causing Johnny to flinch in the silence, before walking to her room, letting the darkness she so sought claim her at last.


	26. Chapter 25: Two Wolves

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our latest chapter, written by the wonderful Canuckle, as we return to Logan once more. Thanks to Created to Write and sailorraven34 for their reviews, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five – Two Wolves**

**Lunch Before Training Assessments**

**James Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"Inside us there are two wolves. One is evil... One is Good. … Which one wins? The one you feed the most."_

– Cherokee Proverb

* * *

Logan shrugged his shoulder up, trying to get his mentor to let him go. Creed hadn't taken his hands off him since they'd left their floor, growling into his ear the whole way. He was alternating between threats of bodily harm and encouragement. The only thing that made it tolerable was the fact that the more he talked, the more Logan was sure he'd broken the jerk's nose. Creed shoved him a little too hard, making sure the young man still had his focus on him, reminding him of who was in charge. Not that he needed to. The man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

"Remember what I told you, boy. Don't bother makin' friends with these little pipsqueaks unless you plan on usin' it to tear their throats out." It was easy for Creed to growl in Logan's ear as he pushed the young man ahead of him. He towered over Logan by more than a foot as he kept one big hand wrapped around the back of Logan's neck. All so he could direct him and keep him close.

Jubilee, Logan's stylist, had kept herself nearby. She looked more than a little worried while she watched over their tribute, not trusting Creed on his word to not do further harm to the young man. The tension in the air was thick around them.

The altercation that had gone down between these two before she walked in clearly wasn't over and it had all three of them tense. Creed had a fresh sparkle in his eyes – like he knew something that Logan and Jubilee didn't. It made both of them uneasy.

Creed was careful to keep Logan close, muttering his bad breath over the young man's shoulder as he continued to give him orders, punctuating his points by squeezing his shoulder to the point that it was painful. He was again pushing Logan's buttons. When they had nearly reached the cafeteria, Creed took a moment to reiterate all he'd been saying on the long walk there.

"You don't need no damned alliances, boy, so don't even think about it. You'd end up feelin' sorry for 'em when you _should_ be enjoyin' it. You got it in ya, Runt, I know you do. You an' me – we're two sides of the same coin. Give it a chance – you're gonna love killin' these little punks. Now, get yourself ready to bring me a high score and maybe, if I'm in a good mood, I'll see what I can do to get ya some sponsors. See ya on the other side," Creed growled out low as he squeezed his neck a little harder than necessary, coming to a stop outside the cafeteria.

For a moment, a passerby might have thought that the monster was actually giving him some fair advice. If they didn't know the man, that is. With no further warning, he shoved Logan through the doors hard enough to make him stumble a bit away from the other tributes. It was simply Creeds' means of emphasizing his point: Go it alone or pay the price.

Logan's jaw was locked tightly and his hands were balled into fists as he straightened himself up. He peeked over his shoulder to see Jubilee give him a pained expression. She tried to smile at him and gave him the thumbs up before continuing on her way. He'd _enjoy_ killing these people? The _only_ person he wanted to kill at that moment had just taken his grubby paw off the back of his neck.

He looked around the room as he gathered himself, quickly taking stock of where everyone was starting to set up shop. The others had already begun to divide into their little groups, often, but not always paired up by district, and nearly all of them trying to keep up their somewhat friendly and relaxed facade.

His eyes flickered over to a small group of younger tributes. From Nine, the Elf, as he liked to think of him, the trick shot from Twelve and the little smart aleck from Eight were bunched up together at one table. They seemed to be getting along pretty well, something that would never be allowed outside of this setting.

The smart mouth, Parker, was making jokes. Kurt and Kate were building on them, somehow keeping their spirits up – but the kid looked scared. Parker jumped a little as the careers began carousing loudly. They were boisterously acting as if they were celebrating their victory already. Logan huffed a little, somehow refraining from shaking his head at them – _who the hell do they think they're foolin_? It looked like a cheap intimidation tactic to him that sadly, seemed to be working on several of the other tributes, most of them keeping their distance from the Career pack's table and by extension, the best grub.

Logan didn't break his stride as he made a beeline right for the table nearest the careers. He leisurely grabbed what looked to be the most edible looking things to pick at. He paid careful attention to which of them was watching him as he made a point to act as if they weren't there, forcing his body to relax as he took his time.

He wanted to know if any of them considered him a threat. It seemed like a couple of them were a bit less enthusiastic with him standing there. He smirked a little to himself. Someone had an eye on him. Maybe he'd kept it too relaxed in training.

He casually strode towards an empty table in the far corner of the room, snatching up a water bottle on his way. He wasn't in the mood to even pretend like he was hungry, but he was again attempting to follow directions – at least for the time being.

He was still livid from his 'discussion' with Creed, but his desire to try and live through this fiasco trumped ego. For now, as long as nothing else really happened between he and his mentor, he would try to behave. He dropped himself into a chair facing into the room so he could scope the crowd.

For as long as he could remember, he'd always made a habit of keeping his back to the wall in unfamiliar places and this wide room loaded with all the lavish wastefulness that he associated with those from the Capitol was certainly unfamiliar. He could almost find humour in it. Almost. Very little was funny about how some of these kids were acting.

Several of the kids from the poorer districts were eating as if they'd never seen food before while the more well to do tributes were exceedingly picky on what they took.

The big blond guy from Four threw his head back laughing with his district partner as she smiled on next to him. Must have been a good joke given how hard as he was carrying on. Maybe it had something to do with the greasy little weasel Blondie had his arm around. Someone had said they were brothers.

As he watched the interactions between tributes, he realized that they really hadn't been there nearly as long as it had felt. To him it had felt like weeks, but he thought he must have been the only one with that viewpoint. He could see the nervousness rising for many of them … their anxiety was reflected in their eyes as they became more skittish the closer they got to the launch.

In truth it had really only been three days of training. The training part of the day wasn't too bad. He actually almost enjoyed it, though he wasn't even attempting to push himself. It seemed like many of the stations were frivolous. Didn't anyone realize that no one could pick up sword fighting in three days? A hint or two, sure, but enough to be efficient?

He spent his time leisurely running through what looked interesting and what was required to fill the gaps in time, passively observing some of the more aggressive tributes. He was very careful to never show the full extent of his abilities or knowledge, going so far as to take extra time at some of the stations that he could have taught. That within itself was a chore. It wasn't really like him to hold back in any kind of competition. The part of the day that dragged was before and after training when he was stuck alone with his mentor or stylist.

Jubes wasn't bad – irritating, sure – maybe a bit overly excited if anything, but she meant well. Logan's problem was the hours and hours spent trying to do as Creed asked while the monster cozied up to him like he was his long lost little brother. It was enough to make a Saint want to cut out someone's heart, and he was no Saint.

Logan had been grudgingly following Creed's plan, and though it grated him, he had to admit it was a good one. It wasn't because he thought the man was some kind of strategist or because he liked the psychopathic son of a bitch or his twisted methods. Quite the opposite. It was because according to Moira, this was the first time he had even attempted to make an effort at preparing his tribute. As pissed off as he was at the whole situation, Logan really did want to live through this mess, even if it meant having Jubilee handle his wardrobe until God knows when.

He had all but convinced Logan that everyone there was likely lying about what they knew and didn't. To Logan's surprise, the man had accurately predicted how most of them would spend their training days. He'd never admit it, but Logan had to wonder if Creed was right and they were doing the same thing he was.

Faking it, holding back – hiding what they really knew or didn't. Logan knew _he_ spent his training time trying to keep himself loose and flexible while watching the competition. It only made sense that many, if not all of them were doing the same thing.

Logan had realized early on that the biggest problem he had walking into this mess was that Victor Creed, of all people, was his best shot at keeping his habit of breathing and he had to face facts. He wasn't known for keeping enemies _or_ friends alive. Knowing that, Logan wondered how hard pressed one would have to be to find someone that was friends with the blood thirsty sadist. He'd never met someone he hated so thoroughly before and being told over and over that Creed was in charge of him was like spitting in his face. It tweaked him every single time someone said it.

From the first night there, Creed had been pushing his buttons whether he knew it or not. He had forced Logan to watch recaps with him – giving him blow by blow on all of the kills he'd made during the year he won the games. His arm was draped around the young man's shoulders as he joked and laughed at each one. When he'd exhausted that extensive and gory list, he moved on to showing each and every one of the tributes that he'd mentored dying one by one to Creed's utter amusement.

He chuckled at their usually very painful-looking deaths, as if it was the highest form of entertainment. He'd even gone so far as to tell Logan how he'd set some of them up for failure, feeding them bad information just so he could watch them die. Groot and his mangy looking raccoon had to be better to work with.

Logan was sick to his stomach as Creed's words from earlier continued to echo in his head. Maybe he was right. Maybe they were more alike than Logan wanted to admit because he was still entertaining all kinds of ways to gut that animal and watch him bleed out slowly.

His morbid thought process was interrupted when he saw movement from across the room. The Elf was looking at him and had stood, his intention clearly to come and talk to Logan while Kate and Parker continued to make wisecracks.

Kurt's young face looked troubled, and Logan had guessed why. It would have been hard for anyone to miss seeing Creed manhandling Logan after all. Logan locked eyes with him and gave the tiniest shake of his head, stopping Kurt in his tracks. They were being watched and Logan knew it. Even if they were to have some sort of agreement, now was not the time to advertise it to the rest of the group and whoever else was watching. He just hoped that Kurt would understand his reluctance.

_Not now, Elf__,_ he thought to himself. The younger boy seemed to get the message and slowly sunk back into his chair, his eyes on Logan until he finally turned to the trick-shot girl next to him.

Logan's shoulders dropped a hair in relief when no one else seemed to feel compelled to make friendly with him for now. He didn't know if Creed was watching him just then, but he couldn't rule it out. He didn't really want any more attention from the monster if he could avoid it. He'd already had enough of that to last him.

Subconsciously, his hand drifted to where Fox's medicine bag had been resting on his chest until about an hour ago. He quickly covered the movement, running his hand up to his shoulder and rubbing the sore spot there. He could feel the bruise that was blooming from Creed slamming him into the wall outside his room.

It had been a dire mistake for Logan to drop his guard around his mentor and Creed had taught him that lesson quickly and ruthlessly.

He was changing, as Jubilee had directed, when Creed walked in and spotted the medicine bag around his neck. Logan didn't think a thing of it until things were already beyond his control and going south quickly.

* * *

_"What's this?" Creed had asked, true interest in his voice as he tore it from the young man's neck and examined it. His face lit up when he recognized it. "She was your girl, huh?" Creed had asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes before meeting Logan's glare. "She was _real good _wasn't she?"_

_"Yeah. She was," Logan replied with a growl as his dander rose quickly. He really didn't like the innuendo behind Creed's emphasis. Several scenarios raced through Logan's mind as to how Fox had been treated at Creed's hands. She was, after all, under his direction last year – or lack thereof. Had she been one of the unlucky ones he'd given false information to as he insisted she do as she was told?_

_His dislike for the man had sparked up quickly when Creed had laughed fondly as he made Logan watch Fox's death several times since their arrival. He had not known until that moment of the __connection between them though. It was clear that he was going to exploit it._

_"Hand it over, bub," Logan demanded, his hand out and for the first time openly challenging the much larger man._

_"Oh no, Runt. You can't have it back," Creed chuckled, positively delighted in the turn of events as he headed into the common room of the suite. "You can't take it with ya anyhow.__She got away with it last year on account a' her bein' in the tribe. _You _might get the bright idea to use this __for a weapon, and we can't have that, can we now?" With a sneer, he tossed it into the fire just before he lunged for the young man, who had already made his own rush for him, fist drawn back and a snarl on his lips._

_Amazingly, and to Creed's total shock, Logan made solid contact with Creed's nose. A muffled crunch echoed the room before Creed used his weight and height against him. He slammed him hard into the wall and knocked the wind out of him as he pinned him, his huge forearm across Logan's chest, both of the young man's hands restrained in one of his huge fists. Logan's feet barely touched the floor._

_"You wanna play like all the rest of those little whelps out there, you'll die like 'em too," he accented his words leaning into him. "This ain't no damn game, Runt. That little frail of yours never had a chance. Woulda been a waste of my time to work with her. She got some one on one time, but she didn't want to kill – didn't want nothin' to do with it. But you – you'd take a shot at ol' Creed right now if you could, wouldn't ya boy?"_

_Logan had struggled wildly in his grasp, ready to fight and nearly breaking free but Creed had him pinned tight. He leaned in close, inches from Logan's nose, his eyes wild and a trickle of blood sliding over his lips as he spoke._

_"_There _it is. _That. _That right there." His voice was gravelly and excited. "That feelin' – grab on to it. Embrace it. That's what you need, Runt." His enthusiasm grew as he continued. "You and me – like it or not, we got a lot in common. You'd kill me right now if you could. I can see it in your eyes – and over what? A dead girl? Some little bag of Indian magic? That's _nothin'._" Creed __was breathing heavily as he finished, fire in his eyes as he glared at the smaller, younger man pinned to the wall._

_Logan was furious, and yes, given half a chance, he'd have gladly killed Creed right then and there with his bare hands, and he would have relished it._

_"I've just been waitin' for you to show me you ain't the waste all the rest of 'em have been. You want a piece of me? Get in line. You're lucky I'm so generous. If we were back in __Seven, I'd have snuffed ya out already, ya little fur ball," Creed snarled out before he seemed to regain control of himself. He took a deep breath, his tone of voice changing dramatically. "For now, I just gotta be happy leavin' bruises no one can see. You almost crossed a line. _No fighting. _Save it for the kids in there that wanna kill ya."_

_Logan practically growled in frustration as he tried again to free himself. Creed smirked at him while the bruises began to bloom across the bridge of his nose and in the corners of his eyes. "Like it or not, I'm your lifeline out there, pup."_

_It likely would have continued had it not been for his stylist bursting in the room, as always wearing her stupid bright yellow raincoat and obscenely large hot pink sunglasses._

_"Creed! What are you doing?" Jubilee shouted as she rushed over, concerned, but clearly not brave enough to actually touch the mad man. Her eyes widened when she saw the damage to Creed's face._

_"What happened here?" she asked, alarm and disbelief in her voice as she looked between the two of them frantically, her mouth open while they glared at each other hard. If looks could kill, both would be dead._

_"Just remindin' him of his place," Creed replied with an evil smirk. "Kid got a little uppity," he said casually, finally releasing the young man with a final shove and walking away from him as he crumpled to the floor._

_Logan got up quickly. He rose to his feet with a burn like he'd never felt before. He shrugged Jubilee off as she began looking him over for injury. Creed glowered at him from across the room, their eyes locked._

_Jubilee reached for his head and Logan pulled back as she advanced. She scrutinized him for any marks while she darted around him, carefully inspecting every inch of exposed flesh._

_"You probably bruised him, Creed. How the hell are you going to explain that?" she barked out, clearly angry he'd blemished her perfect canvas._

_"He can say it happened during training if anyone asks. Which they won't. Besides, his uniform will cover it. He ain't even bleedin'. _Yet," _Creed growled out as he finally wiped the blood from his face shaking his head. "Not a bad hit, Runt," he said as he rolled his shoulders before silently stalking away._

_"Why __would you take a swing at him? Are you crazy or just stupid?" Jubilee asked at just over a whisper, trying to straighten him up and make his hair behave the way she wanted it to as he smacked her hands away from his head._

_"Knock it off, wouldja?" Logan all but growled. "Leave me alone. That guy's a flamin' psycho." She looked affronted, but paused a moment, mercifully handing him a shirt which he quickly yanked on, wrecking her efforts on his hair. She shook her head and dragged him to a chair to start all over. Her approach that time around was gentle, but firm as she insisted on styling him properly._

_"Listen up, big kahuna. I don't like him anymore than the next guy, but that psycho is in charge of helping you. I can make you look fabulous, but __he's __the only one that can actually help. Moira said he's never even tried to do so much as raise a finger for anyone before. So it's kind of a big deal that he's actually trying for you. Now, I don't know what he sees in you, but whatever it is – you need to roll with it – do as he says. It's for your own good so suck it up. He is a victor after all. He knows how to win," Jubilee told him, looking serious as she straightened up his hair again. She started to clean up the blood that was splattered across his face from Creed's up close and personal 'chat'._

_"The only thing he knows is how to kill for kicks," Logan spat, a snarl waiting on his lips. She looked exasperated at his refusal to just roll with it._

_"Yeah. I know," she sighed. "but you know what else? I saw the tail end of that. You've got the stones to go after his big butt on your lonesome and no one does that," she told him. "_No one. _What kind of person actually _attacks _him? He's like, twice your size!"_

_He looked uncomfortable for a moment as he finally allowed her to fuss over him. His eyes flicked up to see Creed lean in the doorway across the room, his arms crossed as he gave him a smug look._

_She was right. Hell. Creed was right. But even so, Logan damn sure wasn't sorry and it'd be a cold day in hell before he apologized to him for anything._

* * *

A commotion sparked up, pulling Logan from his thoughts as the little red head from Three had a disagreement with the Stark kid.

"I don't _need_ your advice, Tony," Pepper said a little too loudly. The dull roar of conversation in the room simmered down to near silence as all eyes found their way to the angry redhead.

Her cheeks were flushed and tears were threatening to spill from her eyes as she glared at him, clearly ready to slap him. The scene almost felt like a lovers' quarrel. But not quite. He tipped his head, watching her more closely as she all but shook, glaring at Stark. The girl had more fire to her than Logan had initially given her credit for. Apparently he wasn't the only one that had short changed her either. Stark looked as though he'd been blindsided.

"Pepper. I didn't... I was … I was just joking, " Stark stammered, looking clueless as to what he'd done wrong, nearly knocking over a water glass as Pepper was led away by the overzealous little redhead from Six – the one that had challenged Logan on the climbing course.

_Huh,_ he thought to himself, _That's interesting – almost like the yin and yang of redheads._ Pepper had seemed sweet, but the other one? The girl went by Sin. Fitting name.

She was so sure of herself, almost arrogant at the start of the climbing course, he took it easy on her, not wanting to really pull out all the stops, still keeping Creed's advice in mind at that point. He was slightly wary of nearly everyone in the room, buying into Creed's paranoid mindset that they were all trained and lying about it. But Sin was so flustered when she lost the race he had nearly laughed. He vaguely wondered if it was a quality she'd inherited from her father.

It was even funnier when she stormed up to him after he'd finished up in the wave pool at the end of the training day. Her face was crimson, demanding to know how he'd run the course so fast. She got more flustered as he turned to face her, shirtless and smirking as if the reason was plain to see. He hadn't even really tried. He wordlessly pulled his shirt on and walked away from her, leaving her standing there staring after him.

Things seemed to have settled out quickly with the two redheads as they took a seat far removed from Stark. Who, apparently still couldn't figure out what had happened in spite of his reputation as a brainiac.

Logan let his eyes wander the room, taking in each and every one of the other tributes before him. It had become fairly easy to see who was allied with who. Most of the Careers had, predictably bunched up together. Some of them seemed eager to get into the arena, overly confident that they were untouchable.

Their arrogance rubbed him the wrong way – who could be eager to kill a bunch of kids? No matter what Creed tried to tell him, there was no way he was ever going to enjoy any of this. He would do what he had to in order to survive, killing included. It's what he did best after all – survive. But he could take no pleasure in snuffing out an innocent life. He was no murderer, and he certainly wasn't Creed.

A glint of light drew Logan's attention to his nearest neighbour – Banner, he thought it was. Unlike most of the rest of the crowd, he too was alone, staring at what looked like a locket. The reflection from the polished metal was what had drawn Logan's eye to him. Studying Banner for a moment, he recognized the look on the young man's face. He'd seen it in the mirror enough times to know. Before he could censor himself, he spoke.

"Got a girl back home?" Logan asked gruffly, startling the young man, who suddenly tucked the locket back into his shirt before addressing him.

"I don't know. Maybe home. Maybe here. It's kind of hard to say right now. You know," Bruce said gesturing vaguely to the rest of the room before looking toward him. Logan just nodded, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet.

"What about you? Do you have someone waiting for you?" Bruce asked innocently, his eyebrows raised. Logan's face fell just a hair as his head tipped down to look to his hands, his mouth drawn tight in one corner and his fingers entwined and splayed in front of himself as he held his breath, shaking his head lightly.

"No," he replied quietly. His voice held a gentle quality that he hadn't heard himself use in longer than he could remember.

Thankfully, to his credit, Bruce simply dropped it, allowing Logan to return to his thoughts. It was still a tender subject for the young man and he simply didn't talk to anyone about his Fox. Even after a year, there just weren't words to cover the loss.

Logan closed his eyes for a moment to take a deep cleansing breath before he returned to playing with his food. He quickly gave up that charade to watch the interactions between the others while he picked at the label on his water bottle.

Occasionally he would catch someone watching him, but that never lasted once he returned the flavour, openly staring back until they dropped their eyes. He almost had to look for Etta. She'd been incredibly elusive, a trait that Logan was sure would serve her well once they'd ended up in the arena. He wondered if his sneakiness would do him any good too.

He thought of his little game he liked to play in the woods, sneaking up on the deer to pet them, but there were no deer to creep up on out there in the arena after all. Just unsuspecting kids with nowhere near the senses that those gentle animals held. Even a wary human didn't measure up to the creatures in the woods.

Then again, the animals in the woods didn't carry swords and bows and even the most angry bear had never meant him any real harm. They just wanted to be left alone. He could sympathize with that now more than ever before.

As the first four districts tributes left the room to head to meet their mentors before their private assessments - they'd all head into the waiting room together, but since the first four districts would be going in first, they needed to leave earlier to prepare - most of them held their heads high, but only a couple drew Logan's attention.

Romanoff from two was clearly anxious to start fighting as if it was all she'd ever dreamed of her whole life. As she approached with her district partner they met eyes. She arched one eyebrow at him as he tracked her on her way out, only turning his head slightly as she moved across the room.

In front of the cameras she had a smile that seemed a bit over the top but it disappeared as soon as the red light flipped off. Her schoolgirl act on screen didn't pass the sniff test. It was pure bullshit. He knew another predator when he saw one.

Wilson, from One seemed dangerous for a whole different set of reasons. He joked around loudly in training. That in and of itself wasn't that unusual for a career, but he seemed to be joking around _with_ himself. He was arguing sometimes even when he was all alone. That kid was a damned powder keg of crazy. There was no telling what he would or wouldn't do.

The mood of the room seemed to shift considerably once the bulk of the career pack left. It was almost as if the other kids there simply felt as if they could finally relax. The change in atmosphere was enough to make Logan take notice while the table with the younger tributes began to actually have a little fun.

As the double doors closed again, the tall blonde boy from five pulled out the chair directly across from him. Logan turned his head toward him, eyebrow raised in question. What was this about? He knew he didn't exactly look friendly and he didn't remember crossing paths with him during training.

"Hey," Rogers started out. "I ah, I saw you helping the little girl from Eleven in training the other day. She's a cute kid." Logan nodded. She really was. That stark white hair was a showstopper.

"'Ro's a scrappy lil' thing," Logan agreed. "Too damn young to be thrown to the wolves though." There was a pause. Clearly Steve had something else on his mind. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"I also saw what your mentor did to you on the way in. He shouldn't be shoving you around like that," Steve said clearly, but with a fairly reserved tone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Banner turning his attention towards them. He had to wonder if this guy was trying to bait him.

Logan tried hard to cover his growing discomfort, clearing his throat as he leaned back in his chair before meeting Steve's eyes. Was he really concerned or was this some twisted attempt to get under his skin? He bit the inside of his cheek and narrowed his eyes at the young man, trying to assess his intentions.

"You're kiddin' right?" Logan said shortly as he levelled his glare at the blonde. His attention broke off from Steve as he did a double take, watching Banner sit down next to the blonde and looking every bit as concerned. Great. Now he had two guys that had him marked as a victim. So much for layin' low.

"No. I think the Gamemakers would want to know if one of the mentors was mistreating their tribute. Just because most of us are going to die doesn't mean you have to take his abuse before you even step in the arena," Steve said, his eyes drifting to the spot Logan had been rubbing on his shoulder.

He chuckled a little to himself, shaking his head as the two young men took on identical expressions on their faces. Without discussing it, they seemed to be perfectly unified in this endeavour to do …. what? They looked absolutely sincere. His eyebrows raised in surprise as he realized how stone cold serious they were. This was no attempt to screw with him. They actually _cared_. The realization made him take pause. There was no reason to snap at these guys for being decent human beings. Just like there was no reason to give a damn about another tribute. He carefully chose his words before speaking.

"I don't think they care much about that – the Gamemakers, that is. If they did they sure as hell wouldn't let that jack ass off his chain," Logan finally replied.

"How bad is it? I mean, I know he has a real reputation for being vicious. I just thought it was in reference to how he won," Bruce asked.

"It doesn't matter what his reputation is, he shouldn't be crossing the line with his tribute," Steve said, real conviction in his voice.

"Listen, they know what he is – he's still here. I can hold my own against whatever Creed can dish out," Logan replied defensively with a little growl.

"I didn't mean –," Steve started to say, trying to backpedal.

"It's fine," Logan said, waving his hand between them. "He's a little sore at me right now since I busted his nose," he confided with a little smirk. "It was worth getting a little bruise over." Both boys looked somewhat impressed.

"So …. _you_ did that … the bruises … you really broke his nose," Bruce said with a tone of disbelief, his eyebrows raised. Logan nodded his head slightly as he looked between them, the corner of his mouth tight. There wasn't much to say about it, honestly. It's not like it was that big of a deal, right?

"Are you in trouble?" Steve asked, leaning across the table towards the shorter young man. "I mean – we're not supposed to fight." Logan locked eyes with him as his face went entirely neutral.

"We're not supposed to fight each other. Nothin' says he can't do anything he wants to me, or vice versa – as long as I'm halfway presentable goin' in they don't care. Hell, if Creed's track record is any indicator, they expect me to die anyhow, so what difference does it make?"

"Can I ask what started it?" Bruce said, causing Logan to fall quiet again as he shook his head.

"The guy just pushed my buttons," Logan responded gruffly as he looked down, clenching his fists. "Believe me," he said low, his gaze fierce as he met Bruce's eyes again. "He was askin' for it."

"I have no trouble believing that at all," Steve said, catching both the other boys' attention. "Good for you for not letting him just push you around. If he does it again, I hope you break his jaw." Steve was smiling at the thought.

"Nah, I got better ideas than that," Logan replied. He'd already said too much to these two. If they didn't suspect it before, both now knew that he wasn't afraid of a bigger guy, even if he was a proven killer. They didn't have much time to discuss it though.

"Looks like we're up," Logan said, jerking his head to the escorts that had appeared in the lunch room, gathering up the next wave of tributes. Steve and Bruce turned to look over their shoulders for a second. Whatever camaraderie was there a moment ago was set aside as their nerves rose.

"Watch yourself out there," Steve said seriously as he stood up. It wasn't a threat.

"You too," Logan replied as Steve went over to meet up with his district partner for the walk out. He and Bruce both stood up and Logan stepped around the table to throw his arm around the taller boy's shoulders.

"Don't wait to see how these Games turn out before you make your move," Logan said quietly. "Green's a good colour for you," he said with a smirk, his eyes twinkling before he gave Bruce a little pat, leaning in close "And I ain't talkin' about your clothes." The boy looked positively shocked by his comment as Logan took his place next to Etta.

As usual, she preferred to act as if he didn't exist as they started the walk out. In a strange way, it helped to remind him of what he was there to do. It was probably best that way. It was a good reminder of what the people back in Seven thought of him – nothing. No reason to really make any friends either. It's not like they were all gonna live through it anyhow.


	27. Chapter 26: Acting Skills

**(A/N) Hey all, sorry this update is coming a little late – not having a laptop of my own since mine broke is really kicking my ass. However, we're back, with a new chapter by XxBrendaMichelexX, featuring Pepper Potts. Hope you all enjoy it, and let us know what you think in the reviews!**

**Created to Write: Victor Creed is Sabretooth, who appears in both the first X-Men movie, and in X-Men Origins: Wolverine.**

**KJAX89: It might just be indeed – after all, Creed won his own Games, and his no-nonsense, no-mercy attitude would definitely help Logan in the Games. We'll just have to wait and see how much of his advice Logan is willing to take on!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six – Acting Skills**

**Private Training Assessments (D1-D4)**

**Pepper Potts of District Three**

**Written by XxBrendaMichelexX**

* * *

_"Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence."_ – Vittorio Alfieri

* * *

Pepper nervously wiped the sweat off of her hands on her pants as she waited for her turn. She was from District Three, which meant she was nearly at the beginning of the line. She looked at all the tributes behind her, observing their expressions. A few of them looked confident, a few looked indifferent, and some looked scared shitless.

It was time for the private training assessments, where every tribute would be given a score based on their survival and attack skills for the Avenger Games. You were supposed to go in a room where the Gamemakers watched you do whatever it was you were skilled at for the Games. That was why Pepper was nervous. She had no special battle or survival skills. Of course, it wasn't that she was terrible; it was just that she was mediocre. She could throw knives, but did it like an amateur. She could shoot a bow, but her aim was average. She was just…_regular_. What would she show them when it was her turn?

All twelve districts stood in their own area in the large waiting room. Not much chatter could be heard; everyone was nervous. Pepper noticed the redheaded girl she had met in training in the District Six section behind her. Sinthea was her name, Pepper remembered. From what Pepper had seen of her during training, she would score well.

Currently, the boy from District One was in the Assessment Room. He had been in there for only about five minutes. In front of Pepper were only four people, Tony, of course, was one of them. Pepper had been completely unfriendly to Tony the entire time they had been in the Capitol, and was angry at herself for it. Her plan was to act as if nothing was wrong and she was happy to have Tony as her district partner so an alliance with him would be easy, but…she just couldn't. Her father was _dead_ because of him.

He was standing silently, his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor with a bored expression. Pepper decided she should try to make conversation to get their alliance started. This is where her acting skills would come in handy.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him. "When you go in there." Tony lifted his head.

"Oh, I don't know. Set a trap, or program a tree to kill people. I'm not bad at hand-to-hand combat." He smirked. "What about you?"

Pepper wanted him to think she was helpless. In a way she was; she didn't particularly excel at any survival technique, but she didn't want him to think there was any possibility of her turning on him during the Games. It was best if his guard was down around her.

"Oh I don't know…throw knives maybe? I'm not really good at anything."

"Why'd you volunteer, then?" he asked, a trace of tension in his voice.

"My mom is sick," Pepper replied. She tried not to let her hatred show; it was Tony who'd made her the way she was. "We need the money if I win, and I'm sick of living like that. Wondering if she'll survive the day…"

Tony was silent. He knew the condition of Pepper's mother; he was there when it happened. He looked down at the ground, looking like he didn't know what to say. Did he feel sorry?

_He better feel sorry,_ Pepper thought.

About ten minutes later, the next name was called.

**"ELEKTRA NATCHIOS,"** echoed through the speakers and around the room. The girl from District One walked calmly into the Assessment room. Pepper's hands were sweaty. What if everyone did amazing and her score was terrible? She didn't want to look weak; everyone would go after her.

"You nervous?" Tony asked, with a sly smile and a chuckle in his voice. Pepper acted like it didn't bother her. At first she wanted to say of course not, but perhaps if Tony thought her vulnerable, he would offer her his protection and the alliance would come to fruition; another part of her plan working out beautifully.

"A little bit," she admitted. "What if my score is bad?"

"You're smart; I'm sure you'll do fine. And if you don't, I have your back."

"Thanks," Pepper replied. This was a good start. She didn't want to push it any further yet though. Her plan would work best if she didn't rush.

Pepper thought of her mother. She was probably lying in her bed, wondering where her daughter was and what she was doing. Pepper felt bad for deceiving her, but if she had told her mother the truth as to why she volunteered her heart would be broken, to learn that her daughter harboured so much resentment. Of course, Clara had loved Pepper's father too, but she was so peaceful. She would never wish harm on anyone.

Pepper thought of her father. He was the one she was doing all of this for. He was such a good man when he was alive. Every morning he would wake up early and make everyone breakfast if they had enough food, and serve it with a big smile on his face.

"Good morning, Salt &amp; Pepper," he would say to her, and she would smile sleepily.

He also went out of his way to make life easier for Clara. If something needed to be done like going to the market or cleaning the kitchen, Pepper's father would do it for her to save her the trouble, just because he loved her.

Pepper remembered her favourite moment with her father. It was when she was eleven years-old, just beginning to wonder about things like boyfriends.

* * *

_She scampered into her father's lap on the couch and looked at him with bright eyes._

_"Daddy," she said. "How did you know you wanted to marry Mommy?"_

_"Well that's the thing about love," he said to her. "You know it when you feel it. When I saw your mother for the first time, I just knew I was going to marry her, and she knew she was going to marry me."_

_"You just knew?"_

_"Sure did."_

_"But how will I know when I get married?"_

_"You'll know," Pepper's father replied. "Just like I did."_

_"But what if no one wants to marry me?" Pepper's father laughed._

_"Are you kidding Pepsicle, those boys would have to be crazy not to want to marry you. You're going to be a great wife. Here." He put his hand in his pocket and searched for something, and when he brought his hand out he revealed a small red stone, shaped like a heart._

_"Ooh," said Pepper._

_"Your mother gave me this when she was fifteen," he said. "I want you to have it. It'll remind you of all the love you're worthy of." Pepper smiled at her father as she felt the stone in her hand. She laid her head on his chest._

_"Thanks, Daddy," she said._

* * *

Pepper hated to think about that day. She loved it too much; it always made her want to cry, longing for those days to come back again. She must have looked upset, because a boy nudged her arm from behind her.

"Excuse me," he said. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah," Pepper said, coming back into the real world. It was the blonde boy from District Four that had nudged her.

"My name is Thor," he said. "What's yours?"

"Pepper."

"You looked horrified there for a moment."

"Oh, I was just remembering something, I guess," Pepper replied quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Are you nervous?" Thor asked, echoing Tony's question from only a few moments earlier.

"A little bit," Pepper replied honestly, but she had a hidden agenda behind the answer as well. This boy could end up killing her later, so she didn't want to seem like a threat to him. "What about you? Are you nervous?"

Thor sighed. "Not for this part."

**"CLINT BARTON,"** said the intercom, and the boy from District Two entered the Assessment Room.

"He's a bowman," Thor said.

"We'll have to watch for him in the trees then in the arena," Pepper replied. _If there _are_ any trees_, she thought.

Pepper did not know what the arena looked like; she had never actually watched the Avenger Games. No one she wanted to care about was ever in it; and what was the benefit of watching people die on television? Plus, she had her mother to take care of. She'd never had time. Pepper hoped with all her heart that Mr Beaumont did not watch. He would be in the house with her mother. Clara could not see, but she could hear, and if she heard Pepper die it would break her heart. And Clara didn't need any more heartbreak.

Pepper began fidgeting a little, and looking frequently at the Assessment Room door. There was only two people in front of her; the girl from District Two and Tony.

"You nervous?" she asked Tony; noticing him doing the same thing, and then smiled, realising how often that question was being bandied about. He scoffed with a smirk.

"Ha, no!" he said. "I don't get nervous. I'm just mentally preparing, you know. Building up my game." Pepper was not amused; in fact she was irked, but she chuckled as if it was funny.

Pepper glanced over at Natasha, who was looking down at the ground until she realised that Pepper was staring at her, and raised her eyebrow questioningly.

"What is it like in there?" Pepper asked, banking on the Career having some information worth passing on. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Don't waste their time," Natasha replied. "And act like you know what you're doing. Good luck."

"Thanks," Pepper replied, and Natasha gave a subtle smile.

Clint must have done well, because he was finished in no time.

**"NATASHA ROMANOFF,"** said the speakers. Pepper was next in line. She grew even more nervous. After Tony it would be her turn and she still hadn't really decided what she was going to do. She wasn't good at anything; why did she volunteer for this?!

"You'll do fine, Pep," Tony said, as if he was reading her mind. Pepper didn't like him calling her by a nickname, but his words almost made her feel a tiny bit better – although she never would have admitted it. She said nothing.

A few minutes passed before the doors opened once more.

**"TONY STARK."**

"Welp, that's me kids," said Tony, giving a casual salute to those around him. Pepper could tell he was trying hard to mask his nervousness; his hands were shaking slightly. He mumbled sarcastically as he entered the Assessment Room, "As I walk into the valley of the shadow of death…"

"Really, it's just a number," said Thor, to no one in particular. "One's success or failure doesn't necessarily depend on what score they receive."

"That's true," Pepper said, trying to convince herself as well.

After a while, Pepper felt her heart rate go up and her stomach felt funny. In a few moments, the Gamemakers would call her into the Assessment Room, and she would have to show them some sort of talent she did not have.

_Don't waste their time_, Natasha had said. _Act like you know what you're doing._ How on Earth was she supposed to do that? She didn't know what she was doing.

Just then, Sinthea showed up in front of Pepper, having walked down the rom

"So you're next, huh?" she asked. Pepper swallowed and nodded, trying to seem like she wasn't about to pass out.

"You'll be okay," said Sinthea. "What are you going to show them?"

"I think I'll throw knives," Pepper said. "At least I have a shadow of a chance of getting one where it's supposed to be."

"Well I'll share with you a little trick," Sinthea said with a sly smile. "Hold the knife in your dominant hand; like if you're right-handed hold it with your right hand. And don't let your arm go loose when you throw it; you have to keep it steady. Just study your target; aim a little higher and close your eyes. Imagine hitting it; and your chances might be higher."

"Thanks," Pepper replied. "What are you going to do in there?"

"Probably a little bit of everything," Sinthea said, with a smile.

Pepper wished more than anything that her father was with her. He always made her feel better; always made her feel safe. Now she didn't feel safe at all. She felt threatened, and she felt like she was going to throw up. If he was here, he would tell her that everything would be alright and no matter what, she was still his Salt &amp; Pepper. But then again, if he was here, Pepper would have no need to be.

**"PEPPER POTTS,"** said the voice over the speakers. Pepper took a deep breath and entered the Assessment Room.

* * *

The room was a lot bigger than Pepper had thought it would be. There were tools everywhere; truly something for everyone. There was a section to the side, elevated above the Assessment area, where the Gamemakers were seated. Most of them Pepper did not recognize, except one. He was the dark man in the eyepatch, the one known as Director Fury, the Head Gamemaker. He looked over at her.

"Pepper Potts," she said, introducing herself.

**"District?"** asked Fury, his voice echoing throughout the room through some sort of microphone system.

"District Three," she replied. He nodded at her, and she took that as her cue to begin her assessment.

Pepper looked around, trying to spot the knives. She saw them hanging on a rack in the middle of the room, quite a few feet away from the targets. As Pepper approached them, she knew there was a problem. All these knives were different. She had thought they would all be the same. Which one should she choose? A small one would probably be best to begin with, and it would be easiest for her to throw since she was not very strong.

Pepper gripped her knife of choice off the second-to-last rack and held it in her right hand. She turned toward the person-shaped target and took a deep breath.

You can do this, she told herself. She remembered what Sinthea had said to her: study your target and visualize hitting it. She did so. Now, keep her arm steady as she threw it. Pepper heard the knife hit the target board and she opened her eyes. She had missed the target. Her heart sank. She looked up at the Gamemakers; Fury stared at her with unforgiving eyes.

She swallowed.

She took another knife of the same size and concentrated, throwing it. It landed in between the legs. Oh, she was doing terrible! Why did she volunteer for this? Pepper began to get angry with herself.

She took another knife, a bigger one this time, and chucked it at the target like a Frisbee.

_Screw the damn technique._

It sliced a large tear in the middle of the person-shaped target, and landed on the right side of the room. The Gamemakers were silent and Pepper looked over at them and sighed to herself. Was that good or bad? She sliced it, didn't she? Would that have worked on a real person?

**"You are _dismissed_, Ms Potts,"** said Fury, after a moment had passed.

"What?" said Pepper, frustrated at herself and everyone in the room. "That's it? I didn't even get to show you anything, I—I was just getting started! You can't judge based on ten minutes of—"

**"—You are ****dismissed****, Ms Potts,"** repeated Fury, a threatening edge in his voice. Pepper felt like crying, but she took a deep breath and tightened her fists as she turned around and exited the Assessment Room. Tony looked over at her when she came through the door.

"How did you do?" she asked, knowing already that it had gone far better for him than for her.

"You know me," he replied with a smile. "I'm a genius." He must have done well. Pepper wanted to strangle him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, guessing something of her intentions from her expression. Pepper tried to put on a normal face.

"Yeah I'm fine," she replied.

"How'd it go?"

She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It sucked."

Time passed by quickly.

Those left from the first four districts left the area outside the Assessment Room's exit after Brunhilde had finished her assessment. She looked like she had done well; she seemed proud of herself, at any rate. Pepper wished she had that kind of carefree attitude right about now.

* * *

Back in the tribute's quarters, Pepper sat at the table, perfectly decorated with a blue floral centrepiece in the middle. She merely sat there worrying what was to come. Her score would not be good. Would the other tributes look at her as an easy target, or perhaps think she isn't worth bothering with? She couldn't tell.

Pepper felt the presence of someone behind her, and when he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder she knew who it was: her calm and collected mentor, James Rhodes. Most people called him Rhodey.

"You'll be okay," he said.

"You don't understand," Pepper replied. "My score is going to really suck. Everyone will think I'm weak; I won't get any sponsors or anything."

"It's just a number," Rhodey replied. "Do you know what score I got?" Pepper looked back at him.

"No; what?" she asked.

"I got a _five_." A five wasn't terrible, but it wasn't good either; it was definitely not the score of a winner. "Your score doesn't determine who you are or if you'll survive. You may surprise people. You may surprise yourself."

"I hope so," Pepper replied. His words made her feel a little better. And surely a low score would not lessen her chances of getting to kill Tony either. Pepper smiled at her mentor.

"Thanks," she said. He smiled and she turned back around. Just as he was about to leave the room, Pepper turned again to face him.

"Wait," she said. "Do you…do you think I could win?" Rhodey smiled that friendly, mysterious smile that Pepper knew was genuine, but yet she could not read his thoughts in it.

He left the room without another word.


	28. Chapter 27: Failure to Impress

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back again for our Tuesday update, and it's Cap and Lili-Hunter returning with a bang! Not too many chapters left to go, so it's time to savour your time with the tributes while it lasts – the Games, I can promise you, are going to be quite brutal. Let us know what you think in the reviews, and we hope you enjoy the chapter!**

**Big thanks to VengefulVixens and Created to Write for their reviews, and I'm glad to finally deliver Cap's chapter for the latter – hope it lives up to your expectations!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven – Failure to Impress**

**Private Training Assessments (D5-D8)**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"I can't tell you the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everyone."_ – Ed Sheeran

* * *

"Nervous?" came a soft, surprisingly gentle voice from Steve's side.

He glanced to the side to meet Carol's calm blue gaze with his own, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth. Vaguely, Steve wondered how she'd seen through him so easily – he didn't have any obvious tells, he knew. He wasn't one to bounce his legs or fiddle with his hands. Instead, Bucky used to tell him that Steve's anxiety always used to show through his stillness – the frozen stiffness of prey about to be ensnared.

Then again, he _was_ next in line to enter the private assessment room, and show what he was made of to the Gamemakers. Steve probably didn't even have long to wait – Brunhilde, the female tribute from District Four, had only just gone in. But something about her hard gaze and confident movements told him that she'd have no trouble impressing the Gamemakers.

"How'd you know?" he joked weakly.

Carol's head tilted to the side, eyebrows furrowing slightly– but it wasn't a look of annoyance, just of assessment. "Lucky guess," she told him.

Steve exhaled softly, leaning forward in his chair. He uncrossed his arms, and instead jammed his hands between his knees as he considered how to answer. The two tributes had grown closer in the last week or so, throughout the train ride to the Capitol and, of course, living on the same floor of the Tribute Centre. Not that it had been hard to do so, of course, given that they hadn't known each other before the Reaping.

"I still don't know what I'm going to do, once I get in there," he admitted finally. A guilty sort of relief flooded his chest as he gave up his secret, and Steve exhaled with a grim smile before flicking his gaze towards Carol to gauge her reaction.

His district partner was watching him carefully, but her bright blue eyes weren't searching for signs of deceit like they used to. Despite being initially surprised by his blunt honesty, Carol had taken it in stride – and responded in kind. It had been a relief to Steve; he didn't know what he'd have done if she'd been the kind of person to use his honesty against him.

Of course, that possibility was still on the table – the Games hadn't started yet, after all.

But then again, that was the point, wasn't it? The Avenger Games hadn't started yet, and Steve was determined not to let it overshadow his relationships with the other Tributes. He wanted to know them as people first, not enemies.

They weren't his enemies at _all_, really. They were just unfortunate victims of circumstance, like Steve himself. And it was _very_ clear in Steve's mind that it hadn't been the districts that had invented these horrific games to begin with.

No. The tributes weren't his enemies, but he knew who was-

"You'll do fine," Carol answered, settling further into her seat. Her arms crossed over her chest, gaze roving over the other tributes in habitual inspection. Benches lined the walls, with the districts sitting in neat order, and all the spaces to Steve's left were empty. "Just…punch a dummy in the face, or something," his district partner suggested.

Surprised laughter escaped him in a quiet huff, and the sides of Carol's mouth lifted a little. Opposite him, the District Eight tributes – Peter and Anna, he remembered – were talking in hushed voices. The skinny, brown-haired boy's leg was bouncing up and down. Steve glanced at the rest of them, but most of the tributes seemed to vary in levels of visible anxiety. Logan looked grumpy but not afraid, but next to Carol, Bruce looked as though he might be sick. On his opposite side, Sinthea seemed almost to be smiling.

His gaze scanned along the line of tributes, noting those on either ends of the fear spectrum. Raven wore a calm expression, but her eyes were vacant, and the District Twelve boy, Loki, was scowling into his hands. Ororo, the little girl from Eleven, held his gaze until he glanced back at Carol.

"Do you know what you're going to do?" he asked. "Or are you going to play it by ear?"

As his question ended, there was a heavy thud from inside the training room, followed by a succession of smacking sounds – the kind that a fist made when connected with a punching bag. If he tilted his head and concentrated, Steve could almost hear Brunhilde's heavy breathing. Then she grunted, and there was a screech of metal followed by a second heavy thud.

The remaining tributes sent each other apprehensive glances.

Carol's gaze was riveted on the door to the training room. A few minutes passed, and she seemed not to have heard his question. Steve was about to speak up again when suddenly a calm, female voice spoke into the room. It was clearly robotic – the speaker enunciated his name oddly, pausing in the middle of his surname as though it couldn't handle more than one syllable at a time.

**"****STEVE ROGERS****,"** it announced calmly.

Sure enough, the silver door had rolled up without a sound. For a second, it failed to register. Then Steve got to his feet, feeling as though his ribcage had suddenly shrunk around his lungs.

"Hey." He glanced back down, and Carol nodded at him slowly. "Good luck."

"Yeah, you too."

Steve could feel the weight of the tributes' gazes resting between his shoulders as he squared them and stepped into the room. There was a whisper of noise as the door slid back down, metal sliding against metal – and then, silence.

He hesitated, taking a moment just to stare the room. Though, that wasn't quite accurate – _hall_ was more like it. Smooth metal walls melted into a silver floor, the only distinguishing colour a bright band of blue that ran around the room above Steve's head. Random pillars sprung out of the ground, and weapon racks were neatly organized around the room. Dummies had been set up in various areas, too, mouths set in grim lines.

But by far, the most glaringly obvious design was the room where the Gamemakers sat. Elevated high above the training room floor, the Capitol citizens were perfectly situated to look down their noses at the tribute in their midst.

Highly aware of the fact that they were all staring at him, Steve took a step forward. A part of him wanted to shrivel under the scrutiny – but the rest of him met the stares with defiance. He straightened his back and squared his shoulders until they strained against his training uniform. His soft-soled shoes made little noise on the metal floor, but Steve didn't drop his gaze until he was standing directly in front of the observation room.

"Steve Rogers, District Five," he called, voice steady and strong. Obviously, they already knew who he was – but the display of declaring himself to the Gamemakers made Steve feel steadier, like he had a little more control over the next few minutes.

Also, if he were completely honest, Steve knew that he was stalling. He still didn't know what he was going to do.

The Gamemakers were all dressed in garishly coloured suits and sparkly shoes. But there were a few that stood out – a man in black and white, standing closest to the floor's edge; a woman with a no-nonsense hairstyle and sharp eyes; and a bald-headed man with a black patch covering one of his eyes. Perhaps it was for aesthetic reasons – surely, the Capitol could fix any injury – but it definitely made the man look intimidating.

They all stood perilously close to the edge of the balcony, and there was no railing. But not a single Gamemaker seemed afraid. So, Steve didn't doubt that there was some kind of force field there, in case they fell – or one of the Tributes was feeling a little resentful.

The three Gamemakers seemed slightly different from the rest, and stood slightly apart. Perhaps it was their suits that drew Steve's attention – they were less obnoxiously coloured than the others', but that simple fact only made them stand out more.

His fingers itched for a pencil. Steve could almost see the lines of colour already spreading out in his mind, and the way the memory would slide from his brain and down his fingertips onto the page.

It suddenly occurred to Steve that he'd been standing there long enough for it to become uncomfortable. He stared up at the Gamemakers, waiting for them to reply, and his mind frantically spinning. Even once they told him to begin, what would he _do_?

Finally, one man nodded, and the other waved his hand slightly, careful not to spill any of the brightly coloured drink that swirled inside. The woman tilted her head to the side, and Steve took that as an indication to begin.

Except, begin _what_, he still had no clue. What would these Gamemakers be impressed by? Did he even want to get a good score? Or was it better to fly under the radar?

All of these questions had been turning slowly in the back of Steve's mind for the past week – and he still hadn't found an answer. But…if Steve were truthful, he'd admit that it wasn't exactly as though he found these examinations inspiring. Even standing under the scrutiny of countless Gamemakers – who, in a matter of days, would hold his life in their hands – he felt nothing; no desire to impress, to perform. Hell, he felt more pressured by the expectations of the tributes outside the door than by these obnoxiously dressed observers.

Steve floundered for an explanation, but the result was almost baffling: it was just that they barely registered as _people_. The Capitol Gamemakers were just faceless suits; another pair of eyes in a never-ending crowd. He felt no more pressured to perform than if he were just the training dummy standing approximately two feet behind Steve.

Hell, the Gamemakers probably felt close to the same. They clearly didn't consider him _human_ – or any of the tributes, really. You didn't send _people_ to kill each other for entertainment.

_No,_ Steve thought, and knew – down in the unshakeable marrow of his bones – that it was true. _You send mindless animals._

In the Gamemakers' eyes, he was probably no better than a flying monkey. The thought sent a slow burn of anger under his skin; but it didn't last – whom was he going to be angry at? The Gamemakers barely registered as an _audience_, let alone something more.

But even this realisation didn't affect his situation; the truth as the Capitol saw it. Regardless of anything else, he still had to perform. So, Steve followed Carol's advice.

He turned around and punched the training dummy in the face. Hard.

It swung away from him as his knuckles smashed into its firm rubber cheek. For a second, satisfaction bloomed in Steve's chest – but, just as fast, its momentum whipped it back. Steve ducked a blow from the imaginary arm extending from where its shoulder ended, and then rose to sink his fist in the dummy's exposed belly. It dove away before whipping back to slam into Steve's forearm; he shoved as though it were a real opponent, and then came in with a right hook.

Steve had practiced several types of kicks with the trainers in the Tribute Training Centre. He leapt into his favourite one now; twisting in mid-air and straightening his leg until his foot collided with the dummy with a meaty _smack!_ The force of it almost hurt his heel – but the dummy's support stand fared worse. It wasn't bolted to the floor; the hollow base was just filled with something incredibly heavy. Whatever it was, it didn't hold, and the dummy crashed to the floor.

Steve paused, breathing heavily. Guilt flashed through his chest for a second, before it occurred to him that the Gamemakers might actually be pleased by the destruction. His gaze slid to peek at them while he wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes – the mock-fight had been short, but he hadn't held back at all - and searched for any interest in their faces. A few had leaned forward, attention focusing on him, but it wasn't enough. Steve had to keep going.

Despite the ache in his hands, Steve knew that he could hardly spend the entire assessment just whaling on a dummy; he should probably display some sort of weapons competence, too. Besides, trading blows with a mannequin that had _no limbs_ probably wasn't as impressive as it felt.

There was a table covered in throwing knives to his right, with a person-shaped target set up a fair distance away. Steve hesitated only for a second before making his way over, the weight of the Gamemakers' attention hanging heavy on his shoulders. He'd spent a few training sessions working with the throwing knives – as ranged weapons went, he preferred them over a bow – and he knew how to make it look good, at least.

He tested all the blades, weighing them in his palm before selecting the ones that seemed closest to those that he'd practiced with. They were all perfectly balanced, and their smooth silver metal was cold against his skin. Steve settled into the stance that the trainer had made him learn, then drew his hand back, gripping the knife's handle firmly. Then he whipped his hand forward, keeping his elbow level, and let the blade fly end-over-end.

It slammed into the target with a heavy _thunk_, not quite at the centre but still a solid stick. Some of the anxiety crushing Steve's chest lightened, and he could breathe a little easier.

Maybe he wasn't going to be _good_, he allowed, preparing for another throw. But at least the Gamemakers weren't going to think he wasn't completely terrible.

Steve could live with that.

* * *

When he finally walked out of the private assessment area, Peter Quill and Michael were waiting for him. Vanessa and Mary Jane, District Five's stylists, stood a little further away from the pair, discussing something in high voices with many hand gestures.

Peter's face lit up as he saw Steve come out of the room, and he walked towards him with arms held wide. "How'd you go?" he asked, tossing him a wide grin. "Smashed it, am I right?"

Steve shook his head – not in disagreement, but disbelief. He'd been surprised by how much he liked Peter in the beginning, but the man was easy to get on with and had practically turned into his and Carol's personal cheerleader. Sure, he could be a bit of an asshole sometimes, but Steve appreciated his genuine and mostly kind nature. It was for that reason that Peter's words caused a pinch of guilt beneath his ribcage.

Steve was fine with getting a bad mark – but was his mentor? It would make Peter's job a hell of a lot harder if he had to campaign Capitol citizens to donate, instead of letting District Five's scores speak for themselves.

"I wasn't great," he admitted, as Michael and the two stylists joined their circle. "But I wasn't awful, either."

"That's the spirit!" Peter whooped, clapping him on the shoulder. But Michael's mouth turned down at the corners, eyes turning hard, and Steve glanced away.

Unexpectedly, a slim blue finger tipped his chin back, forcing Steve to look into Vanessa's angled red eyes. His stylist had undergone so much surgery that her features should have been alien to him – and they _were_, in a way, but Vanessa's strong personality was brighter than her features. Her blue skin, shock of white hair, and red eyes did not make her ugly; they just made her noticeable.

She blinked at him, slow and steady while he thought, and then said, "If it makes you feel any better, your fellow tributes do not seem too happy either."

Her gaze shifted, inviting Steve's own to move around the room. And it was true, too; the other Tributes glared at the ground, or the walls, or traded sharp words with their Mentors and Escorts. Only a few seemed satisfied: Elektra; Thor; and Brunhilde were most notable. Then again, they were the Careers – it'd be far more shocking if they _weren't_ confident.

Vanessa's voice drew him back to the group, her hand dropping from his chin. "Better?"

"Yeah, I guess-"

"Besides," interrupted Peter, "nothing before the Games _really_ counts, anyway. So just do well when it really comes down to it, yeah? You'll be fine, Steve."

_I know,_ he started to say, but the words hadn't even passed his lips before the group was turning towards the assessment room. Carol's blonde hair bounced as she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. It refused to bang, though, slowing to a crawl before clicking shut. Carol's face darkened, like she was annoyed at having been denied the ability to let off a little steam.

Which, from the look of his district partner, she clearly needed. Her blue eyes were like flecks of ice, mouth set in a firm line. How long had she been in there? Steve wondered. He'd kind of been dazed by his own experience; he didn't know how much time had passed since he'd stepped out of that room.

"How'd you go?" Peter asked, stepping towards her in much the same way he'd approached Steve.

Carol's angry stride slowed; she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Then her eyelids bounced open again, only slightly less hard. "Please, Peter," she told him. "Don't."

He backed off at the warning, outstretched arms turning into raised palms. "Okay, okay," he agreed quickly. "No questions, right?"

Carol nodded, but he was no longer the focus of her attention. Her blue eyes strayed to Steve's, and he struggled to read her expression. His brow furrowed.

Mary Jane tutted, reaching out to straighten the hem of Carol's shirt. "Nonsense," she said lightly, giving the tribute a tight smile. "I'm sure you did fine. Steve was spouting the same sorts of ridiculousness when he first came out – but you're both quite capable young people, and that's the sort of thing that Gamemakers pick up on, you know. It's their job, after all!"

Mary tittered in a high, breathy laugh. She sounded far more nervous than Vanessa had, Steve reflected privately. Maybe Mary Jane wasn't as experienced; her lack of extreme surgery certainly seemed to suggest some sort of greenness, at least.

Carol glanced at Mary Jane, before lifting an eyebrow at Steve to silently ask if she was telling the truth. He gave the tiniest of shrugs, slightly lifting his hands. When he mirrored her own expression, repeating her question, she just glanced away. It wasn't entirely a refusal; they'd talk about it later.

The silent conversation went unnoticed between the adults – except for Peter, who'd watched them with sharp eyes and slight smile – but the entire group turned to look at Michael as he huffed.

"Well, if today has been a failure, then I suggest we don't linger on it," he began, staring down at the two tributes. "The results will be announced soon, anyway. We can forget about it until then."

Perhaps it had been intended as kind, but Steve could hear the sharpness beneath his words, and see the tightness around his eyes. He was angry, even if he was hiding it. Michael had tried to reassure them – but here, in the Capitol, it was all too easy to be cruel.

Vanessa and Mary Jane made noises of agreement, already turning away. They didn't have to stick around – some of the other districts had already disappeared, unwilling to wait around – and the stylists' presence had mostly been a show of support, anyway. Peter moved to go with them, but Steve's voice gave him pause.

"I'll stay," he said, shifting his weight. The adults turned around, surprised, and he lifted one shoulder. "I think I'd like to try and get a sense of how the other tributes did."

After a moment, Peter shrugged. "Okay," he agreed, "but in that case, you need adult supervision." He grinned, and moved back towards where he had been waiting for them originally. There was a pillar nearby, and Peter changed his course slightly so that he could lean against it, one foot crossed over the other as he waited for Steve to join.

Steve nodded, and felt Carol shift behind him. Michael's gaze flicked to her, and before he could ask, she said, "I think I'll stay with Steve."

"Suit yourselves," was their Escort's only answer, and then he walked away. Vanessa and Mary Jane threw quick looks over their shoulders at the tributes and mentor they were leaving behind, before hurrying to keep up with Michael.

As soon as they were gone, Steve's chest heaved in a huge sigh. The Capitol citizens made him nervous, but now that they were gone it was as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt much more at ease.

Carol, too, seemed more relaxed as they turned to face Peter. "I'm glad that's over," she said in a low voice, and Steve didn't know what she meant – the assessment, or Michael's disappointment? Regardless, he agreed.

"So," Peter drawled as they stopped at his feet. His easy-going attitude from earlier had slipped, revealing the clever and headstrong Victor he had always been. "I want you two to tell me everything."

In front of him, Carol and Steve exchanged glances.

* * *

By the time they'd finished relaying the full extent of their respective failures – Carol's completely on purpose, and Steve's… not so much – Peter was actually looking happy. "I can work with this," he'd said at one point, his eyes looking slightly distant.

Still, Steve wasn't entirely comfortable. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do better," he told Peter, guilt dragging down his throat. "I just… I didn't know what to _do_, you know?"

"I know," Peter had accepted, laying his hand on Steve's shoulder. He'd felt marginally better, but it still hadn't erased his bad performance in front of the Gamemakers.

Well, okay. 'Bad' was relative, he guessed, since Steve knew that he couldn't have completely flopped. But… standing in that room, in front of that audience, had felt like he was standing on a stage – and not a particularly important one, either. As though the whole thing was scripted, and Steve was just a dumb kid struggling to read his own lines. His shoulders curled inwards with the thought.

But a distraction came quickly. Steps sounded behind Steve, and he turned to see the boy from Six – _Bruce_, his mind supplied helpfully – emerge from the assessment area looking exhausted.

Steve paused to glanced back at Peter and Carol – they both nodded – before walking towards the other boy. His hands slipped into his pockets, and he was careful to make noise as he approached, not wanting Bruce to be startled by him.

"Rough grades?" he called softly.

Bruce snorted softly, lifting his forehead slightly from where he'd leaned it against the cold metal wall. "Well, I'm not expecting good ones," he admitted, and turned to face Steve properly, though one shoulder was still leaning against the wall for support. He looked the other boy up and down, but it wasn't threatening, just a careful examination. "You?" he asked.

Steve shrugged, letting himself relax. He hadn't talked to Bruce much before this point, and it was a relief to discover that he was easy to converse with. He didn't seem defensive or wary of Steve at all – just tired, as though the older boy was stretched too thin.

"I don't think I did too well," he told Bruce quietly, glancing towards the closed metal door. "But I don't know whether or not to be grateful for it."

Bruce smiled a little, the movement pressing grooves around his eyes. "I know what you mean," he agreed, and let his gaze wander around the room. "I don't think I'm going to be very good at killing people, Steve," he confessed, glancing down. Steve was surprised the boy knew his name – but not nearly as startled as he was by Bruce's nonchalant honesty. He looked up, brown eyes meeting blue. "I guess I'm still not used to that being a bad thing."

For a second, Steve's chest ached. Bruce's words sunk into his mind, echoing everything Steve thought about the games, and he had no idea how to respond.

Luckily, he was saved by Carol's arrival. She stepped in behind him, hands relaxed on her hips, and asked Bruce another question – something easy to answer, about his district. He smiled, seeming surprised, and then opened his mouth to answer.

The minutes passed in easy conversation until the door behind Bruce was pushed open again. His female counterpart strutted out, an easy smile twisting her lips as she brushed her short hair over her shoulder. Her gaze swept the room; clearly looking for Bruce – but when she saw whom he stood with, she stiffened. The grin dropped from her face.

"So," Bruce called. "How'd you go?"

She eyed Steve and Carol warily – him, especially – before relenting and crossing to her partner's side. But her approach was odd; hesitant at first, then determinedly strong, as though she refused to let them see her pause. "What are you doing, schoolboy?" she asked, but the question sounded harsher than it was. "I thought you'd have found Darcy by now."

"I haven't looked," was his steady reply, and Steve watched the two of them carefully. He didn't understand their dynamic yet, though it was getting clearer the more that he watched them. The one thing he did pick up on was Sin's unwillingness to go near him – she stayed further away from Bruce and Steve than she did Carol, though her eye was always on the male tribute from District Five. "But we both know that she's probably hanging out near District Four," Bruce finished.

When Steve lifted a questioning eyebrow, Bruce added with a shrug, "Darcy thinks Thor is hilarious."

After a moment, Carol spoke. "So, how'd you go?" she asked, repeating Bruce's question.

Sinthea eyed her for a moment, a line between her eyebrows. "Fine," she said eventually, and then turned back to Bruce. It was clear that she was holding back – but then, Steve could hardly expect honesty from every tribute. "Let's go, schoolboy," Sinthea said firmly.

"Okay." Bruce straightened into a more upright position, giving the other two Tributes a small smile. "It was nice talking to you," he said, and walked off with Sinthea after they'd both echoed the sentiment.

After the two District Six tributes disappeared into the crowd, Steve waited a moment before turning to Carol. She was already watching him with one eyebrow quirked and arms crossed over her chest. "That could have gone better," she commented.

Steve dragged a hand down his face. "Yeah," he agreed with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter. He pulled his hand away from his face, hesitating before he added, "Though, Bruce isn't so bad."

Her own smile slipped from her face as Carol nodded. "No, but his partner…" she trailed off. No more needed to be said – after all, Sinthea had hardly seemed like the friendly type.

"I wonder if they're going to stick together after the Games start," Steve mused, turning to face his own district partner more fully. Carol took a step back so that they were slightly more out of the way, making a small noise of agreement.

Unlike in previous years – when the majority of tributes had seemed to have an aversion towards teamwork – Steve had noticed that this year, the bonds between tributes seemed stronger. He wouldn't be surprised if the majority of them were planning to team up with their district partners already, or had other alliances in mind if they weren't. Very few tributes, he thought, would be likely to strike out on their own.

Bruce and Sin were one of the few pairs that Steve couldn't figure out. The boy seemed easy-going enough – and far too mild-mannered for the Games, if he was honest – but Sinthea had walked out of the assessment room grinning. But despite their seemingly opposite personalities, the two had struck up an unlikely friendship.

When he mentioned as much to Carol, the other blonde barely had time to murmur in agreement before the door to their left was opening yet again. They both turned to watch the next tribute walk out, the conversation dying on their lips.

The boy that stormed out was tense and rigid, his tight muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. Anger simmered beneath Logan's skin and his features were twisted into a scowl.

Steve wasn't quite sure what to make of Logan, yet. He had come off as gruff when they'd spoken just before the assessment, but it had also seemed more that it was habit than intentional dislike; as though he'd come out rough and the world had only sharpened his edges instead of wearing them down.

Being reaped for the Avenger Games would hardly have helped with the whole _softening_ thing either, Steve reflected dryly.

Brushing aside the thought, Steve called out his name. "Logan! Over here."

The boy seemed to tense up further at the invitation, but once he caught sight of who had called him, a little of the irritation drained from his features. He met his gaze with a curt nod, and then his eyes wandered to his district partner. Logan cleared his throat, offering a gruff, "Carol."

She gave him a polite smile, though Steve didn't think that the two had officially met. She'd seen the conversation between Logan, Bruce, and Steve just before the assessments, but he hadn't had time to tell her what it had been about. So, it was unlikely that Carol had a lot of reference about the boy to draw upon.

Logan wasn't the easiest person to draw into conversation, but Steve managed. It was probably their previous talk that made this one less stilted – and Steve was hoping that if he kept making conversation with Logan, he could establish himself as someone that the other boy could trust. After the way he'd seen Creed treat his tribute, it had been abundantly clear to Steve that Logan needed someone else in his corner.

Unfortunately, they didn't have time to bring up the private training assessment before the District Seven mentor, Creed, strode over. He was glaring at Steve as he approached, a sneer curling his lips, but then focused on his tribute as he drew closer. "Logan!" he barked, his beady eyes set on the younger boy as his voice dipped into a lower register. "I told you to find me directly after you finished in there," he growled.

Logan's jaw clenched as Creed's hand landed on the back of his neck. He turned to face the older man, his mouth already opening around a retort. It was probably something inflammatory that would get him in trouble with his mentor – maybe even result in more of the subtle shoving around that Steve had witnessed earlier. But then Logan paused, and let the words shrivel on his tongue. His nostrils flared - but still, he said nothing.

Steve watched the movements with a tangle of heat growing under his ribcage. Maybe speaking up would have gotten Logan in more trouble than he thought it was worth - but then, Steve didn't have as much at stake. He wasn't Creed's tribute, and he wasn't going to let the older man's cruel manipulation of his Tribute go.

It was dumb, it was stupid, and Logan was probably more than capable of dealing with Creed himself – but Steve still opened his mouth. "It's my fault," he interrupted, deliberating leaving out the 'sir' that he might have tacked on if it were any other mentor. He turned slowly to meet Creed's gaze, his own eyes harder than they should have been, and continued. "I called him over to talk about the assessment," Steve admitted, and caught the way that Creed's eyes narrowed. He couldn't resist adding, "I didn't think you'd mind."

Creed's glare intensified as he narrowed his eyes, the small pull at his lip turning the expression into a sneer. He looked at Steve as though the tribute were something he'd scraped off of his shoe. Steve's jaw clenched.

"Then you were wrong, Cap," Creed sneered, adding the nickname with cutting mockery – in all truth, Steve didn't really know who'd come up with the name, only that it had stuck – but Steve didn't like the way he said it. He didn't like the way Creed said anything.

His hand, which had fallen from Logan as Creed lurched towards Steve, now took up its former position as the Mentor took a step back. Steve watched his fingers curl around the sides of Logan's neck, feeling flames lick up the back of his throat.

He almost said something else, but Carol's hand closed around his wrist in warning. She squeezed tight enough to remind him that he couldn't just pick a fight with a different district's mentor in the middle of the hall, and so he backed down just as Creed glanced away, though something snapped in his chest at the surrender.

"C'mon, boy," Creed growled out, and Logan's lip threatened to curl as his hand squeezed around his neck.

Logan's nostrils flared as Creed wheeled them both around, shoulders hunched beneath the grip on his nape. He caught Steve's eye as he passed, his gaze full of something the other boy couldn't name. It wasn't anger, but it wasn't appreciation, either. His thick eyebrows drew together, and then Logan glanced away.

Footsteps echoed from behind the pair, and Steve and Carol turned around. "I know you don't like bullies, Steve," Quill began, with a mix of dry humour and honest exasperation, "but you don't need to pick a fight with every single one. _Especially_ when they're my colleagues."

"Maybe," Steve answered, though it wasn't entirely honest. Sure, it hadn't been necessary – but he'd successfully diverted Creed's anger onto him instead of Logan, which had been his intention. Creed couldn't abuse a tribute that wasn't his own, which meant that Steve was safe – but Logan wouldn't have been.

Peter shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he relented, then added with a flash of amusement, "I actually like seeing Creed being taken down a peg, anyway. But… you know, try not to antagonize him – especially if you're planning on teaming up with his tribute."

Steve nodded, recognizing the sense in his words. "We're not planning an alliance with Logan," he corrected, after a pause. "He's just a good guy."

"But we're not ruling it out, either," Carol added, glancing at him.

Peter grunted. "Smart of you," he commented. "Logan seems like the type who'll know what he's doing in the arena. Try to stay on his good side until then, would you? Might save your life."

"Yeah," Steve and Carol said together. "We will."

After that, it was silent for a few minutes. Steve wanted to bring up Creed again, and tell Quill about how the mentor had treated his tribute. But the hall was crowded with people, and he knew that Logan would hardly appreciate it if someone else overheard. So he fell into a disgruntled silence, making a mental note to tell Quill as soon as he got the chance.

It was then that Steve saw the way that Carol's forehead creased, and she tilted her head to the side. Peter watched her with a raised eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Steve. "What's wrong?" he asked.

She hesitated before answering softly, "Listen."

Steve obeyed. He ignored the hum of conversation from the other tributes, sure that it wasn't what Carol was focusing on. But he didn't know what else she could mean. "What do you hear?" he asked.

Carol frowned, her blue eyes meeting his. "Nothing."

And then it hit Steve – she was right. Inside the private training room, it was absolutely silent. With the other tributes, there'd at least been hints of what they were doing – scuffs of boots against floor; the smack of fists hitting dummies; or even the dull metal ring as weapons slammed into each other. But with Benedetta inside, there was nothing.

Peter didn't seem to have caught on, because he was watching them with confusion. Before Steve could say something to explain it, though, he heard the first words being spoken inside the room.

It was a Gamemaker, he thought – maybe the one with unnervingly focused eyes that had stood at the front of the balcony. "Remove your hood, please," he asked Benedetta firmly.

Her response was quiet, and slow. "I'd rather not."

Steve thought that there might have been more to the conversation, but instead the door swung open just a few seconds later. Carol and Steve glanced up together, watching her exit, and the female tribute met their gazes before letting the door swing shut and moving silently away.

At least, he thought that she'd looked at them. All he'd seen was her shadowed features moving in their direction, her black hair swinging under her chin. That hood sure did leave a lot to the imagination, he realized. It made it hard not to wonder why she kept it up all the time.

The next two assessments went by quickly. Steve felt as though he'd hardly turned around before the next tribute, Peter Parker, was striding out too. Unlike the others, he didn't let the door slam shut behind him, instead closing it softly – cutting off the faint laughter that had rung out after him. Peter must have said something funny, though Steve had missed it. He paused for a moment, leaning the back of his head against the cold metal door, before he stood up straight and accidentally caught Steve's eye.

The poor kid looked tired; dark circles were stamped under his eyes, and a ripple of unease seemed to be spreading under his skin. But as soon as he caught the other boy watching, Peter perked up and gave him a quick grin. It looked a little forced, though, and – though Steve couldn't quite tell – his hands may have been shaking as he flashed Steve a double thumbs up.

As soon as he turned away, doubtlessly going to find his mentor and escort, Peter's shoulders slouched. "He looks exhausted," Steve murmured quietly, turning to glance at Carol.

She met his gaze evenly, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows. "And he sure didn't look that way before we went in," she agreed softly. "I can't tell if that's good or bad."

"Me neither," he agreed. When they turned to face Quill, who had been not so subtly listening in, he simply shrugged. He probably didn't know, either.

The next tribute to come out was Anna. She shut the door quietly behind her, much like her district partner had but without the exhausted expression. Instead, her features were pinched, and her bottom lip stuck out more than her top one. Irritation was splashed across her face, settling deep in her dark eyes.

Carol and Steve looked at each other. Then, without speaking, she stepped forward. "Hey, Anna-" Carol began.

The girl glanced over at her name but unlike the other tributes, the sight of Steve and Carol only seemed to annoy her further. Her eyebrows drew together and the girl drew herself up, standing taller. Her eyes flashed with anger, and her mouth opened – but then she hesitated.

It seemed to take a large effort to reel herself in and contain her anger, but eventually Anna just offered a flat, "Sorry, but I don't want to talk right now," before tugging down the edge of her shirt and walking away.

"That could have gone better," Peter muttered from behind them. Steve and Carol turned to face him, wearing identical expressions of weariness. Neither had expected to be brushed off so easily – but then again, it wasn't as though they could expect politeness from every tribute.

Instead of saying anything else, Carol settled against the wall to wait for the next tribute to come out. Steve mirrored her after a moment, letting out a low sigh. It already felt like hours since he'd gone in for his own private assessment – and now, it felt like he'd be waiting forever the others to finish.


	29. Chapter 28: Can You Even See Me?

**(A/N) Hey guys, here we are, returning with a very special chapter. Unfortunately, as I mentioned a few chapters previously, we had a few writers drop out, and while we'll be skipping one or two chapter that don't impact on the plot, we didn't want to skip this one. So what we've done, rather than giving it solely to another writer and giving their character more focus, we've got two writers in, and two characters, to make it a little fairer. Hope you enjoy it, and let us know what you think in the reviews!**

**Thanks to sailerraven34 for their review, and we hope you'll continue to let us know your opinions on what we have to come!**

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**Chapter Twenty-Eight – Can You Even See Me?**

**Private Training Assessments (D9-D12)**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood &amp; robbiepoo2341**

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**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

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"_Why do you think the old stories tell of men who set out on great journeys to impress the gods? Because trying to impress people just isn't worth the time and effort."_

– Henry Rollins

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T'Challa had tried to talk about what she was going to do once she got in there. 'Tried' being the operative word in this scenario, as she waited in the chair beside him, spaced a little distance apart from the other districts on either side of them, and a two-person distance away from Cletus. _Still too close,_ she thought, shooting him a glare, though her district partner was in the way, so he wasn't able to see.

_Probably a good thing,_ she told herself, as the doors opened and the Nine boy was called in. The boy from the elevator gave himself a little shake, and then was lost to the depths of the Assessment Room, leaving his district partner alone beside the Cletus. No, that was wrong, it wasn't the Nine girl, it was Kate, who'd messed up the order of the line because for some reason she'd wanted to sit beside the red-skinned boy.

No, that was wrong as well, she realised as she remembered the words that had been uttered in her periphery just a few moments before. Kate hadn't been speaking to _Cletus, _she had been speaking to _Nine._ Ororo gave a small sigh of relief as her subconscious filled in the blanks, assuring her that the archer was not a psychotic maniac who was going to be life-long friends with the other psychotic maniac. She tilted her head away from the door Nine has gone through, to where his real district partner was sitting beside Loki.

_What's her name again?_ she asked herself, trying to remember Disappearing Girl's real name. She thought it began with a 'W'. _Wendy…Winny…Witchy…_Ororo stifled a giggle at the last option, aware of the serious nature that had descended over the seated group once Nine had left.

_Let's go with Witchy for now,_ she decided, the brief good mood deflating as soon as she made the gaze darted from the Sentinel, wondering if he or she was going to say something about the order – Sentinels didn't _act_ frightened of Cletus, but Ororo didn't think they were stupid enough to be unafraid, so they probably wouldn't blame the girl for not wanting to sit beside him – and then back to the girl. Witchy had a little contented smile on her face, like the world was good around her and she was right where she was supposed to be.

Ororo didn't feel the same way. It was just like that stupid Reaping last year when she wanted to vomit; she hadn't eaten all that much at lunch, though she'd noticed others from both the Careers and the outliers scoffing down food as though their lives depended on it, but she was glad she'd held off now.

"_I feel sick,"_ she clicked to T'Challa.

"Ororo, do not speak in such a way when we are here. It is…improper," the older replied softly, his eyes lifting towards the Sentinel that stood at the closed door. She wasn't sure if that was entirely true based on his slight hesitation. Beside him, the Ten girl shifted in her seat, the bench creaking ever so slightly.

"_So, what can they do? I've already been on the television, so they can't find a replacement,"_ she growled back stubbornly.

"Ororo, it is not what they can do to you, but to the ones you love back at home. I am sure your Nanny would not appreciate more orphans under her care."

"Shows how much you know about Nanny," she muttered under her breath, mollified by the words however, and switching back to the universal language. Her legs swung back and forth in the chair as the Nine girl was called in, nervous jitters spreading to her periphery, and she leaned forward as T'Challa smiled as Kate darted back to her own seat, the tattooed girl on his other side eliciting a barely disguised grunt of disdain for the archer who didn't want to sit by Cletus. From the corner of her good eye, she could see he kept the smile on his face as she sat down, watching her from over Loki's head.

She knew Loki's name, though not from any real affection for the boy; the Career just always seemed to proclaim it to the world every time he saw the scrawny kid, who was almost as small as she was. _Watch the small ones,_ she thought to herself, giving a little smile. Loki was a Career too, even though he was a Twelve; his brother had made sure of that, and Ororo had made sure to stay off his radar as a result. She caught sight of Cletus eyeballing her after roving his eyes over Kate, and scrunched up her face into a sneer.

"What're you looking at?" she hissed, as T'Challa lay an appeasing hand on her shoulder.

"Dinner," he said with a cackle, licking his lips deliberately. His grin widened as he was called forward, pirouetting away. "So nice and cool, so juicy sweet. _Yuh-meee!_" Ororo stared after him, hard eyes watching the door close and separate the little girl from the far more violent little boy. _I hate him_. She was afraid of him too though, like some of the men from the mines. They were grown men, strong men, but Cletus...if she thought about it too much – which she didn't – she was more afraid of the red boy than the towering miners. So she kept her hate inside, and found the small island in her head, and clung to it as fiercely as she dared, and smiled at T'Challa when he released her with a small pat.

She didn't know what she was going to do in front of the Gamemakers. She had nothing, she felt, to offer them; no way of showing them what she knew, since she wasn't strong and she didn't have enough time to demonstrate what Tony had taught her at the electric circuits. She could hide, and she could be fast, but Sam had told them that the Gamemakers needed to be wowed by the time they got to Ten, and Eleven and Twelve were nearly always forgotten.

She sighed in unison with Kate, though she didn't think the other picked up on it.

Even if they remembered Cletus – and she knew they _would_ remember Cletus, because no one could forget that dyed skin and pointed teeth and rock hard muscles – he would probably be still on their mind when she went in. And _hiding_ was not a useful trait to grab their attention.

"Stupid, Gamemarkers," she grumbled, her legs still swinging and no doubt disturbing Loki beside her, though the pale boy gave no outward signs. She was glad of that, that he didn't mock her for being unable to keep still.

"Ororo, be calm," T'Challa said, his voice soft and barely heard over the call for the Ten girl. They made quite a pair, the District Ten tributes, with their dyed skins. There were a lot of red-heads in the mix of tributes this year, but Ten would always be distinguished by the blue tattoos she bore. Although, if Ororo thought about it a little, the others also had their own traits, though it would be Ten that she could recognise from a distance; that Sixer with the skull token, and the one from Two that she never wanted to ever meet in the Games, because that would mean she had encountered the Careers, and that would mean that she was dead.

_Dead, like Eric_.

She gave a small nod at T'Challa's words, matching her breathing with his and leaning back against the wall. She wished she had Eric's sunglasses, to block out the world around her. The Sentinels were silent, and the two Twelves were silent, and if she shut her eyes, she knew everything would be able to cease around her. Silence didn't bother her all that much usually. Sometimes she liked it. This was one of those moments.

"You be calm," she muttered, catching the smile from T'Challa and bringing one back to her own face. _If I'd closed my eyes, I wouldn't have seen that,_ she told herself. It wasn't just the Gamemakers she had to try and impress though. She knew she wouldn't survive for an awfully long time alone in the beginning. She needed people, not just T'Challa, to help her at the start. To help her stay calm, and anchored safely to her island in her head, and not clawing at bigger kids' faces, unable to keep the storm from surfacing.

"I _am _calm," he informed her.

"No you're not," she shot back. "You have a tell, T'Challa, it's just a little different than most." Her smile widened as he deliberately straightened up and shifted in his seat, the first movement he had made in a long while that involved his whole body. "At least you know what it is." The doors swung open and the cool voice came over to announce Eleven's male. "Good luck."

"Be calm, Ororo. It will be okay," he said as he went through the door, it closing soundlessly behind him and leaving the three alone in the room with the Sentinels. The silence closed around them, and she found herself crossing her arms, the quiet making it seem like there weren't tributes in the holding room, but Inhumans.

There were no Inhumans allowed in this area; she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, and gulped, her hand going up to stroke her neck and tongue pushing against her teeth. She tried to imagine having no tongue and being rendered invisible by the 'superior' Capitolites; though the latter was pretty much standard for every day, the former was unimaginable. She wouldn't be able to eat _fruit_ without her tongue. She wouldn't be able to _stick her tongue out _without her tongue. That was what would happen to one of her brothers and sisters, she knew, if she spoke out. She had just forgotten for a moment, like always, and T'Challa had reminded her, as usual. Even if she had sometimes _thought_ about shutting Misty or Jericho up before, she wouldn't like to ever see them get their tongues cut out.

The voice slid out across the room, calling her to enter the Assessment Room. She had been so busy thinking about Inhumans and tongues that she had forgotten to think about what she was going to do. _Damn._ Light on her feet, she left Loki alone with his thoughts and Kate, and gulped again as the door swung closed behind her, catching the Sentinel watching her through the gap until that disappeared. And then she stepped forward, and just like Sam had warned her, the Gamemakers were no longer paying any attention.

She thought they probably did for T'Challa; he was the mayor's son after all, educated to a degree in the ways of the Capitol. He wasn't Ororo, the half-blind little girl who sported 'raw umber'. Walking into the centre of the room, a woman gestured for her to begin, standing beside the man she recognised from television.

She gave Director Fury a small wave, and lifted her hair away from her blind eye, pointing at him and it a few times. He gave a barely noticeable inclination of his head, which Ororo took to be a raucous celebration of their mutual affliction, and then set about her work. She took some deep breaths, finding her island and trying to anchor in her head.

She tried out the move Rand had shown her on one of the dummies, though her foot fell short, as she knew it would, and the inanimate object was not as good as Logan, so she wasn't able to demonstrate her monkey ability. She'd already lost a couple of Gamemakers by then, and grumbled to herself in Wakandan as she held up some of the poisonous plants, and gave either a thumbs up or stuck her tongue out depending on whether it would kill her or not. _O...kay..._she thought, looking around to try and find something, _anything_, that would enable her to make it through the Bloodbath, and when nothing sprang to mind, she gave a small sigh.

_Fine, Sam, I'll _hide. She supposed it would show off her climbing, to any of them that were watching, and she sprinted for the nearest foothold wall, springing like a cat onto it at a height that seemed decent enough to her, but she was small, and she thought Logan could get much higher. _Stupid, Logan,_ she thought, hauling herself up into the rafters, and balancing across the long beam that cut through the room, ropes dangling from it. She took some more deep breaths, as her calm island began to float away, and she forced herself to cling on to it.

"**Thank you, District Eleven Female,"** the cool voice said, nearly scaring Ororo off her perch at the suddenness. She glanced down to the Gamemakers below, where the ones paying attention were at the very least unsure as to where she was. Shinnying down the rope, she hopped onto the ground, heaving a sigh.

"I wasn't done, stupid voice," she growled, tapping her eye again as she met the Director's eye briefly. Then she stomped out, her arms crossed, through the door that had just opened, resisting the urge to look back at the Gamemakers. She _had_ been done though, she supposed, since even if they hadn't stopped her, she wouldn't have known what to do afterwards.

_Could've just stayed hidden,_ she mused as she made her way to where Sam and T'Challa stood, Everett a little ways off talking with T'Challa's stylist.

"Well, how did it go?" Sam asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm going to come twenty-fourth this year," she said mournfully.

"I will not let that happen," T'Challa interjected, his arms crossed. "Were you calm?"

"Did you hide?" Ororo gave a small nod at her mentor's question, and he breathed a sigh. "That might help." She shook her head at the words.

"They weren't looking, Sam. They didn't care."

"They cared about _me!"_ Ororo swung around as Cletus' voice rang through the holding area, his district partner rolling her eyes at the words as he bared his pointed teeth at Ororo, and she clenched her hands into a fist. "Guess they don't like dark meat; guess that means more for _me! Mmm-Mmm, _tender, tasty Orororororor."

The girl's nose scrunched up to her eyes, any tendril holding her island in place snapping, and she sprang for the red-skinned boy; fear or no fear, she hated him enough in that moment that it overrode any residual terror in her body. Somewhere in her head, she knew the Sentinels would tear her off him, and be none too gentle in their act. Behind Cletus, Hank McCoy started to yell at Sam about uncontrollable tributes.

Sam, on the other hand, was a lot gentler, and he reached her before she had time to close the gap between her and Cletus, lifting her up and pulling her away from the grinning, cackling boy. Hank's grumblings ceased after assessing the scene, and Ororo only resisted her mentor for a moment, her voice never rising above the whisper as she hissed, "I _hate_ him. _I hate him_." Her mentor held her, his head shaking against her own as a Sentinel approached, and waited until he had her turned away from Cletus' taunting face and back towards T'Challa before dropping her to her feet, his hands firmly on her shoulders this time.

"I know, I know; don't draw attention," she said as the doors opened and Loki came through, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the scene. She thought she saw his lips lift in a small smirk, and the storm within her rose up again, clawing its way out, threatening to break free of Sam's shoulder grip. She trembled under his hands, and he picked her up again.

"Believe me, Ororo, if I could stab that bastard or throw him off the roof, I would in a heartbeat," Sam said quietly, the words unexpected. "Look at me, Ororo. _Look at me_." She could hear Cletus' cackles behind her, and guessed where he stood based on Loki's eyes, the young boy standing by the door with his arms crossed. It took another deep breath, and the knowledge Sam also wanted to hurt the red-skinned boy for Ororo to turn her gaze on him.

"There is something _wrong_ inside him, waiting to get out, and you better make sure you're not near him when it does. You too, T'Challa," he added, lifting his gaze to the boy, his expression darkening. "Let's not give him the satisfaction of his...dark meat delicacy. You need to learn how to control your anger though, Ororo. Don't let it overwhelm you."

"I…I…"

"_That oughta get me higher than a zero!_"

* * *

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"I love it when people doubt me. It makes me work harder to prove them wrong." _\- Derek Jeter

* * *

"You know what you're going to do?"

Kate was sitting beside Kurt. She'd stolen his district partner's spot on the bench, which she definitely wasn't supposed to do, but what's-her-name from Nine didn't seem to care much. After all, that meant Kate was now sitting beside the psycho from Ten.

Kurt smiled at Kate. He had been staring at his hands and looked nervous until then, and she figured he needed some cheerleading. "I think so," he said, though she could tell he was nervous just by the lilt in his voice. Kurt had a bit of an accent, but it seemed to get thicker the more nervous he got.

"Betcha get the best score," she said. "Just show them half the moves you've been teaching me, and the Swordsman himself couldn't be prouder."

He smiled feebly at her, like he wasn't convinced.

Kate rambled on a bit longer, extolling Kurt's virtues in an effort to cheer him up, but it wasn't long before they called for him. Boys went first, after all.

The door closed behind him, and Kate sighed, locking eyes with Nine's girl, who gave her a look that said, _No way am I switching seats back_.

Not that Kate could blame her. She scooted a little further away from Ten.

A few minutes later, they called Nine's girl, and Kate tried not to look too relieved as she sped right back to her seat. On the _far_ end of the bench. Past both tributes from Eleven and past Loki. Lots of people to make a cushion between her and Ten.

But lots of people meant lots of time to wait, and as Kate settled down on the bench, the silence settled around them.

Kate shifted in her seat and pretended she wasn't nervous.

Only she was definitely nervous, because she could hear District Ten's boy drumming his abnormally long fingernails against the solid bench. He caught her gaze and grinned at her, running his tongue over his weird teeth.

She tried to force herself to smile back or stick her tongue out at him — _something_— but it was hard to do anything but just look down and away and pretend not to be intimidated.

The boy from Eleven, who seemed decent but who Kate hadn't really stopped to get to know, gave her an understanding sort of smile.

Kate sighed and shifted again.

Beside her, Loki had his eyes closed. There was no telling what that kid was planning in his weird little head. She'd almost thought they were friends, after that second night. He certainly had at least stopped staring at her like he knew something she didn't. At least, he'd stopped doing it while she could see him.

Kate folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. This was a really long wait, and she didn't like it. Didn't like that she was in the last district. Her mentor had warned her that the Gamemakers were usually tired out by the time they got to Twelve, and so Kate had better do something to get their attention back.

She watched the boy from Ten leap to his feet and practically dance into the room, and the mood in the waiting room lifted substantially. There was something about him that gave everyone the creeps.

And yet, without even the tap-tap-tap of Ten's fingernails against the bench, the silence grew more and more oppressive. Kate missed District Twelve terribly, could almost hear Tommy's voice breaking the silence. _You're all so bo-o-o-ring_, he would say. He seemed to think everyone in the world moved too slowly for him.

Or maybe Billy would say something dreadfully, hilariously dramatic. And then Teddy would chide him for taking the Games too seriously. America would punch them both when they got too involved with each other.

She could hear both of the kids from Eleven talking quietly with each other as Ten's girl went next. Their voices were low, but she could still hear every word in the oppressive silence. But it seemed like a private conversation, and half of it seemed to be in a different language, so she tried her best to pretend she couldn't hear it.

At least they were talking. It sort of helped to have human voices around her again.

She watched the girl from Eleven swing her legs back and forth. Loki didn't seem bothered—except Kate could see that he was. One fist was clenched tighter than the other. It was the only sign that the nerves were getting to him, too.

They called for the boy from Eleven, and that was what broke Kate out of her thoughts. The sound of Eleven's footsteps was so light and soft that if Kate had managed to convince herself to actually make conversation, even her whispered voice would have drowned out the sound of his steps.

But now? Now they sounded like bullets.

Kate winced. There was not much time left before the Games, and she had to admit that she'd thought about running. But each daydream ended in a spray of bullets as loud as those footsteps.

And besides, she'd done plenty of smiling and waving and even convincing half the Capitol that she was just about the smiliest, most excited little tribute the Games had ever seen.

But after the Games, that was the real test. If she could smile through all that. If she could come back from it.

She knew she wouldn't come home unchanged. Experience had taught her that. No, you don't live through something like that, something so awful, and come back unchanged.

Two years ago, Kate had become someone else. And if she came back from the Games, she'd be another stranger. Only this time she'd have even more power to keep the people she cared about from harm. She'd be a victor, and she could help train girls so they'd never have to be as helpless as she was. She could even help get sponsors.

After all, she loved Blackagar, and he was growing on her, but there was not much he could do to get sponsors when he couldn't talk.

She jumped when the girl from Eleven left her seat—she hadn't heard them call her name. She tried to cover for the movement by skipping over so that she took up Eleven's now unoccupied bench on her own, apart from Loki, who still looked calm and collected as he kept his eyes closed and thought about whatever he was thinking about.

What _was _he thinking about? How best to kill Kate?

She swallowed hard and tried not to think about it. She'd just have to avoid Loki and the Career pack if she could, and hope if they found her that maybe — just maybe — Clint would be nice enough to help her skirt by. Or maybe Loki, if he was feeling generous, but that was a big if.

It was a fleeting hope, but that was all she had to hold on to.

She stretched herself out on the bench, letting her hair fall around her. She focused on that, on the gravity working on her hair as she brought it up and laid it across her shoulders, where it slowly fell back down again.

Up and down. Up and down. Something to do with her hands. Her fingers itched for a bow, for arrows, for security.

Loki walked past her, deliberately jostling her bench as he went. She made a face at him and then grinned, but he did not smile back.

She sighed. It was silent now. Just Kate and her thoughts — no one else.

"My name is Kate!" she bellowed at the ceiling, because it was horrifically quiet, and she just couldn't stand it anymore — and what did the Sentinels she might have disturbed care if she let out her frustration for just a second? "And you _will _remember me!"

The ceiling didn't say anything back, but that was probably a good thing. Meant she wasn't going insane.

She sighed. Her outburst hadn't helped.

She went back to playing with her hair. Up and down. Up and down. The silence, which had broken apart when she shouted into it, crept back in around her like a stifling blanket.

And then they called for her.

She felt her feet hit the floor, though she was not aware that she ever made the conscious decision to move.

And then she was back in the training room. Stations were set up all around her, and there was a large room, a seating area for the Gamemakers.

Kate beamed at them, waving enthusiastically. She was running out of beaming smiles in her supply, but when the adrenaline kicked in, that was all she could remember to do — smile and wave.

She probably did that for too long. One of the Gamemakers even sort of smiled back, his hand moving like he might wave back out of pity.

That was _not _good. She didn't need pity.

She forced her mind back to reality. She could see already that she was losing their interest. She'd get a zero — was it possible to get a zero? She was pretty sure it wasn't, but then, maybe...

She grabbed the staffs and twirled them over her head, losing her fear in the motions, going through a few dummies, testing out her strength, throwing in a few unnecessary twirls...

When she looked back in the room, she noticed that there were almost no eyes on her.

_Screw it._

She dropped the staffs with a loud _clang_. Didn't even bother to pick them back up, just left them there.

And then she stalked over to the weapons rack and grabbed the bow and arrows. She didn't care enough to check to see if they were watching. Surely she'd grabbed their attention for a moment when she dropped the staffs, but they were already distracted enough that they might have just assumed she dropped them on accident.

Stupid Gamemakers.

_Thwack_. The first arrow.

Stupid Games.

_Twang_. The sound of her bow.

Stupid assessment scores.

_Thunk_. The third arrow.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Kate's muscle memory took over. She stopped thinking. She just saw one target after the next.

And when she reached back for another arrow and found the quiver empty, that was when a _real _smile chased her eyes, and she licked her lips, turning back to the Gamemakers who were, predictably, only half paying attention.

And she could see it in the eyes of the ones who had been watching. (There were maybe three). The raised eyebrows. The pursed lips. Fury in particular looked like he might even smile.

Kate cleared her throat loudly, and more of them turned to look. Elbowed the ones who weren't paying attention.

Kate probably should have used the moment more. If she'd been Loki, she would have had something grand or amusing to say. Instead, she had already placed the bow back on the weapons rack and was headed out the door before half the Gamemakers had even processed the scene before them.

The row of dummies, all suddenly filled with arrows. No head shots or chest shots or even cool lightning designs like Clint had done. No, no. These were specially aimed with just the Gamemakers in mind.

Kate chuckled to herself and she closed the door behind her, laughing as she pictured their faces when they looked up to discover that every single dummy had at least two arrows in its nether parts.

When she looked up, she was surprised to see that there had apparently been a bit of a commotion while she was gone. The girl from Eleven (what _was_her name? Kate wished she'd had more time to talk with her to get to know her better) was in her mentor's arms, apparently calming down, while the boy from Ten was being led away by his own mentor.

Should have known _he'd_ be the source of whatever this problem was.

Kate decided to deflate the tension a little. "That oughta get me higher than a zero," she announced to the room. She beamed at all of them, putting on her 'prettiest' face, before she locked gazes with Eleven, who smirked at her and seemed to relax in her mentor's arms.

Loki, who had been standing near the door and apparently watching the confrontation before Kate arrived, sighed, "Must you?"

"What would you do without me to make your life more interesting?" she shot right back, skipping right on past him toward her mentor, Blackager, who was shaking his head at her even though she could see he was trying not to smile.

_Yeah, that's right. I've wormed my way into your heart—don't go bothering to deny it_, she thought, waving merrily at Blackager.

As she passed Eleven, who had now been released from her mentor's bear hug, she paused and then decided to stop. (The mentor for Eleven didn't look too happy about that. Why he didn't like Kate, she would never know. Didn't he know that _everybody _here thought she was awesome?)

"Shame he stopped you," she said, gesturing toward Eleven's mentor. "Would've been nice if you could've taken Ten out before the Games. You'd be doing us all a favour."

Eleven grinned, and her district partner looked mortified at Kate's suggestion. Or maybe he looked like he agreed with her. The two emotions seemed to be equally mixed on his face.

"Don't I know it, but T'Challa would think that's working the system," Eleven muttered under her breath as the smile slipped from her face. She paused, looking to her district partner, before she shook her head. "You know you can't possibly get a zero, right? I don't know what _you_ were worried about."

"I dunno. I'm not even sure half of them saw anything I did," Kate shrugged easily.

"Yeah," Eleven said. Her face fell, and she looked at the ground.

"Doesn't matter, though," Kate said, more forcefully this time. "I know how good I am, and it's time I stopped caring if other people know it, too."

Eleven didn't look convinced. (Kate wasn't sure she had convinced _herself_, actually).

Kate looked to Eleven's mentor, who gave her a look that sort of said _If you must_, before she reached out and put a hand on Eleven's shoulder. "Hey," she said. "Just because the Gamemakers have already counted us out doesn't mean anything. _They've _never been out in the Outer Districts. Bet they wouldn't survive two hours where we're from."

Eleven grinned. "Two hours is generous."

Kate shrugged easily. "Depends on the day," she said.

Eleven laughed. She looked over her shoulder at her mentor, who was chatting with her district partner but kept shooting her dark looks.

"Why does he hate me?" Kate asked suddenly.

Eleven practically cackled at the question. "He thinks you're stupid."

"He's not wrong," Kate admitted with a smile.

Eleven snorted. "That's what you get for calling attention to yourself. Told you not to do that, ghost gum."

Kate rubbed the back of her head and smiled sheepishly. "I'm really not all that good at following directions."

Eleven smirked but said nothing.

"Ororo!" Eleven's mentor called. (Oh, yes, _that _was her name!) He looked upset.

Ororo pulled a face and then looked over at Kate with an exaggerated eye roll. "Don't worry. He's not really annoyed. He's just...Sam. See you around?" she whispered.

"Maybe wait 'til the Games, where it's safer," Kate joked, jerking her head Sam's direction, but Ororo didn't smile, so Kate just shrugged. "Yeah, see you around, Ororo," she said, making a point to use her name now that she could actually remember it. Kate _liked _this spunky little girl, and she wouldn't mind having her on her side.

Ororo sidled off, talking animatedly with her mentor and with an expression that clearly said she could match him in levels of annoyance.

Kate grinned, waved, and looked back at Blackager, who looked like he didn't know whether to smile or scowl at her.

She skipped over to him with a grin. "What score do you think they give people who shoot all their dummies in the crotch?" she asked in a whisper just loud enough for Blackager and Loki (who had joined their mentor at last) to hear.

Blackager gave her a disapproving look, but Loki sort of smiled at her, like he was weirdly proud of his district partner. Blackager glared at Loki, too, then made a motion with his hands that sort of looked like he was pointing to his head.

"Yeah, I know. I'm stupid," Kate said. "At least stupid works for me."

Blackager gave her his big, sad, long-suffering eyes. She'd gotten to know that look pretty well — she and Loki were apparently very good at getting his feathers ruffled.

She snorted. "Let's head back," she declared. "Don't want to miss them announcing the scores."

"Yes, we wouldn't want to miss the first zero in the history of the Games," Loki said. He spoke with a straight face, but she could see his lips quivering into a smirk.

She smacked him playfully upside the head. And before anyone nearby could give her yet another 'no fighting' shout, she rushed ahead of him and called out, "Race you back!"


	30. Chapter 29: Rate My Tribute

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back again with a new chapter, as we see our tribute's various scores, and creep ever-so-much closer to the beginning of the Games. This chapter features our Black Widow, written as ever by the wonderful GeekyChic123! Big thanks to Created to Write for their review, and we hope you all will drop by and let us know what you think of this chapter! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine – Rate My Tribute**

**Night of Scores**

**Natasha Romanoff of District Two**

**Written by GeekyChic123**

* * *

"_No one has it all figured out, especially not the people who are acting like they do and judging you because of it. Pretending to be something you aren't because you're trying to please a bunch of judgmental hypocrites and shitheads is not the way to be happy. Living the life you want to live is. It really is that simple." _

― Tucker Max_, Assholes Finish First_

* * *

Everything had been so much harder than she thought it would be. Natasha had known she would have to be 'on' for as long as she was in the Capitol, making sure she was always bubbly and likable if she even so much as thought there was a chance that a camera could be around. She had known she would have to hide the extent of her abilities, making sure she never gave away just how dangerous she could be to the other tributes. She had known she would need to have the right answer to every question, always be one step ahead of the others when possible. Form the right alliances, and be prepared to break them down as soon as the moment was right.

Natasha had known how difficult her time here could be. But that had not prepared her for how stressful and complicated being here _truly_ was.

She was in her room now, lying on her bed with her eyes closed. Trying to pretend she was back in the Red Room, and could be told exactly what she was supposed to do next. It was a waste of precious time that Natasha didn't have, but it made her feel a bit better. Helped calm her brain, so she could try to lay out the plans for what needed to happen before she was placed in the arena.

There was still the interview. She would have to make sure she got the right outfit for that, and wasn't forced into some atrocious monstrosity like some of the kids for opening ceremonies had been. She needed to prepare for any possible interview questions, and of course she still needed to figure out a few of the other tributes. Natasha felt she had gotten a pretty good idea of how most of them worked, but there were still a few that confused her. That Logan kid was hard to read.

He was acting like he didn't have a clue about how to fight, but he looked a bit too at ease with a knife in his hand. Too comfortable with throwing his trainer to the ground during hand-to-hand combat. She didn't trust anyone here, but Natasha was more than a bit wary about the boy from District Seven. It just felt like he was holding something back. Like he was more dangerous than he let on.

She also needed to figure out what she was going to do about Barton. Leave him to die? Try and work with him once the Career pack inevitably dissolved? Kill him as soon as she had the chance? There was a lot that she still had to figure out. Most of this would be easier to decide after tonight, once she had seen everyone's training scores. But then she had thought things would be easier one she met with the Career pack, but if anything that meetings had just made her more confused about what she should do.

Back at home when she had too much to figure out, or just needed to think, she would go to the training area of the Room and pour her energy into attacking a punching bag or throwing knives. She would love to do that now, especially after three days in the Training Centre surrounded by the other tributes, pretending she hardly knew how to fight. It had been a tricky balance, showing enough of her skills to prove she belonged in the careers, hiding enough of them that they wouldn't see her as a large threat. She wanted to keep most of her abilities as a surprise for once the games started.

Still, it _had_ been hard missing targets on purpose when throwing knives, letting trainers win fights when she practiced hand to hand combat, acting like she had never seen a poisonous plant before. Acting like she hadn't spent every moment of her life so far preparing and training for what would happen once she was inside of the arena.

Now she just wanted to go back into that training room and actually use all of that beautiful equipment, not hover around it, and pretend that she hardly knew how to throw a knife. Nervous energy was coursing through Natasha's body, and she was aching to fight someone. She would just have to save that energy for the arena. Or maybe she could find that Wade kid...he seemed crazy enough to break the rules and fight her.

Natasha opened her eyes, and sat up on the bed. The scores were going to go up soon, she should stop stalling and get out to the living room.

But then she would have to deal with Clint, and her mentor Bobbi. Who admittedly was pretty cool, and had actually already given Natasha some good tips for once she entered the arena. Of course she had given her a lot of stupidly obvious tips too, and tried to teach Natasha about things Nat already knew about, but still, Bobbi wasn't completely worthless.

Natasha was actually surprised to find that she liked Bobbi. She _owed_ Bobbi. If her mentor hadn't been so helpful, and worked a few things out, Natasha's demonstration for her final score would have been a lot less impressive than she hoped the evaluators thought it had been. Natasha had told Bobbi what she wanted to do for her evaluation the first night she arrived. And Bobbi had laughed at her, and said no way was that going to happen. But then Natasha had worked on her, practiced some of her manipulation skills. Eventually she had convinced her mentor to at least try and get this to work.

And in the end, Bobbi had pulled a few strings, and helped Natasha pull off what was probably one of the most unique training assessments ever.

* * *

Natasha had been the third one called in for her assessment. After Clint and before Stark. The same moment she had entered the room, three trainers were being escorted in. All men. The smallest a head taller than her.

All of the trainers looked annoyed. They had seen her fight (or at least seen her pretend she couldn't fight), one of them had even fought with her. And none of them were happy to be wasting their time fighting this girl who they thought was pretty useless in hand to hand, so she could get her score. Well, ok, most of the trainers looked annoyed. The cruellest looking trainer looked amused at the thought of fighting Natasha though – they had been ordered not to hurt her, just defend themselves as she tried to get them to the ground. But that one looked as if he would be more than happy to fight if the opportunity arose.

Natasha smiled sweetly at the judges, and nodded towards them. "Thank you for your time," she said. "I know using hand-to-hand fighting to exhibit a tribute's skills can be a bit unusual, so I appreciate that you let me do this. I hope you enjoy the show."

Another toothy smile at the panel of people who would help decide part of her fate, then Tasha turned towards the trainers. They looked bored, like they thought this girl was wasting their time. The mood of the group felt annoyed, and anxious for this little show to end.

Then Natasha's smile changed to a more menacing snarl, and she lunged for the first attack.

She had not meant to hurt them as much as she did. She didn't regret what she did to them either though. At first she was just trying to get the men to the ground, maybe knock one or two unconscious if she felt that would look good. But then as Natasha was dodging punches, and kicking, and scratching, and hitting, all she could think of was that it wasn't good enough. About how the people watching her were probably bored, marking down threes or ones on her score sheet. They were probably wondering why she had volunteered for the Games, and were already taking bets on how quickly she would be killed.

She wasn't good enough, so she wasn't going to get a high score.

And if she didn't get a high score, it would prove she didn't really belong here, and wasn't ready for this.

And if she wasn't ready for this now, she wasn't going to make it out of the games alive.

And so, Natasha had panicked. And instead of fighting in a calculated way, measured to show off just enough of her skills without bringing to much pain to the trainers, her brain went into fight mode. And suddenly she was fighting like her life depended on how well she performed. In a way it kind of did.

She kicked men's legs out from under them, and placed well aimed kicks she knew would hit vital organs. One man pulled her back by her hair, desperate to stop her, and she got a hold of his hand and bent until she heard fingers snap. Another tried to grab her from behind, and she used leverage to throw him down to the ground. Then when it looked like he was about to get up, Natasha raised her foot and stomped down hard on his nose. Maybe she should have been sickened by the sound that made, or the red that suddenly drenched the man's face, but all she could think about in that moment was fighting to get the best possible score.

It would only be later when she thought back on what she had done that her stomach would churn at the memory of looking down at the man's blood-drenched face, and hearing him cry in pain.

The entire thing was a blur, and thinking back Natasha could hardly remember what she had done, how badly she had hurt those men. But finally, she had turned to attack her next victim, and no one was there. One of the trainers were lying at her feet, the others were covered in their own blood, or nursing broken bones. Bruises and black eyes were already beginning to form. Natasha hardly had a scratch on her. Just some bruises on her arms, and a dull ace at the base of her neck where the man had pulled her by the hair.

Other than that she was fine.

Natasha had tried to catch her breath and compose herself in front of the game makers. She let another charming smile light up her face, and waved cheerily up at the people judging her. "Thank you _so_ much! I can't wait to see what you thought of my performance!" She giggled, hopefully charmingly, and left.

She sat stiffly on the couch in the living room, knees crossed, hands folded in her lap tightly to try and make them stop trembling. What if she hadn't done well enough? What if all of the other tributes got amazing scores, and she was stuck with a two, or even a one? Did people even get ones in training? Was that possible? Didn't some weakling little twelve year old from District Eight get a one a few years ago, and they managed to live for a few days in the arena? This score would not tell Natasha if she was going to live or die. She would be the one to make that decision; her fate was in her own hands.

But this score would tell if she'd get sponsors or not. It would tell her if The Room would try and support her in the Games. They had been very clear with her that she was to score highly during her assessment, and pique the interest of the Capitol. If she got anything less than a nine, that was it. They would not help her anymore, they wouldn't help rally sponsors from District Two, she'd be on her own. They would cut their losses with her, and move on to peeping the tribute for next year's Games.

Clint was sitting on another couch – lounging on it might be a better description of what he was doing. He was sprawled across the cushions, eyes darting around the room nervously, never resting on any one thing for more than a few seconds.

Meanwhile Bobbi, Jarvis, and Clint's mentor, Tony Masters, were also waiting anxiously for the scores to go up. Jarvis was pacing the room, tidying up things that were already in order, rearranging the plates of food on the table; clearly he was trying to distract himself by staying busy. Bobbi was standing behind the couch Natasha was sitting on, staring at the old footage playing, talking again about the Tribute Parade on TV.

Meanwhile it looked like Masters was in a foul mood, pouting about something in a chair on the other side of the room. Natasha had not gotten to know him very well, but got the impression the man was extremely competitive and didn't think Clint was good enough to win him the Games. It almost made Natasha wish Clint would win, just to prove this arrogant idiot wrong.

Only of course for that to happen she would have to die.

Suddenly reruns of the parade ended, and instead of looking at the tributes from District Twelve, Natasha was staring at Taneleer Tivan. He was smiling creepily at the camera, like he was trying to show off all of this teeth at once, and Natasha wasn't a fan of the freaky manic look that lit up his eyes when he talked about the Games. She knew people here in the Capitol where nuts about the Games, but maybe it was possible to love them a bit too much…

Taneleer was waving his hands grandly about as he spoke. **"And so, ladies and gentlemen, it is time for what you have all been waiting for, the training scores for this year's Games! As you all know the tributes were given three days to learn all the new skills they will need in the arena, and then were given a chance to show off those skills in front of a panel of Gamemakers! Now, let's see the results! As you know these scores should give us an idea of how our tributes will do in the arena, but the tributes could still surprise us! Like last year, when a tribute from District Seven scored a two, and lived almost three whole days!"**

Jarvis had stopped moving around, he was standing next to Clint's couch staring intently at the TV. Natasha's heart was pounding in her ears, and no matter how hard she clenched them her hands would not stop shaking. She couldn't wait any longer, couldn't this idiot stop talking and tell them the damn scores already? She clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking, and her nails bit into her flesh. The subtle pain was a nice distraction from the anxiety rushing through her body.

Taneleer finished up the little speech he was giving, and then instead of his face Natasha was looking at a picture of the boy from District One, Wade. **"Wade Wilson from District One has a score of nine points!"** Tanaleer announced, as the number popped up underneath Wade's picture.

Natasha felt her stomach churn. It couldn't be a good sign if the very first tribute was starting off with such a good score. But maybe it was a good sign that an idiot like Wade could score so highly?

**"Elektra Natchios from District One, also has a score of nine points!"**

Elektra's photo and number were on screen now, and Natasha couldn't help but feel more annoyed than anxious that the girl had scored so highly. Natasha had avoided Elektra during training, but had observed how arrogant the other girl could be. _Great, now she'll have something else to be sickeningly smug about. _

Natasha had tried to figure out Elektra during the Career's meeting, but just couldn't get a solid read on her. Couldn't get in her head to figure out how she worked. Between that and this high score, the girl from District One was now on Natasha's list of people she considered a direct threat. Natasha was relieved that Elektra wasn't going to be the leader of the pack. Tasha could handle Thor, get inside his head and make him do things that would work out best for herself. If Elektra had been in charge – Well, things might have gotten complicated. More complicated than they would already be of course.

The entire room was filled with tension now, and Clint was sitting up straight staring intently at the TV, fingers twitching slightly like he wanted to do something with them. It almost looked like he was pretending to pluck the string of a bow. Who knows, maybe he was trying to calm himself down by thinking of something that made him happy. Natasha would try that, but she didn't exactly have many happy memories that could prove useful distractions. So she just clenched her hands, and stared at the TV.

"Now for District Two!" Taneleer said, back on screen for a moment, beaming at his audience. A picture of Clint, smiling at the camera like it was his best friend came on screen. **"Clint Barton, has a score of ten points!"**

At these words Clint shot up from his seat, whopping in triumph, as if he had just won the freaking games, rather than just finding out he'd gotten a good score. He was being very loud, and looked like he had no intention of stopping, so Natasha picked up a particularly uncomfortable pillow and whipped it at him.

"Barton, please! I kind of would like to hear my score, if you don't mind!" She practically snarled this at him, her nerves getting the best of her.

Clint seemed to understand, and was instantly quiet as he sat down, but although he was beaming proudly, Natasha thought she saw a bit of fear in his eyes. Was he worried about what her score would be? She wasn't sure if she should find that touching, or insulting. He wouldn't be worried if he was sure she would get a high score. Her confidence plummeted even more.

Now Natasha's picture was on the screen, but Natasha hardly recognized the girl smiling brightly back at her. This wasn't the real Natasha, it was the Capitol's happy, amusing, adorable Natasha. She couldn't wait for the Games when she could introduce all of them to deadly, manipulative, _real_ Natasha.

Taneleer was speaking again, and Natasha held her breathe. Her nails were digging into her hands, for a second she was worried she was about to break skin. **"And the second District Two tribute, Natasha Romanoff, has a matching score of ten points! Hmm, seems we have a theme going here, ladies and gentlemen!"**

And then Taneleer was making more jokes about pairs of tributes getting matching scores, and talking, and reading off the names and numbers of other tributes, but Natasha wasn't listening, because Clint was whooping and yelling again, and trying to give her a highfive, and Bobbi was talking about how wonderful this was, and what a good job they did, and Jarvis was babbling about how happy he was, and how he _knew_ they could do it, because they were his favourite tributes ever! Even Masters grudgingly congratulated them, and was warning them they should not make too much of this, and think it was a ticket out of the arena or anything.

Relief was flooding through Natasha, and she just let herself get swept up in the noise and happiness flying around her. It was only a little while later when she realized she had been so excited she'd hardly paid attention to the scores of the other tributes. Then she was more than a little bit irritated with herself. That was careless of her; she should have been paying attention instead of letting herself get distracted. So she excused herself, and went back to her room, where she turned on her own TV where every other channel was running footage about the scores.

Natasha happened upon a show that had just started, and as they announced all of the tributes scores again she paid close attention, and wrote all of the information down with a pencil and paper from the desk in her room.

**District One – Wade Wilson 9, Elektra Natchios 9**

**District Two – Clint Barton 10, Natasha Romanoff 10**

**District Three – Tony Stark 8, Pepper Potts 3**

**District Four – Thor Odinson 11, Brunhilde 8**

**District Five – Steve Rogers 6, Carol Danvers 5**

**District Six – Bruce Banner 5, Sinthea Schmidt 6**

**District Seven – James "Logan" Howlett 7, Benedetta Gaetani 4**

**District Eight – Peter Parker 5, Anna Marie Adler 5**

**District Nine – Kurt Wagner 5, Wanda Maximoff 3**

**District Ten – Cletus Kasaday 10, Raven Darkholme 6**

**District Eleven – T'Challa 7, Ororo Munroe 3**

**District Twelve – Loki Odinson 4, Kate Bishop 6**

Instantly a few of the numbers surprised her, and Tasha had to re-evaluate what she had thought about a handful of her fellow tributes.

Loki had gotten a four, how on earth had the kid scored _that_ poorly? It wasn't like he was an amazing fighter or anything, based on what Nat had seen, but he was a pretty decent knife thrower, he could have gotten at least a five or six…

On the second day of training Natasha had been pretending to learn how to purify water, and out of the corner of her eye had seen Loki staring intently at her. His gaze made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, and when he did not stop staring she had left the water and walked towards him. Maybe to ask what the heck he was looking at, maybe to make him stop. She hadn't had a chance to figure out what she was going to do when she got to him, because he walked away and got lost in the crowd of tributes and trainers before she was even halfway across the room.

She had stopped, annoyed and wondering if this little brat was messing with her. Then Natasha had looked over at where Loki had been training, and saw that almost every target had a knife, sticking out of its centre. At the time she had thought maybe the kid was showing off, trying to scare her and show off his skills. But if he could throw knives that accurately, how had he gotten a four? Had he been the one to throw those knives, or did he just happen to be standing there after someone else had thrown them? And if he _had_ thrown them, why had he made a point of making sure Natasha saw what he could do?

Was it a warning? A promise that in the arena a knife like the ones sticking out of the targets was going to be sticking out of her back?

She knew Loki was supposed to be her ally, after all they were both in the career pack. But she got the impression that, like herself, Loki preferred to work alone. Maybe he was only in the Career pack because Thor insisted he join – or _maybe_ Loki only wanted to be close to the Careers, so he could wipe them out.

Natasha did not like it when she couldn't figure someone out – and she could _not_ figure Loki out. At least not right now, she had twenty-two other tributes to think about, she would have time to analyse this Loki creep later.

That girl from Twelve, Kate, the one who had shot with Clint, had gotten a decent enough Natasha was both surprised that a girl from Twelve had scored so well, and honestly more than a bit shocked that a girl who was such a good shot could receive a score that low. Still, Six was an impressive score for a tribute from Twelve…Impressive enough to place Kate on the list of people Natasha saw as a threat.

Someone she did not see as a threat, especially now that scores had gone up, was Pepper from Three. Honestly, Natasha felt a bit sorry for her, even though she knew she should be glad there was someone in the arena who would probably be out of the Games shortly after they first stepped foot in the arena.

Pepper had gone in for her training assessment shortly after Natasha, and even asked for _advice_ after Nat left her own assessment.

Maybe Natasha should have ignored her, kept walking, or given her some horrible advice. But she had been shaken by her fight, and with her nerves rattled had felt some sympathy for the girl asking her what it was like in the assessment room.

Natasha had given her a few quick pointers. Suggesting Pepper not waste the Gamemakers' time, and act like she knew what she was doing. She'd even wished the girl luck, and then felt like a complete idiot. Natasha did not believe in luck, and if there was such a thing, she should not be wishing any of it on people who might be trying to kill her in a few days.

Natasha didn't want to think about Pepper anymore. She knew the girl was going to be dead soon, and she couldn't afford to feel sorry for anyone in these Games. Not even a stupid sad little girl who had volunteered for who knows what reason. Maybe she was a secretly trained super fighter like herself, and would be able to survive for a day or two. Or maybe she would get a quick merciful death as soon as the Games started. Yeah, that would probably be better.

Pepper's district partner had scored an eight, which was almost Career territory. Wait, Brunhilde had gotten an eight too, that _was_ Career territory. Great, hopefully Thor wouldn't ask Tony to join the Career pack now. There already too many people in that group for Natasha's taste. Too many conflicting personalities, too many people to keep track of and control, adding another member to the pack would only make things harder for her. Maybe she should say something to Thor about how perfect the Career pack was, and how it would be a bad idea to add anyone else…

Maybe…

Ugh, no matter if he became a Career or not would have to keep an eye on Tony in the arena to make sure his eight point talent wasn't something that could kill her if she wasn't careful. She jotted down a question mark next to his name, and wondered if Pepper would be able to tell her how Tony had gotten such a good score…

At least there were a few scores Natasha had expected. Thor had earned eleven, she would have guessed he'd get a ten, but that wasn't a huge difference. She still knew she had to be _very_ wary of him, and, of course, to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Kurt had gotten a five. Natasha had seen his moderate skill with a blade, she expected he would have one of the higher of the low scores. That Peter kid got a five too, actually, huh, lots of tributes had scored fives…well, she would have preferred if more of them had received twos or threes, but she could deal with fives. They would put up enough of a fight when she went after them to entertain the audience watching. That would be good for getting attention and sponsors.

Natasha spent the next few minutes writing on the piece of paper, circling the names of tributes who got pathetically low scores, drawing stars next to members of the Career pack, marking people she saw as a threat, and also taking notes of who might have been holding back during their training assessment.

It was possible that Logan kid was...Honestly, he had pretended to be all clueless during training, but Natasha had kept an eye on him. He was just a bit too comfortable handling a knife and throwing trainers to the ground for this to be his first time fighting. She marked him as someone to be wary of.

Natasha was just wondering what to mark down next to Clint's name, when there was a knock on her door. She glanced towards it.

"Come in."

She knew it was Clint before the door opened. He was still grinning, and holding a plate loaded with little cakes, and other sweet things.

"Hey! Why are you holed up in here? We're the only ones who got tens! We should be celebrating!" He sat down on her bed without asking, and Natasha rolled her eyes. "Um, did you even look at the scores Barton? Cletus from District Ten scored a ten too. Who knows why…I would have guessed he would score a six or seven. He's going to be trouble once we get in there. "

Clint's smile faltered for a second, and then he shrugged. "Well, that's fine. He's not a Career, and with that high of a score, Thor and the rest are going to want to take him out as soon as possible. We don't have to worry about him, it'll be fine."

Natasha scoffed, "We have to worry about _everyone_ Clint, every person in that arena is going to try and kill us. And what if Cletus runs into the woods as soon as the Games start? What if he got a ten because he is like, really good at camouflage and knife throwing, and he is going to be stalking us in there and picking us off one by one? Or worse, what if Thor asks him to join the Career pack, and we have someone _else_ to worry about?"

Clint paused, to think about this, and Natasha continued talking. "And what about the scores the rest of 'the pack' got? They're good, Clint. _Really_ good. And once the numbers in there go down, they aren't just going to let either one of us walk away. Have you thought about that at _all_? Or have you not even _considered_ what is going to happen past the first couple of days in there?"

Barton was running his hand through his hair nervously, and for a second Natasha wondered if it had been stupid to bring that last part up. Maybe he really hadn't thought about this before now, and if she had kept her mouth shut she could have slipped away from the pack in the arena after a couple days without anyone noticing. Maybe then the pack would have taken care of Clint before she had to.

_Idiot_.

Now he would be watching her, waiting for when she was going to slip away and go solo. She needed to keep her mouth shut.

Clint picked up one of the little cakes, and was taking bites as he talked. "I don't know, Nat. We'll just figure that out when we get in there. I don't really think we can plan what's going to go down in there now, because we don't even know what's going to happen, you know? We just need to go with it." Natasha picked up one of the pastries from the plate he had brought in, but didn't take a bite.

"That's not true. Right now we can get an idea of who might want to get rid of us, who we might be able to take advantage of, how people will act once they actually have to _kill_. How _we_ will act once we need to kill. We don't know what's going to happen in the arena, but we can at least get an idea of how we will handle whatever is thrown at us, and who we need to watch out for."

Clint smirked. "You mean besides literally _everyone?_"

Natasha sighed. "Come on, you know what I mean. I just don't think it's smart to not even try and plan anything, just because you don't know exactly what's going to happen in there."

Clint looked like he was thinking about this, and again Natasha felt like a complete idiot for giving so much information. She shouldn't be trying to help someone, even if they had almost been friends before all of this happened. Even if a friendship might have formed between them back in District Two that wasn't going to happen now. Nothing was going to grow between them. Once this was over, if either of them survived the only thing they would have was memories of the other, and questions about what might have been.

Natasha put the pastry back on the plate, suddenly feeling sick at the thought of the boy next to her dying. "Clint, can you go? I'm just…not in the mood to celebrate. I need some sleep."

Clint's shoulders drooped in disappointment, but picked up the plate and moved towards the door. "Yeah, I get it. It's fine. I'll see you in the morning."

Natasha was alone again, staring at the paper in her hands, trying to figure out something she knew almost nothing about. Almost every name had writing next to it, symbols drawn to mark threats and Careers, people who would die quickly and put up a fight. There was still nothing next to Clint's name. Natasha put pencil to paper, and drew a question mark next to her district partner's name.


	31. Chapter 30: I Want to Trust You

**(A/N) Hey all, here we are, back with our Tuesday update, as we follow on from last week with our District Two tributes, but this time with DeadWoman and Hawkeye – Clint Barton, that is. We're into the interviews on Thursday, and then after those we'll just be a chapter or two from the Games! Who's stoked for it, because I know I am?**

**Created to Write: Good catch, the guys did indeed go first – have fixed it now. Cap's six isn't bad, but it's not incredible either – just above average. Of course, only time will tell on how that'll reflect on his arena performance.**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter Thirty – I Want to Trust You**

**Interview Preparation**

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

"_There are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematician that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one."_

― G.K. Chesterton

* * *

Shading his eyes from the rising sun, Clint stared out of the window at the rainbow-coloured city. It was so different to his home. It seemed so unsubstantial and fake, compared to the hard cold grey reality of District Two. A candy city compared to his dank gloomy prison. It was days since the Reaping but it seemed like a hell of a lot longer. He had talked a lot with Natasha, even made her smile a bit, and he had kind of made friends with that kid from District Twelve.

She seemed…_sweet_.

"Barton!" A sudden hammering on the door made Clint jump. "Come for breakfast!" Jarvis, the escort, called out. "Today's a busy day!"

Clint got up and grabbed a shirt as he walked out of his room. He hated that room anyway. Despite the luxuries, it was more confining than comforting. Natasha was coming out of her bedroom and they walked down the corridor together.

"Morning, Tasha. Like what you see?" he smiled at her.

"Put your top on, Barton," she replied but he saw a hint of a smile on her face as they both entered the breakfast room. Jarvis looked up from his coffee, his usual sarcastic smile replaced by a scowl.

"Morning," Bobbi Morse said lightly. Clint nodded his greeting at her but glanced at his own mentor, Tony Masters. He didn't really know Bobbi that well.

"So, today's interview prep day. Then the interview this evening," Jarvis told them. "Natasha, my feisty redhead, you are with Bobbi first and Barton, my grumpy pigeon, you are with me first. I'll be prepping you on how to walk and what to do during the interviews, and your mentors will be prepping you on the actual context of them."

"Right," Clint said. "That seems easy enough. Better than another day of training. That Loki is a _douche_."

He couldn't help thinking back to his conversation with him yesterday. He had just bumped into him by accident and Loki had spat an insult at him. He was sure 'lowly mortal' was the insult, but he hadn't really been paying attention. Thor, the leader of their little alliance, had started talking to Natasha. Clint was sure that Natasha hadn't wanted to talk to the six-foot-something well-muscled _god_ – not that Clint was jealous of Thor's appearance or anything – but she had pretended.

After breakfast, he waited until Jarvis finished his third cup of coffee before talking. "Are we going to prepare now?" he asked.

"Yes, I suppose," Jarvis sighed. "Follow me."

The pair walked through the rich hallways before Clint was shown into an even richer room. It had velvet sofas, large windows on every wall and soft music was playing out of almost invisible speakers. It wasn't really Clint's thing. He would rather be outside, hunting or fishing, than making polite conversation with his escort.

"Hmm," Jarvis said with a thoughtful look. "You could be handsome if you weren't so rough around the edges. But a little polishing, a smoothing out, and I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"Thanks," Clint laid on the sarcasm but he didn't think his escort got it. Instead, he was handed a grey suit and told to wear it. It was uncomfortable and the sleeves were too long.

"Walk," Jarvis commanded and he walked up and down the room for a few minutes. "Stop slouching. Straighten your back."

He did so.

"Walk."

The walking soon became boring and he gave up on trying to impress Jarvis. He just walked. His mind reflected back to the training. He had visited every station on the first day, except the archery one. On the second day, he had dived over there and the weapons...oh, the _weapons_. They were smooth and fantastic and some of them buzzed in his hands.

Kate Bishop trained with him, when the other Career tributes weren't at Archery with him. She was good, but not quite his standard – yet. He smiled to himself. Maybe he was boasting, but no-one was quite his standard. Even Trevor had admitted that he was skillful. One of a kind.

He got snapped out of his daydream when Jarvis handed him a book. "Balance this on your head," Jarvis instructed him. Clint was about to protest, but he knew he wouldn't get his own way. Instead he just placed it on his head with a fake smile. It immediately fell off. He re-balanced it but it fell off as soon as he took one step.

"This isn't going to work," Clint sighed.

"Just straighten your back, shoulders rolled back, smile and act like you're excited to be interviewed." There was a pause as Clint showed his attempt at a happy smile. "No. That won't do. Think of something that makes you happy."

"Archery?"

"A _person_. Think of a someone that makes you happy."

No-one instantly came to mind. Maybe a few friends back home but he had grown out of friendships when he began fighting. Most of his happy memories involved his mother but the bad ones cancelled them out. "No-one makes me happy," he shrugged and handed the frowning escort the book. "Sorry. Can't I go for a sullen look?"

"That's so _last_ Games," Jarvis tutted. "And with your dimples, you need to smile. Show yourself off. Maybe flaunt your muscles. I'll see what your stylists are thinking of for your outfit. Maybe a short-sleeved shirt."

Clint waited as Jarvis left, muttering to himself about dresses and unreliable stylists. Then he walked over to the bowl of chocolates and popped one in his mouth. God he was starving. The hunger soon returned and he grabbed a few more.

It was ten minutes later and, still alone; Clint was throwing chocolates into his mouth with expert aim. Then the door swung open. He jumped as the smiling redhead looked down at him.

"I was just–"

"Right," Natasha raised an eyebrow. "We started lunch ten minutes ago, idiot. Jarvis sent me to look for you."

"What? That jerk just walked out of here and I thought he'd be back!" Clint protested and shot up, grabbing a handful of chocolates. "I'm taking these as revenge. Want one?"

She shook her head. Her smile had disappeared which was a shame. However, her eyes were still smiling. If that made sense, Clint tried to re-word that thought. It was true, though. Despite the caution she had around everyone, not to reveal emotions, her eyes were warm and big and they invited him in. He suspected the real person wouldn't be so welcoming so he kept his distance as they walked down the corridor.

"How was interview prep?" He asked, conversationally. "If you're allowed to tell me."

"It was okay," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "How was practising how to walk?"

"Jarvis's been telling you what I'm doing? Isn't that cheating?" Clint joked. Natasha rolled her eyes again and smirked. She stopped outside the dining room and he almost fell over her. "Whoa–"

"Shut up. They're talking about us." Natasha hissed and he pressed his ear against the door. Jarvis said something about Natasha and the Reapings, but the words were muffled through the wall.

"What are they saying?" he asked uncomfortably, thinking that his hearing aid might need upgrading again because Natasha looked like she could hear every word. The words didn't sound that appealing judging by the look on her face.

"N-nothing. It's just...it's nothing you need to be worried about," she said calmly. Clint was about to touch her arm but she must have seen his oncoming hand because she flinched away. "No. _Don't_."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine. Just…don't."

She walked into the dining room but Clint didn't move. He didn't know what he'd done wrong but evidently he had done something wrong. He sighed and followed her into the room. Jarvis was looking guiltily at them, like he had just been divulging secretive information. Clint could sense Bobbi Morse's pitying look so he guessed that she knew about his mother now. About his past. That look was all too familiar to him.

"What am I doing this afternoon?" he asked as he sat down.

"You're with me," Masters grunted. He barely acknowledged his own tribute. Clint hoped that the interview tonight would go well; otherwise he was doubtful he'd end up with sponsors. Death wish or no death wish, he still wanted to survive for a little while – if just to make sure the whole of Marvel knew his name.

Clint Barton – fighter, archer, survivor, ally of the redhead who would eventually win the Games.

It was strange but he was hoping that Natasha Romanoff would win. At least then some victory would come to his district and – he had to admit this to himself – he just didn't want her to die. To be honest, he didn't want anyone to die. Kate Bishop, with her warm smile and her bright eyes. Natasha Romanoff, with her beautiful hair and the occasional half-smile that was always aimed at him. Even some of the other tributes whose names he hadn't bothered to learn but who he had trained with, helped with knots, rolled his eyes at during practice when the trainers were being optimistically bright, acting like they weren't training twenty-four children to kill.

This whole idea of friendship was twisted. _You can't form friendships when you have to kill them in the end. _Alliances were just as dangerous. Someone would kill him from _their_ alliance, to make sure he didn't win. If it came down to him and Loki, for example, he was pretty sure that Loki wouldn't think before he killed Clint.

Clint tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Natasha asking about strategies. "Should we go to the Tesseract?" She asked.

"You're part of the Career pack. You'll be fine. You're good fighters so if you see something you really want, get it. Then find your alliance and stick with them," Masters said. He sounded almost bored.

Clint imagined a bow and arrows at the mouth of the Tesseract; glistening in the sun. It would be worth getting injured if he could get those. An image of him sitting on the Tesseract, eating and picking off threats, whilst the Careers set up camp below him, flashed through his mind but he disregarded it as soon as he thought of it. The Careers wouldn't be too happy to let him sit around and do nothing – even he wouldn't want to do it. It wouldn't bring him sponsors.

"We should start the interview preparation now," Masters said coolly and Clint looked down at his plate in dismay. He'd not eaten much but his stomach was protesting, loudly protesting.

"I'll just grab some food to take with me then," Clint said and reached out for some bread. Masters grabbed his arm and Clint winced at the tight grip. There would be bruises tomorrow.

"You'd better get used to hunger, boy," Masters snarled. Clint wanted to run away, but he had done enough running. He had run away from home. Running never seemed to do him any good but then again, neither did fighting. He had many scars on his body that proved that last point.

"Natasha gets to eat!" Clint protested. He knew it was stupid and childish but he had to stand his ground. He couldn't go into the Games with even his mentor thinking he was a coward.

Natasha looked slightly guilty, but she didn't seem willing to give up her meal or to intervene. Jarvis and Morse weren't even looking horrified at his treatment, just looking with mild curiosity. Like he was an exhibit at a museum. See the teenage boy be abused over coffee and biscuits. He'd had enough of that already in his life. Being viewed as an object and only treated nicely when he seemed to be of value to someone.

"We need to go train for the important interview that will decide if you'll be eating in the arena or not. And I'm guessing that's more important to you," Masters said and pulled on his arm. "Now come on."

Clint followed him, nursing his sore arm. He had walked from one bully straight into the arms of another. But he couldn't escape from this one. If he even had some choice to stop Masters training him, would he take it? Masters was his last chance to make sure he would survive in the arena. Clint sighed; the colours dancing before his eyes as he rubbed them in tiredness. Did he want to survive? It was a problem.

One that could be easily solved.

What did he have to live for?

That question weighed on his mind as he sat opposite Masters on the love seats placed in the centre of the room. He couldn't stop thinking of that damn question as he was scrutinised, frowned at, as Masters paced around the room. In the overwhelming silence, Clint felt heavy and tired; the question like an unstoppable drum beat in his mind.

What. Did. He. Have. To. Live. For?

_Nothing_.

The blank nothingness that was his life had been okay. It hadn't mattered because he would escape from it. But it mattered now and the pain in his heart was all too real. That's how he had lived; he had been blank, unresponsive, disconnected from real life. Now real life was crashing down on him like waves onto a beach.

"Right, Barton, we're going to try out some interview questions." Masters sat down and Clint blinked at the sudden change of tact. "Pretend you're on a stage. There are bright lights. You're wearing an uncomfortable outfit. The whole of Marvel is watching you and if you say something wrong, there will be repercussions in the Avengers Games."

"No pressure then," Clint muttered to himself.

"Hi, welcome to the Avengers Games! This is Clint Barton, the male tribute from District Two," Masters said brightly. The change in his voice and the uplifting smile on his face made all the difference. Suddenly Masters was turned from someone intimidating and threatening to someone who could actually be your friend. It was hard to imagine that this was the man who murdered other people in the arena.

The man who _won_ the Games.

"Clint, how are you finding the training so far?"

He took a second before answering with a slight smile. It's not a real interview, he reminded himself. "It's tough to train, knowing that I'll have to kill everyone else if I want to win-"

"No! No! No!" Masters yelled out. "You don't mention killing tributes. You don't mention death or murder or anything, Barton. Okay? That's _not_ a part of this."

"But that's-"

"I know." Masters cut Clint off with a heavy sigh. "But you gotta do some things you don't want to if you're going to survive."

Something in Masters' eyes makes Clint feel sorry for him. "Listen, kiddo, I know how you're feeling now. You don't want to die but you don't want to kill people you've spoken to before. Hell, you're all just kids. Teenagers. This is ridiculous."

"I always thought past victors from our district enjoyed the Games." Clint said, frowning. He knew that he would never view the show as entertainment if he won but he was odd. The whole district seemed to celebrate children being murdered without thinking it cruel and bloodthirsty. In that aspect, maybe they were as bad as the Capitol people.

"No-one _enjoys_ the Games, Barton. Well, maybe a few – Creed, for example, but there are exceptions to every rule. We suffer on through because we have to. As do all the districts."

Masters sighed again and ran a hand through his greying hair. "Let's try this again. Pretend you've just sat down..."

A few hours later, Clint emerged from the room, his throat sore from talking and his jaws aching from the faked smiles Masters had instructed him to practice. He was tired, hungry and he needed to get away from these stuffy corridors and confining rooms. He was pretty sure that everywhere worth going to would be locked up so the tributes would be forced to go into their bedrooms where their stylists waited, except a light was on. It shone from the gap underneath a door and Clint walked towards it. The door wasn't open but he could hear the conversation clearly.

"Poor kids," one man said. He had the Capitol accent, but that wasn't something a Capitol citizen would say. "They get fed, beautified, told they'll win riches and become famous and then they end up in a stone cold grave."

"It's life, Wesley," another man said. His voice was gruff and he sounded irritated, and was definitely older than the first man. "You know, since Vanessa went, I've been wondering if we should bother looking for loopholes in the Games anymore."

"This isn't some mad conspiracy theory!" Wesley said angrily. "This is real! And you know it, Leland. The Games could violate some of the laws laid down by–"

"Enough. Damn it. Shouldn't we just let Vanessa be in peace in her death rather than bringing it all up again?"

Clint heard a bang as someone presumably slammed something down. There was a tense silence then Wesley spoke up. "Sorry, Leland. I just want to get justice, that's all. Until then, _he_ can't move on, and I can't either."

"Yeah, me too," Leland replied, "but you've got to be more careful, Wesley. This law violation thing isn't going to work. I'm sure the best lawyers have examined every law and contract signed before they created the Games. They're careful like that."

"Right." Wesley paused and sighed. "So, what do we do?"

"We wait until the moment's right and then we take our things and we leave. Maybe District Twelve will take us in. Or Eleven," Leland said, after a moment had passed.

Clint stepped away from the door and walked back towards his bedroom. These two men seemed like a story. Impossibly strange people working to stop the Games. It was a story he had comforted himself with many times but it wasn't real.

Sometimes you have to separate reality and fiction; even if fiction is more comforting.

* * *

Clint focused on a point on the wall as his prep team, giggling and gossiping, injected his face with some green liquid.

"This is so you don't grow a beard in the arena," the stylist informed in. "We like clean-shaven men!"

More giggles. Everything eventually faded into background noise as he thought of his interview tonight. He couldn't afford to not make an impact but it had to be a good impact. He couldn't start talking about the unfairness of it all because then the Gamemakers would annihilate him in the arena.

If he talked about Natasha, she would probably start bad-mouthing him in front of the whole of Marvel. The same with the other tributes.

He could talk about home.

His mother's unsolved murder.

"Stand up!" Came the snappy instruction and Clint stood up with a sigh. His stylist – whose name he hadn't bothered to learn – scanned his body and smiled triumphantly. Clint couldn't help feeling self-conscious but he knew the rules. Don't question the stylist.

"What am I wearing tonight?" he asked as the prep team brought forward a garment bag.

"This!" The stylist clapped her hands and the trio of Capitol beauticians started unzipping it. It was a tuxedo. The jacket and pants were pitch black but the shirt was a dark purple – an almost black purple – and the bow tie was crimson red. The pants looked like they'd cling to him but he guessed that was latest Capitol style.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Clint wondered what Natasha would think. "Uh, yeah. It kind of is," he said. "Do you know what my partner's wearing?"

"It's a surprise!" the stylist exclaimed happily and grabbed Clint's hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm as he was pulled forward. "Put this on and let's see how handsome you look!"

The last time he'd worn a suit was at some dance at school. He had been twelve and the dance was the social event of the year for him. A chance to get a girlfriend and show off a bit. It hadn't gone as well as he'd planned. For one, the suit was blue. He had specifically demanded a black suit and God, he had been a shitty son. He had angrily worn the blue suit but then he didn't even go. His hearing aid was failing and his ear was hurting, pulsing with pain, so he had to go to hospital.

Now, he ran his hands down the smooth material of his suit arm and smiled. This time it would be different. He was sure it would be. He was walking down the corridor towards the elevator when he saw Natasha. He smiled at her, shell-shocked, and she tentatively smiled back.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"It's a nice dress."

"No. You look beautiful, not the dress," he interrupted her. A pale blush settled on Natasha's cheeks. "So, are you my date?"

At the word date, Natasha rolled her eyes. "Shut up. This isn't a game."

"Yes it is. It's the Avengers _Games_ for a reason. They act like we're their dolls and they can just play around with us, playing murderers, but sometimes they get someone like _you_. And me. People who won't play their Games properly. That's because we've been in the hands of people playing games before, and we don't like it. So, let me ask you again, are you my date?"

Natasha looked wary but she stepped towards him. They walked together, not quite touching, but Clint felt like he had confirmed their friendship. Alliance seemed a more appropriate word.

An alliance before entering the lion's den.


	32. Chapter 31: Eight Times Seven

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back after a short delay – waiting on writers to get chapters in, it happens from time to time, but hopefully not too often – and we've reached the first of the interviews! Only a handful of chapters now before the Games! To make up for the delay, I'll see if I can't upload a second chapter tonight, so keep an eye out in about twelve hours for another update!**

**Big thanks to Created to Write, sailorraven34 and Idalove2read for their reviews – it means a lot to us that you're letting us know your thoughts, and we're so glad that you're all enjoying the fic so far. We've got so much more to come!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One ****– Eight Times Seven**

**Interviews (D1-D4)**

**Brunhilde of District Four**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

_"My lovers are as smooth as a politician's tongue; the more I look for goodness, the more that I find none."_

– Trocadero, "No One"

"The man is the head, but the woman is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants."

– _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_

* * *

This seemed less useful than the opportunity to watch their opponents in training. All twenty-four of them milled around the backstage area, their mentors and escorts and stylists hovering around their charges, insuring that not so much as a stray hair came out of place or a sequin dropped from an outfit, much less that the tributes might have a chance to answer the most important question.

After all, there were always Capitol Sentinels around to prevent them from prematurely deciding which one would survive.

Brunhilde still wasn't sure how she would like to answer that question, but this swirl of media shine certainly did not give her time to think. Training opportunities had offered a moment of respite from the pointless nattering, but training had never been a time to let one's mind wander to life's more grandiose conundrums. In training, the answer had to be her, at least in that moment and until she could decide otherwise on her own terms.

And then she'd only managed an eight.

"Places, everyone!" one of the harried-looking techs demanded, shooing the styling teams away as the tributes were ordered into their neat little rows of chairs. A few mentors or escorts malingered for final pieces of advice as the group was counted off; the District One boy had to be redirected to his own assigned seat two or three times, allowing time for plenty of hissed commands and whispered warnings for the more hotheaded tributes on Brunhilde's other side and further down the line. Thor's father had given him one last silent squeeze on the shoulder before he backed away, Odin's gaze lingering upon Loki as the younger son took his place on the end, in the very back.

She herself got nothing. Bill Cobb was too new at this, deferring to Odin and Octavius for how to best survive the arena and still rather shy about offering any input as to what the heirs of the All-Father should do during their brief time in the Capitol, besides which dishes they ought to try. Her stylist raised dark eyebrows, long ball-and-chain earrings and half-bobbed ponytail swaying over a frankly scandalous set of leather and spandex straps that counted for an outfit as the woman sashayed back to the wings with a rose between her teeth. From her, the female District Four tribute could expect nothing more than an exhortation to "be bold, mon cherie!" As if lack of bravery had ever been among Brunhilde's failings.

Otto Octavius had held his tongue since her eight had been announced. He had never been too impressed with his charge, but he had been game enough to teach her, at first. The doctor would have rather had the lazy brilliance of Loki above what he termed Brunhilde's own dogged incompetence; Octavius could only do so much with what wasn't there, but he'd allowed that she might be a quicker study than her blond cousin. She'd faced off against his exoskeleton suit in her private training, defending herself from the equivalent of three people surrounding her as Octavius effortlessly manoeuvred himself around programmed projectiles without letting up with those steely traps at the ends of his long exosuit tentacles. She'd dodged as best she could, trying to mirror the genius victor's sidesteps as another stinger came flying past while meeting errant tentacles with her sword. It hadn't been enough to wipe that coldly calculating calm from Doc Ock's face, even when she'd closed the distance.

Most of the children from the lower districts would have been glad for her score, would have considered it respectable without earning untoward attention from the other tributes as the most dangerous creature out there – and therefore the first to be taken down at any opportunity. Brunhilde was not looking to put the first death mark upon her own head – she would be quite happy to remove it along with the head from Kasady – but she would rather bear that burden than inflict it upon her cousins.

Thor had received an eleven.

Brunhilde wasn't that mindful of Loki's four; he was wilfully, petulantly indolent where it didn't count and would rather hide his skill than flaunt it. He would not go out of his way to impress the Gamemakers in a display of might, but here would be where he would shine. Loki could slouch in his seat, placed on the very end, and wait and snicker to himself as the rest of them tripped over their tongues on the dais with this shining collector of doomed children's last gasps of humanity.

No, she could not think like that. Thor had managed an eleven. She had counselled Sif through more delicate diplomatic solutions, so Brunhilde would _not_ be helpless here. Thor had impressed the Gamemakers far more than any had expected of the dreamy, gentle young man, no matter how strong he might be, and Brunhilde could do the same for their sponsors in the interviews. She would _not_ be helpless. She might die, but it would _not_ be via incompetence.

She was _far_ too stubborn for that.

Brunhilde didn't realize that she'd silently ruminated all the way through Tanaleer Tivan's introductory speech, eyes locked unblinkingly – and tearless – out upon the dimmed audience, until the District One girl rose to her feet, her feline grace wasted in the roar of applause.

"Elektra Natchios!" Tivan announced her, holding out a hand to escort her to the interviewee's seat.

His unwilling subject smiled a few heartbeats too late, the expression unnatural and unpractised upon those grim pale features with dark, devouring holes for eyes. She dropped her lips as she sank into the seat, head held high as Tivan claimed his own. "How do you find our Capitol so far, Elektra? I do hope you've felt free to enjoy yourself here, if you'll forgive me little joke."

The audience laughed, but the tribute did not, her cat-amber eyes scanning the blackness before her as if she could pierce through the wrong end of the spotlight's glare and mark each face that dared display glee. "It'll suit my purposes," Natchios allowed, as if the Capitol's citizens were there for her amusement and not vice versa.

Tivan waggled a pair of woolly white eyebrows. "They certainly don't waste words in District One, do they? You must not find our shining jewel too different from back home, then. Tell us more about your life there."

The dark-haired girl smiled, though the expression still looked wrong upon her lips. This was the serpent attempting grace for the wolf's den, that she might charm the cubs. "I was in prison. For murder," she replied, as easily as if she were admitting to having grown up in a fish-market.

"Surely there was some mistake, though? A pretty little girl like you?" Tivan was determined to make this good, even if Elektra Natchios didn't give him all that much to work with. "I heard that you were the only child of a very respectable man, one who had dealings with the Capitol and was raising you to follow in his footsteps."

She merely twisted her lips. "He died. I took care of it. There was no mistake." Every word was a grudging withdrawal from a tightly managed account of words.

"And yet the Avenger Games offer a clean start to any daring enough to volunteer." Elektra started to rise, done with her interview even if Tivan was not finished turning her story into something wonderful for the Capitol. "But of course, your record may give you some advantage in the Games, eh, Miss Natchios?"

The self-admitted murderer merely smiled, not displaying her teeth this time, just turning up her lips. It looked more honest that way, the long jaw of the serpent at rest.

"I look forward to seeing what you might leave us in the Arena." Even when their model prisoner was barely cooperative, Tivan rose to take her hand as she stood, as if escorting a lady from the stage. "Perhaps someday I might have the hat that started a new fashion amongst our edgier designers for my collection..."

The dark-eyed District One tribute had been reluctant to take Tivan's extended palm, but nearly flinched at the last hint of greed. Odd, that this was what threw her after the prison, after her father's death, after seeing what lurked under her partner's full face-mask. She said nothing, but that spark of fear quickly burned to impudence, and all that saved them from a scene was said district partner jumping for the seat before his name was called.

"Y'know, I always wanted to start my own fashion line after I win the games," Wilson said, jumping into the vacated chair and then slouching back as if settling in for a long conversation.

"Red Pool: killing it on the catwalk," he framed his unseen design as his district partner twisted free and stalked away. "Though I'm not gonna stick to just red, there's something about a woman in purple that always appealed to me..."

"So you are on the lookout for a special lady, or perhaps you've already found her?" Tivan switched gears admirably quickly, picking up on Wilson's natterings as if he'd been formally introduced and bounced flawlessly halfway through the interview.

"Oh, I'm a big Bea Arthur fan, but I'm not one to settle down. If a pretty girl wants me, she'll have to chase me." Brunhilde decided that it was best for her sanity if she tuned out the words during Wade Wilson's interview, concentrating on his posture – and that of the surrounding tributes – instead. Wilson certainly seemed relaxed, cocky even, as he chatted with Tivan about inconsequentialities of his homeland – while he teased that he'd be on fire with a pair of swords, he'd avoided many questions about his particular level of skill, his training, his family. The boy tried to project an air of confidence, but he had nothing to root it to. There was no history to give weight to his swords.

"You really won't let us see what's under that mask, Wade?" Tivan asked, leaning closer. Even dressed in red and black, the stocking mask seemed a strange counter to the District One tribute's formal wear, too shabby for the stage.

"Aw, Tanny, leave a guy a _few_ secrets for the arena, right?" Wilson countered, seeing no wall against giving Capitol citizens ridiculous appellations. "There are some things that a guy just can't whip out in front of the general public, or the Sentinels start getting all upset. But tell the gal from Seven I'll show her mine, if she shows me hers."

He finished with a lewd exaggerated eyebrow-waggle resembling a wink towards the waiting tributes. His facial features were not clear from behind the mask, but the fabric offered enough mobility for the black and white dots over his eyes to rise and lower with the extremes of his expressions.

Tivan laughed, as though the two had been good friends in a previous life, one in which Wade Wilson's burns healed quickly, and not been his most obvious weakness for his fellow killers to want to exploit. "You say you won the 'Deadpool' in your own town. You think that skill at predicting who will live will translate well out in the arena?"

"Well, there is some luck involved, but everybody knows I'm the sure bet. I'm just _made_ of luck, after all. It takes at least three people to even begin to describe my awesomeness. You _know_ you love me, Marvel, and I love you for loving me!" Wade stood and began throwing kisses as if he'd already won and was attending his first stop on the victory tour.

"Is he allowed to address the audience directly that way?" Thor asked from his cousin's side, despite his attempts to stay still and stone-faced while waiting for his turn to interview, as their mentors had encouraged. He was hardly the only tribute shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and a few of the more gregarious children chatted quietly with their neighbours despite the stony looks the Sentinels and set-wranglers sent them. Benedetta Gaenetti from Seven had looked like she wanted to disappear, ever since Wilson had brought her up to the howling crowd.

"The last two tributes who tried that tactic talked directly to the cameras in the arena...as they were torn apart by a monkey muttation and bled out from radiation poisoning," Brunhilde reminded him, not taking her eyes off Wade Wilson even as he was led away, still blowing kisses to the camera. "I don't recommend that you copy them."

From her peripherals, Brunhilde could see the District Two girl saunter up to the interviewee's seat only a little less gracefully than Elektra had managed on one side and her cousin shuddering in memory on the other. "The shadowy girl and the giantess...Louise and Thundra..." Thor recalled under his breath as Natasha Romanoff giggled for the cameras.

They hadn't come from District Four, either of the tributes Brunhilde had mentioned. They had been in different Games, three years ago for Louise, five years ago for Thundra, and had made it to the top ten, but they had been surprise contenders rather than anyone expected to put on a good showing. Brunhilde wasn't certain she would have remembered the names to match to their descriptions. Thundra had been from the first year either she or Thor would have been old enough to be reaped, and Louise had been perhaps six months their junior, which might have accounted for his recollection in another child, but Brunhilde didn't doubt that Thor remembered more tributes' names than she did.

She was focused on the current crop.

"It's been wonderful here," Romanoff told Tivan, hands folded demurely in her lap and shoulders pulled slightly forward to give a false impression of shyness. Her gaze swept the black of the audience confidently enough, though the redhead was careful not to put as much challenge in her mien as Elektra, as much cockiness as Wade.

"I just love how extravagant everything is, how this whole place was designed for winners." Her tongue lingered on that last word with such a balance of longing and revelry that it had to have been drilled into her by her mentors.

"So you have hopes of living here permanently then?" Tivan had gotten two cooperative tributes in a row, and Natasha lacked the... eccentricities of Wade Wilson. Elektra's rebellion was nearly as forgotten a thing as Jennifer and Doreen.

"Oh, ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to come to the Capitol and dreamed of living all my life here. I actually wanted to volunteer earlier, but I didn't think I was quite ready before now." She ducked her head down again, the picture-perfect loyal and empty-headed little tribute, ideal for sponsorship, ideal to control. Her mask hadn't broken, but Brunhilde didn't doubt that someone outside the Capitol had taken control of Natasha Romanoff first – and she hadn't been quite the well-strung simpering puppet she acted.

"Hopefully those extra years of waiting will pay off in the arena. You're seventeen, right?" Natasha managed to remain wide-eyed and innocent-faced, all potential untoward implications of that question appearing to fly over her nodding head, but Brunhilde could not keep her nose from wrinkling. At the other end of the stage, Elektra's expression was worse. Brunhilde decided that for an unrepentant assassin and trouble-maker, the Natchios girl was a worthy ally.

"I was almost afraid I'd missed my chance to experience all the famous glories of the Capitol." Romanoff was good, but even her fingers closed momentarily to fists as she bounced the conversation back. From the tributes' chairs on Brunhilde's side, Barton had put his grip to his seat, muscles flexed as if he was ready to head on up there regardless of whether or not it was his turn yet.

"It's been amazing here, from the train to the dresses to the food... everything seems so…_indulgent_," Romanoff continued to gush, spending her interview on paeans to those to whom she had handed over her life rather than having to answer any questions about herself and her methods. That, in itself was a strategy, and with her ten in the private assessments, Brunhilde couldn't say it was simply to cover a weakness like Wade dancing around the issue of his burn. She didn't trust the web the redhead spun, but she could respect the deadly artistry to it.

Tivan leaned back like an indulgent uncle, and Barton settled back down under the watchful eyes of the Sentinels guarding the wings of their stage. They might be under the spotlight, but that would not entirely rule out the possibility of violence here. The last time a tribute had been seriously injured before the arena had been well before Brunhilde was old enough to be Reaped, but there was no guarantee that the citizens of the Capitol wouldn't enjoy a touch of live blood-sport to enliven the interviews.

Tivan allowed the redhead to carry on, her gleeful descriptions of all the joys of Capitol living she'd experienced stopping just short of prattling. She did her best to appear simple-minded as she talked about clothes, about food, about all the wonderful little toys she'd seen from her sumptuous quarters and the views of the shining city from the rooftop. Natasha Romanoff had glanced out at the city below as the Careers had met up there, but her attention had been on her partner, on Elektra, on Loki, on Thor. She had not taken a pull on Wade's wine bottle even when the boy in question tempted Brunhilde to join her younger cousin at helping to empty it.

"And you've gotten to watch that big screen a little between your training exercises, I hope?" Tivan inquired solicitously.

"I can't believe all that attention focused on _me_." Natasha fluttered her eyelids and hand at her collarbone in equal measure. Her dress brought out her hourglass figure in shades of reds and blacks, as many of the female tributes had dressed in. Brunhilde's stylist had insisted upon a sky blue to make her stand out, a sea-spray wave for Four, but she couldn't help but feel that perhaps the other districts had it right. Thor's evening-wear was decidedly blood-coloured.

"We are quite interested in you and your district partner's twin tens, tied for the second best score this year." This was the closest Tanaleer Tivan had come to prompting Romanoff for her arena strategy. She hadn't let him get a word in on that topic before.

"Oh, we tied with that _horrid_ boy from District...what was it? Ten?" The District Two girl pretended as if she couldn't count the seats between them as she shuddered in half-feigned horror, let alone the ragged tears in the tattered red suit and freckled flesh that Brunhilde suspected were self-inflicted. "We're not that special, surely. Not like Thor."

Romanoff threw her blond cousin to the wolves, and Brunhilde was uncertain if she would have gone for her, Tivan, or the entire Capitol, starting with the Sentinel who smirked when Thor blushed first, had she but her spear in her hand at this moment.

"Oh, but you are. And I look forward to seeing you prove it." Tanaleer Tivan had a way of wishing every tribute luck that left him sounding hungry for their blood.

Barton waited until the production assistants motioned him onwards before releasing his stranglehold upon his seat with a heavy sigh, playing with his cuffs as Tivan escorted his radiantly elusive district partner to the other end of the platform. Clint acted as if he were unused to sleeves, or at least loose ones that did not move naturally and inconsequentially with his gestures. This was not a boy who held his hands still for very long, either, no matter how easily he had taken to sharing Wade's stolen wine on the rooftops. Even relaxed, he had wanted a bottle to raise. It reminded Brunhilde too much of a couple of boys – they might claim manhood now, but they would have to climb Yggdrasil for her next year – she had left back home.

"Welcome, Clint Barton! I assume you've been enjoying your stay as much as your partner has," Tivan greeted him with a light laugh.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Barton shrugged, his own smile not as genuine as Tivan's – nor as practised as his Romanoff's. Even once seated, he continued toying with his cuffs as if tempted to remove the arms from his jacket. Thor had ripped out the sleeves during the fitting of his own suit, but his stylist had thrown a fit worthy of Brunhilde's youngest sisters upon seeing the damage, and Thor hadn't had the heart to remove them again.

But she couldn't be thinking of the twins right now; Barton was talking.

And he, at least, might be wheedled into discussing his arena strategy with Tivan where she could listen. "Your ten came as little surprise, though: our trainers hint that we have a hawkeye or two in our arena."

Barton looked conflicted; eager to defend his title but unwilling to put a target on himself – or the other young archer who had been completing those trick-shots during practise. Loki had complained bitterly about his district partner's lack of respect and basic public decency the first time he'd condescended to speak with either of his relatives joining him in these Games. The arrow through his laces had apparently been the last straw in a very long line of misdemeanours, though it had taken his brother and cousin actually seeing him suffer such outrageous fortune before Loki would speak to them about it, let alone the more important matter of their alliance. Brunhilde was not sure she had yet seen her younger cousin even speak to his father since his name was called.

For all of Loki's complaints, she would not begrudge Kate Bishop her half of the Hawkeye title – yet. After all, had Volstagg and Fandral tried such pranks back home – as they had with untipped arrows – they would have missed.

"I'm good with a bow," Barton confirmed at last, not bragging, but as confident in this fact as the ground beneath his feet. "I learned how to do trick shots when I was little."

"This is common in District Two now, then? Your partner has given us the impression that things aren't quite so nice back there, although they do raise their girls with excellent taste." Barton left off his sleeves long enough to run a finger around the shell of his ear with a frown.

He almost looked as if he were adjusting something within the inner folds, but Brunhilde doubted that any of the mentors would have been able to sneak in radio equipment in order to feed the tributes their words in the middle of an interview. The victors gathered in the wings; some of them certainly looking as if they'd like to throttle some sense into their tributes verbally if not physically, and Masters stood deathly still in the latter category, grinding his teeth in his shrivelled face.

Despite the man's clear desire to inform Barton of exactly how he should be acting, not even the most brilliant and senior amongst the victors, like Xavier or Brunhilde's own uncle, were capable of transmitting their thoughts directly to their chosen successors. On the other hand, some of them, like Doctor Octavius, wouldn't even try if they had the chance.

"I don't know, really. I can't say I got to see how most other kids grew up." Clint was just a little too glib in his words and too uneasy with his posture. The archer boy might not be lying, but that did not prevent him from prevaricating upon the absolute truth.

"I'm sure you see more than most, with those sharp eyes." Tivan's unflappable calm kept him centred through Elektra's hostilities, Wade's random tangents, and Natasha's gushing deflections – and now it threatened to put Clint Barton, the calmest amongst the Career pack, off of his own unsteady perch.

"Yeah, well, maybe." Barton trained off into a half-hearted mumble behind his open palm as he raised it toward the ceiling. "I see what I need to here. And I've seen some good people and some not-so-good people." His interview had not been as complete a flame-out as Natchios's, but his confidence was in his skill with a bow, not his words. Clint was less intentionally hostile than the killer, his terseness unplanned, Brunhilde got the impression that this was perhaps the most open rebellion Barton would allow himself – not just against his handlers, not just against the man in the other seat, but against the ideals of the Avengers Games themselves, and those who organised it. It certainly seemed enough to earn his mentor's unspoken wrath.

"Any that will match you in the arena, you think?" Clint shrugged, and Tivan changed tactics, aiming for something a bit closer to the archer's heart. "Anything here that reminds you of home?"

Clint Barton was careful to keep his eyes away from his district partner and the little dark-haired girl from Twelve. He kept his gaze out towards the spotlights, even though that was liable to steal his best sense away. "Sometimes. I just don't know if that's a good thing or not. I liked home, back when it was still home, but after coming here..." He cut himself off before finishing the longest speech Tivan had pried from him. His tone said enough to Brunhilde. Perhaps she wasn't the only Career struggling with a preferred answer to the ultimate question of the Avengers Games.

"The Capitol does tend to put everything in proportion, doesn't it?" Tanaleer Tian was gleaming, puffy cloud of white hair glossy in the spotlight, but Barton did not look to him when he answered.

"Yeah," Clint said softly. "Yeah, it does." He looked up from the floor when Tivan at last gave him a breather from the questions, simply offering a shy, expressionless nod when he was reluctantly dismissed, until they got to see more of his skill in the Games.

"Our next tribute is Miss Pepper Potts, of District Three!" The girl smiled as she took her seat upon high, attempting to be as calculatedly spritely as the previous redhead, but despite her more pixieish build, Potts lacked Romaoff's natural poise. Instead of merely empty, this smile was a muscle twitch away from a grimace, a poor cover for fear.

"It's wonderful to be here, Tivan." Pepper glanced towards her district partner waiting in the tributes' section for support, but Tony Stark's thumbs-up didn't have the effect Brunhilde might have thought. Her dilated pupils contracted somewhat, but her smile turned possessive at the sight of him...and bloodthirsty.

"I hear you volunteered to come join us. No regrets on that point, I trust?" Tivan asked solicitously. Pepper Potts, after all, had gotten one of the lowest scores, making even Loki's four seem Career-worthy.

The little redhead nodded, even though she'd dropped back into a more serious expression, doing her best to remain calm and professional despite her fear – and despite the other hunger lurking beneath her faltered smile. "As long as I can do what I came here to do, it's all right. I know I didn't score very high, but I'm not done yet."

"That's Pep for ya," Stark elbowed Brunhilde companionably. He didn't seem to care so much who he spoke to, just that the words came out. He had missed the cruelty in her teeth. He was probably a little in love with his district partner, though Brunhilde doubted that he recognised this fact any more than the reality that his affection was more than unrequited. "I don't know why she does what she does half the time, but she's stubborn enough to make the best of it."

"Have you tried listening to her?" Brunhilde asked him pointedly, and it was Thor's turn to touch his cousin's shoulder as a reminder of calm. A Sentinel harrumphed, and Brunhilde met the officer's eyes without a trace of guilt or shame. A better officer would have restrained Tony before he talked.

"What is it you wanted to see done here, Pepper?" Tivan prompted upstage.

"It's my mother." Tears welled in the bottoms of her eyes, and these were not false things, even if they were another layer of Pepper Pott's mask. Brunhilde had kept herself a step removed from most of the other tributes outside of her family, treating them as potential suspects, as potential criminals, as people that she might have to kill in the course of her duty, and that duty came first. But it was her own mother who had taught Brunhilde the honours of duty, and Pepper's tale made her think that this little pixie-faced girl, as little a threat and easily dismissed as she might be, might still affect Brunhilde's heart. This was the first tribute to speak of living family members. Brunhilde would regret it when she died.

"...So I felt like I had to volunteer, you know? As long as I come here, my mom has a chance at a better life. Even if... even if I don't come home, she'll be able to afford something other than sitting in that little room, in so, so much pain. And she won't see if I'm hurt." Pepper raised lithe little shoulders as she finished, resettling herself into a prouder profile. She was still scared, but ready to take up the weight of her world, at least for the course of this interview.

"So you would be her rescue." Tivan wore his sympathetic half-smile with much more ease than Pepper had managed to curve her mix of fear and simmering anger into a grin, leaning forward in his seat in collusion.

"Yeah, and while I don't like violence, if I have to take someone down to protect those I love, I'm gonna do it." Pepper's gaze drifted to her District Three partner, and Tony smirked shamelessly as her eyes began to dry.

"She totally loves me."

"She appears to have strong feelings about you," Brunhilde allowed diplomatically.

"Well, you can't really blame her, right? Who wouldn't?"Stark rose for his own interview, matching or outdoing Wilson's showmanship as he sauntered up to the hot seat, waving for the audience and flashing a much more confident – _more blind, _Brunhilde couldn't help but think – grin than his partner's.

"Anthony Stark," Tivan greeted him, but Tony cut him off before the man could do much more than announce his name.

"Please, it's Tony. They only use my full name when I'm in trouble, but I see my reputation proceeds me." Stark offered a slight bow of his head, hand touching above his heart. "Now, don't take everything you've heard as the absolute truth, because I'm really better than that. Pepper spoil all the best stories about us yet?"

"I got the sense that your district partner knew you from before the Games," Tivan allowed playfully.

"She's my best friend," Stark replied quickly, then came as close as a boy with no time to waste on self-reflection might to second-guessing himself. "If I didn't know better, I'd've said she volunteered because I was Reaped. But her mom... yeah, I always felt bad about what happened to her parents. They were better to me than my dad was. Is. Whatever."

Tivan's expression turned incredulous. "Better than Howard Stark, one of our greatest inventors?"

"He's good at inventing. Not being a father," Tony cut him off. "They used to invite me over all the time, let me knock around with their appliances, bake cookies for me and Pep to take on trips around town...And I wanted to give something back, something good. It just didn't work."

From the other end of the stage, Potts stared at him, her expression torn between vengeful grief and surprise. Stark really must have been bad about talking about the important things. "But that should not be a sign of my skills in the arena. My creations only blow up when I want them to, now."

And he ruined whatever progress he'd made with a cocksure joke, a grin to shield against the grief.

"You think you'll do well even if you don't find the supplies to make your inventions, Tony?" Tivan asked.

The raven-haired teen waved his concerns away. "There'll always be some sort of resources, even if I have to melt sand for glass. And I'm not just some pencil-neck geek, either. I can fight, and I can survive." And he had the eight to prove it, the score that looked pathetically low for Brunhilde marking him as second-best among the non-Careers.

"A renaissance man of all trades," their interviewer summarised, his mien warm for the audience.

"And a heart of steel, as Pep used to tell me..." Tony said, then looked over to where his silent former friend sat. "This could be hard," he sighed low enough that Brunhilde didn't think he'd intended for anyone to hear it out loud. "But we'll get through this."

"I want to see you keep that iron will out there, Tony Stark." Tivan would find something from it to collect, even if it was just the last cocksure smile from the teen's face.

"Hey, Tivan, I am Iron Man." The audience gave a distant roar of approval as Stark rose to shake Tivan's hand, and a stagehand hissed in Brunhilde's ear for her to approach the stage.

"Brunhilde...We don't have a last name listed for you, Miss Brunhilde. Only you and T'Challa share that peculiar honour." Tivan's hand was cold, his grip too firm and lingering for courtesy and too weak for a test of a warrior's might.

"Brunhilde Erdasdottir, if you must, but such titles are not the ones I concern myself with." Her mother had likely known her father's name, as she had for her younger daughters, but had not shared those. Brunhilde had her mother, she had her uncle, she had her cousins, she had her friends, and she had never had reason to ask. She had no need for a patronym. The others were enough.

Tivan's eyes brightened at the tie back to Odin. "Ah, Erda Borsdottir, the first victor's sister?"

"Erda Borsdottir, the Sentinel," Brunhilde corrected.

"Ah, yes, she resigned from her work in the Capitol the same year that her younger brother was brought to the arena," Tivan reminisced. "Our own Karima Sharpandar speaks well of her, when she was a part of the force. Oh, but where are my manners, dropping names when you likely haven't even had the chance to visit anyone, what with being so busy preparing for the Games..."

In another life, Brunhilde would have _killed_ for a meeting with the Omega Sentinel – just to tell Sif she'd done so, if not to drop to a knee and beg her apprenticeship – and the added incentive of discovering more about one of the few elements of her mother's career that she did not share with the girls made the teasingly dangled prize all the sweeter.

Erda had worked in District Four since before Brunhilde was born, her time spent in the Capitol mostly spoken of as training and indoctrination for her return, but then how few Sentinels were allowed to work their home districts? Sif and Brunhilde might have imagined serving together, but even they had little hope of being assigned to the cities of home along the waves. Erda must have been in good standing indeed if they allowed her to keep her position even while retreating from the Capitol after the attempted uprising.

Brunhilde refused to imagine that it was only an unspoken payment of blood debt to Odin's kin. They were paying thrice as much now. "Training has kept me busy," she allowed.

"We had matching scores for the first two districts' tributes, and you and Tony tied as well. Are you sure we have you in the right district?" Tivan attempted to tease her.

"There is no question about my placement. Loki's, perhaps, but I am at my cousins' side, if I cannot be in their place, or keep Loki from taking a place he should had been freed from many years ago." Brunhilde attempted to keep her voice level, to get through this interview with all the self-possession and wit she had managed at the Careers' meeting. Humour had never been her greatest strength.

"So the rumours are true: there are three of you from the All-Father's clan this year. There's no conflict of interest with this, is there?" Tivan tapped his chin in thought, but this was no plot to extricate one or more of them from the Games. Thor and Loki had both been called - close enough together that Brunhilde did not trust this doom to be a mere act of the gods - and she had only made things worse by adding in her own name to the arena.

"I know my duty," Brunhilde said, and left it at that. Her duty, however was perhaps not so clear, not with Thor as Odin's soft-hearted heir. She would make the way easier for her cousins, but one of them was better at seeing the path through for his own ends, one at seeing things through for everyone else.

"So you come here as a chooser of the dead, an escort of the slain, and make no secrets of your eventual end?" It was odd to hear it on another's lips.

Thor had been able to deny it when Brunhilde said something to him, out of earshot of their mentors, insisting that Sif had wanted him to save her. Her raven-haired best friend hadn't come during the allotted visiting time, choosing to spend what moments she had left with Thor. Brunhilde hadn't been alone, but she'd noted her absence. Among her crying sisters, mother's salute followed by a tight hug, and rapidly chattering friends who hadn't allowed Brunhilde to get more than three words edgewise, (even Hogun had squeezed the breath from the volunteer tribute once Erda had loosened her hold to a hand on her eldest daughter's shoulder,) there had been no blue-eyed, training-tanned warrior girl railing at Brunhilde for her thrice-damned prideful mouth, spoiling their plans and not even able to guarantee that her sacrifice would not be for nothing.

At the time, Brunhilde had been thankful that Sif was not there. For one, their luckily grown warriors three would have to run to be in time to see off both tributes, and someone should be with her cousin throughout the full visiting timeframe. Her shield-sister could use that moment alone with Thor well, for both their sakes, if she would but offer a moment of unguarded honesty. For another, Bunhilde had been afraid that Sif would acknowledge the same, final truth that Tivan had brought back to her at last, and if Sif had done so, Brunhilde wasn't certain she would have made it on the train.

"I do not," Brunhilde acknowledged, because she had to. "I shall do everything necessary to bring honour to my district." Because honour and duty were all she had left to protect her cousins, all she could surrender if she were to keep Thor alive.

But now was not the time to answer the ultimate question.

"What of your district earns such dedication? Your mother left the Capitol for it, and you return here in its name as much as hers." Tivan was merely trying to trip her into emotion, as he had played Barton, Natchios, Potts...the Capitolites did love a good tragic drama as much as a good tragic downfall of the charmers.

She would not rise to the bait, not here, not now. "All who grow in the shadows of the sea and Yggdrasil must find strength and balance. 'Tis no different from any other proper homeland."

"You and I are not so different, perhaps," Tivan decided slowly. "May you go with the gods, as you collect souls, Valkyrie." For that, Brunhilde had to offer him a sharp nod. This collector of the dead's tales had little in common with her, as far as she was concerned, but at least he knew the proper send-off, gleaned from lives long past through the twenty-three years of the dead. "And who knows? Perhaps you'll be at it longer than you realise."

Tanaleer Tivan laughed, and Brunhilde was escorted away to think about exactly what Doc Ock had been doing, what her uncle had been forced to do for the longest out of all the victors, what she would be consigning her cousin to, should one of them live.

Thor approached the chair.

"And here is the man of the hour, Thor Odinson!" Tivan greeted, banishing any lingering gloom from the previous interview. "If the scores can be trusted, we may _already_ have our winner!"

Thor nodded, not quite as confident as his father and score had urged him to be, but passing well enough for meeting Tivan on his own. "You would only be carrying on the family legacy that way after all, eh? You must tell us what it's like to be mentoring under your father."

"Sometimes I feel as if I have been training for this all my life," Thor said, watching the audience beyond the spotlights. "And yet, I know I would not be where I am without allies, kin, those willing to protect me. That is why I must protect them in turn."

Thor couldn't do this. He was not supposed to make the decision for her. The question was yet hers to ask. "I will see an end to the enemies of the house of Odin."

The sweet, dumb brute smiled beatifically, and sauntered from the hot-seat, cutting his interview far too short.

He would see the ends of many more, in that case.


	33. Chapter 32: Achieving Greatness

**(A/N) As promised, we're back with our second update of the day, to make up for our delay – so, if you haven't read the first interview chapter…well, make sure you do! After Brunhilde's take on the first eight interviews, we now move onto Bruce, and I hope you enjoy both of them, because Warg and Miran did some fantastic work!**

**Musicalocelot: Delighted that you're enjoying the fic, and we hope you'll keep reading! Games are coming up soon, so we've got a **_**lot **_**in store!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two – Achieving Greatness**

**Interviews (D5-D8)**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em"_

William Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_

* * *

Several backstage handlers had hustled the tributes to the lines of chairs waiting for them in the dim blue light just to the left of the main stage, in a side-section of the seating area separated from the waiting crowd. They were arranged in three banks of eight, the two chairs for each set of district partners grouped slightly closer together – probably so the stagehands could keep track of who was next.

The first row of tributes had nearly all taken their turns being interviewed, and the difference in tension level between the front and back rows was palpable.

Bruce checked down the line, and verified for the hundredth time that he was fourth in his row, nearly dead centre in the group. _Great. At least it'll be over soon. I'd hate to be the kid and Streaky at the end of the row, not to mention Thor's kid brother who's batting clean-up. No pressure there._

The last pair in his row was from District Eight. There was the girl Rogue, who had deep red hair with a shock of white in her bangs, and the little guy, Parker, who was always making jokes. The girl was all over in the training session, doing pretty well and keeping up with the best of them in head to head competitions - but here she seemed a little lost. Next to her, the jokester was fidgeting with a length of string, trying to look comfortable in a royal blue suit and bright red shirt. Rogue was in brown and green, with yellow showing in her shirt. They clashed brilliantly.

Bruce shook his head. Frankly, he didn't have a lot of hope for those two making it very far in the games, although the Parker kid had a real flair for weaving a snare during training. They just seemed so young for the games. _The games._

Staring at the floor, he tried to settle his stomach, and concentrate on something else. Anything else. His mind drifted back to an hour or so ago, when the stylists were putting the finishing touches on the tributes.

* * *

_A soft hand adjusted the line of his collarless blazer, and he looked up to see his stylist smiling. All around the green rooms the stylists were checking in with their tributes for the last time before they went backstage, and various degrees of nervousness were making themselves known. To his left Sin was getting her bright red lipstick retouched for the third time, and on the other side, Carol Danvers was getting her stylish updo sprayed yet again, which made her district partner start to cough, waving away the cloud of lacquer._

_"Hey." Jarella tapped his nose, and he looked back at her. "The first shift of interviews will be starting pretty soon. I'll be in the house." Her hand slid down his arm, her fingers tangling briefly with his. Straightening his glasses and fluffing her fingers through his curls once more, she added, "Strong posture. Good humour. Humility. Make my work look good. Be strong but accessible."_

_Bruce attempted to grin, but only succeeded in looking more nervous. "I'll do my best," he mumbled, as his eyes dropped to the floor. "Although…I wish you were coming out there with me."_

_She looked at him for a long moment before rummaging in her bag. She appeared to freshen her lip colour and took his hand. "You're going to do fine."_

_"I hope so."_

_Jarella smiled, running her fingers across his. "I know so. You're my champion."_

_He was searching for something to say when she opened his hand and pressed her lips to his palm. The warm sensation went through him like an electric shock. With a coy smile, she lifted her eyes to his and smiled. "I know you carry a token, but you'll take me with you as well."_

_Closing his hand and giving it a final squeeze, she turned and walked away, stopping for just a moment to look back over her shoulder at him. "Come back to me, Bruce Banner. Any way you can." Then she was gone._

_Bruce felt the fog lift slowly, blinking at the door she left through. Then, with a disbelieving look on his face, he lifted his hand and looked at it._

_Printed on his palm was her kiss, the same colour as she was. He touched it gently, and found that it didn't come off._

_She had certainly left her mark on him._

* * *

Banner blinked back to the present, scanning the crowd for Jarella, remembering that she was already in her seat, waiting for him to go on, but he was unable to find her. Indeed, maybe that was just the 'something else' he needed to think about_. __I'll just concentrate on making her look good. Yeah. That can work. I mean, how bad can it be?_

The crowd roared applause as the last interview finished, and the muscle-bound blond barbarian swaggered offstage. He was promptly led back to the first row, as the tributes shifted down. Bruce shook his head as an ironic smirk touched his features. _I don't think I've ever actually seen someone pull off a 'swagger' before._

A stagehand walked past, holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. "Nine." This was it, they were starting their row. The blond girl who stood to go next was pretty quiet, and looked almost like she could be her district partner's sister. _Carol Danvers._

Bruce looked her over and had to admit that although she wasn't exactly his type, she was quite attractive in a Capitol way, especially now that she'd been made over. She drew back her shoulders impressively and took a deep breath, drawing the attention of any of the boys who weren't already watching. The stagehand didn't appear to notice.

The stagehands were the only people who treated them with total impartiality. They weren't particularly impressed. They just had a show to do, the biggest show of the year. It made Bruce feel a little more normal. They weren't treating the tributes as anything special, or as anything inferior. They were simply treated as if they were living props that had to be in the right place at the right time. As Carol headed out onto the stage, the handlers directed the tributes to move down a chair in their row, so the next person to go was closest to the entrance.

Unconsciously cracking his knuckles, Bruce looked over at his District partner. She shot him a frown. "What, are you nervous, Schoolboy?"

Brown eyes regarded her mildly. "And I suppose you're not?"

Sin made a little 'hmh' noise. "I just thought you smart asses would be all set to talk in front of people. You know. Not like us_street urchins_."

Bruce coughed a laugh at her choice of words, and thought he noticed a smug expression flit across her face. She was something, he had to give her that. He took a breath and grew more thoughtful.

"Actually, they don't put much emphasis on speaking up," he said, quietly. "After all, it _is_ a Capitol-run school." They exchanged a more serious look before turning back to the stage before them.

The crowd's latest roar of approval was clearly heard to their left, and Bruce felt sweat begin to pool at the base of his neck. He frowned at the stage and blinked.

Taneleer Tivan, known for the puffball of white hair, was running the interviews with every sign of enjoyment. "Carol Danvers, ladies and gentlemen! Isn't she a marvel!"

He indicated that she should sit down, and said, "So, Miss Danvers. Are you looking forward to the Games finally beginning?"

As she sat down Danvers was looking shyly at the floor, the image of polite reserve. Her navy blue dress sparkled in the lights as she spoke quietly. "Oh, Mr Tivan, I wouldn't want to hurt a fly. I just don't know what I'll do out there." She looked out at the crowd. "I'm sure I'll need all the help I can get…"

Her eyes misted up a bit as her chest heaved, and Bruce almost began to applaud. Clearly, this was the same girl he saw knock the head off a practice dummy with a well-placed kick during training – although, now that he thought about it, she did try to look around to see if anyone was watching first. _So Female Five is a crafty one. Good to know._ The interview went on, and Bruce scanned the group. _I wonder just how many of them are pretending, just to get an advantage. Is anyone here really as tough as they seem, or as weak as they seem?_

A handler pointed a finger, and Steve, the tall blond guy from Five, swung up out of his chair. He and Danvers certainly looked related. _Or maybe they're all tall and blond in Five._ The boy was wearing a classically tailored albeit bright blue suit, with a red and white tie that was done in so elaborate a knot, it formed a five-pointed white star. Bruce had noticed the stylist tweaking the folds until it was perfect, and overheard him say that the boy shouldn't breathe too hard, or he might mess it up. Tivan's voice brought him back to the monitor.

"I understand, Steve, that you were a volunteer for District Five? Were you planning it long?"

"No, sir. Not really. It's just that my best friend got called, and, well…" While clearly emotional, Steve's expression remained stoic. "I couldn't let that happen. He always took care of me when I was younger…"

"Took care? How so?"

The young man took a deep breath and blew it out briskly. "There were a lot of kids who thought it was fun to beat me up back then."

"And this friend saved you?"

"Yeah. And he taught me a lot."

Tivan swept the crowd with a smirking, grinning glance, and his voice had just the hint of a patronizing tone. "Tell us, Steve. What do you think was the most important thing you learned from this friend?"

Steve looked out at the audience, and then back to Taneleer. Blue eyes went from simply stoic to icy cold. "I learned…that I don't like bullies."

Tivan stood and opened his arms to the audience. "Brave, isn't he, people? Just the epitome of brave! A real old-school patriot, this one. Practically a collector's item!" The crowd responded enthusiastically as Taneleer turned to shake Steve's hand, and Bruce looked away from the monitor, rolling his eyes.

"Eleven."

Sin exhaled, and Bruce murmured, "Good luck."

She nodded, standing and drawing herself up to her full height as she walked past, only to be stopped by a stagehand that lifted a palm as Taneleer spoke to the audience.

"Well now, my good friends, we have a rather amazing tribute next. Quite an amazing story, as they all have been – but this one, well. Like Odin's son, your next tribute is as close to royalty as we get around here." The screen behind Taneleer lit up with the image of their mentor. "You all remember Johann Schmidt, the only victor to come out of District Six – so far. Well, if he's the king of the district, I now present his legacy! Let's welcome Sinthea Schmidt!"

Sin shot a look at her father, who was standing with the rest of the mentors at the back of their section, and rolled her eyes, looking every bit the annoyed teenager. If looks could kill, Bruce thought, she would go far in these Games. Then, her expression changing to that of a defiantly proud lady of Marvel, she stepped out onto the stage.

Her short black dress had long sleeves of black mesh, and was accented with a wide, blood red belt. On it, shining in the stage lights, was the jewelled red skull pin that Bruce knew by now was her token. How she walked so confidently in the matching red six-inch stiletto heels was beyond him, but walk she did, a feathery black ornament dancing against her red hair. Bruce shook his head. Her stylist had certainly gone all out in making her the young, fetchingly feminine version of her father.

Taneleer met her halfway, and with a little bow kissed her hand, holding it aloft and escorting her to the seats, presenting her first to the audience as if she was actually royalty. From their reaction, perhaps she was. They were clearly eating it up, even more than they had with Thor.

"So, Miss Schmidt – or should I call you Princess Sinthea?" He grinned widely at the audience and looked back to her. There was a pause as she seemed to be considering something seriously.

Bruce winced slightly as he watched, because he was pretty sure she was seriously considering punching Taneleer in the face. Instead, she put on a rather saccharine smile, and spoke loudly. "No. I'm no _princess_, Taneleer."

The fact that she used his first name so casually was not lost on the audience, nor was her suggestion that she was no paragon of feminine delicacy. There was a sea of hoots and cheers, and Taneleer pretended to look shocked. "Well, then, my dear _lady_, what shall we call you?"

She stared at him for a moment, then looked directly into one of the cameras before her. "You shall call me," she said, "'Lady Sin'."

There was more cheering. Bruce relaxed back into his chair. She was running the table.

Even when Taneleer was quizzing her about her father, and how wonderful he was, Sin was able to keep herself under control. Even when they asked if she ever had a falling-out with her father. Her expression had frozen, but her response was simple, and the audience loved it.

"Oh, every family has its ups and downs, I suppose."

The stagehand pointed. "Twelve. You're up." Bruce nodded and tried to remember to breathe. He stood nervously and looked around, registering for the first time that there were Sentinels posted at every door, and throughout the crowd their purple uniform made itself known at random intervals. _Of course_.

And over there, among a small clutch of mentors, was Johann Schmidt, the only victor that Six ever had. The man that Tivan had just been gushing about onstage. Their slightly frightening mentor, the one with the scarred, skull-like face.

Of course, the man also happened to be Sin's estranged father, which didn't do much to make Banner more comfortable. As he stood, Schmidt's face contorted into a smile, and Bruce remembered with a shudder their last moments of prep for the interviews.

* * *

_Johann Schmidt had walked over to put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, which only succeeded in making him flinch uncomfortably._

_"You'll do fine in the interview…son. You're one of the smart ones. Just remember everything we talked about." With a squeeze that could have dislocated Bruce's shoulder, Schmidt glared over at his daughter and stepped away._

_"Yeah… thanks."_

* * *

Although he appreciated the attention at first, seeing how their mentor treated Sin had pretty much soured Bruce on anything he said after that. _I wish there was someone I could trust here__._ He stood at the curtain, waiting for the stagehand to wave him out, when a sudden warm sensation tweaked his memory. He opened his left hand and looked down at his palm. Jarella's kiss seemed to smile fondly at him.

Smiling back at his hand before closing it tightly, Bruce walked down onto the stage to a round of applause, and blinked at the bright light. Trying to remember everything he had been told, he stood up straight and walked with feigned confidence to their host, who stood and shook his hand warmly. "Ladies and gentlemen, our male tribute from District Six: Bruce Banner!"

Bruce gave a humble grin and a small wave to the audience. He sat when Taneleer invited him to, and tried to relax. The first thing Taneleer did was lean forward and feel the fabric of his suit sleeve. "Good heavens. This is House of Kai, isn't it?" The audience gave a knowing 'oooh'. The look in Tivan's eye, close up, let Bruce know that he was in on Jarella's plan to get her work noticed.

"Why actually, Mr Tivan, it's Jarella Kai. The daughter of the house." The suit she had made for him was a deep aubergine purple, well-fitted slacks and a collarless blazer. Underneath he was wearing a silk shirt the green of his stylist's skin, open at the collar.

"Splendid! Stand up and give us a turn, so we can look at you!"

Bruce looked out into the audience and saw Jarella practically glowing. _Okay. For you, I can do this._He stood up and took a few steps toward the audience exactly the way she had coached him, stopped for a moment, his hand on his hip and a sheepish grin on his face, then turned and walked slowly back to his seat. The crowd went wild, and Taneleer looked quite pleased. Bruce realized the host was probably getting a new wardrobe out of this. Once the audience had settled down, Taneleer pulled out some cards covered with notes.

"So, Bruce. I understand that you're actually attending one of our elite Capitol funded educational facilities? How marvellous."

Bruce nodded, reciting his practiced response carefully. "Yes, I'm very fortunate to be able to attend."

"Well, don't be too modest, my boy. I understand you have a rather high intelligence quotient, which is the only way to get in?"

Banner looked down at his stylish shoes with a grin. "Honestly, I was pretty much born this way. I didn't have a lot to do with it."

The audience roared approval, and Bruce felt himself actually begin to relax. Jarella was right; they seemed to like him. Or like the character that had been designed for him, anyway.

Taneleer looked at his notes. "I see here that when you were only sixteen, you designed a new, lightweight alloy that our S.W.O.R.D. Sentinels are actually using in their hovercraft now. How did you manage that?"

Bruce adjusted his sleeve and leaned back. "I have to admit, I got lucky with that one. I was actually trying to turn lead into gold." The audience laughed again.

The longer they talked, the more Bruce felt that he could actually speak for himself. Perhaps Jarella hadn't designed him that far off from who he really was.

"One last question, Bruce. I heard a rumour that there was a scientific competition that came down to two boys at the school – you and another boy – and the winner actually developed a new kind of battery that uses – let me check my notes here – bacteria? Where did you ever come up with such an idea?"

Bruce looked down for a moment, then lifted his head. "Does it say what the other guy did?"

Checking his notes again, Taneleer nodded. "It says that he was 'developing a technique for restoring agricultural viability to damaged land outside the districts'." He swept the audience with a smile. "Of course, that wouldn't be half as useful, we've got plenty of food already." Bruce's eyebrows barely lifted, although his jaw tightened somewhat. "But you have to tell us, Bruce – did it actually happen that way? With the bacteria?"

Taking a deep breath, Banner nodded. "Yes, yes it did happen that way. But I have to clarify, Mr. Tivan - the student who developed the new battery is one of my roommates at the school, Amadeus Cho." He managed a grin as he slipped off his glasses, turning them over in his hands. "Me, well… I'm the other guy."

Taneleer's eyes widened as he looked out over the audience and stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen! Not only intelligent, but humble as well. Well, may the odds always favour the Other Guy, Bruce Banner!"

The crowd screamed as if this were the height of brilliance, and Bruce realized as he stood to shake hands, his portion of the interviews over, that he probably would be referred to that way for as long as he lasted in the games. _Great._

Bruce exited the stage with a final wave, and was escorted from the backstage area up a side staircase leading to the tributes' seats. He moved over to the chairs, and waited as everyone shifted down to sit.

The stagehand quietly called over to a production manager who was sitting at a table with a dozen cables running to it. "Halfway."

"Great. Keep it rolling." The producer clicked a button and spoke very quietly into his headset mic. "Okay, that's halfway. Keep them interested, Tan."

The stagehand nodded and looked at his clipboard. "Lucky thirteen, you're up. Let's go." The girl who had been next to Bruce on the other side stood and ran her hands over her dress, adjusted her veil, and stepped down the stairway leading to the stage below them.

Bruce and Sin looked at each other and exhaled. Bruce gave a wry grin and held out his fist. Sin, after looking at it for a second, tapped her knuckles against his, causing them both to flash a grim smile. He nodded toward her, trying not to be too friendly, since they seemed to get along best when they were slightly at odds. "You did good."

"Yeah. You too. What's with 'the other guy'? Did you plan that?"

"Ha. No. And I certainly wouldn't have been ready for what they pulled with you."

"Yeah, well. You didn't grow up _not_ having the famous Johann Schmidt in your house, but hearing about him all the time. I knew they'd ask about him."

"Well, they sounded like they're crazy about you."

She barked a laugh, covering her mouth and waving a dismissive hand at one of the handlers, who was frowning heavily at her. "Yeah. They're crazy, alright."

Bruce quirked a grin, but he said nothing more as he looked back at the monitor.

Benedetta Gaetani, the girl from Seven who had been sitting next to Bruce, was wearing a striking black dress with a black veil that covered half her face. The fact that she kept her face partly covered had caused a few of the tributes to refer to her as 'Wink'. It seemed she talked as much with her eyes as with her mouth. Apparently she didn't mind the nickname - in fact, Bruce was pretty sure he just heard Tivan call her that.

He realized he had been so busy talking to Sin and recovering from his own nerves that he missed a good part of Wink's interview. From the sound of the crowd, though, she seemed to be making a good, albeit mysterious impression. As he watched she was standing to go and Taneleer stood with her, placing his hand on her shoulder as he gestured to the audience before sweeping his hand away.

It happened so suddenly that it took a minute for Bruce to realize what happened. As Tivan moved one of his rings evidently caught on Wink's veil, and when he drew his hand away her veil came with it, exposing her burned, scarred face.

The audience gasped, as did several of the tributes who were watching. Bruce heard Logan curse quietly. Taneleer shook his hand loose, apologizing profusely, and she quickly adjusted the veil across her features again before dashing offstage.

They watched the girl, who had pulled the veil up to cover her head and sat hunched over in her chair. Bruce shot a look at Logan and muttered under his breath. "That wasn't an accident."

Logan looked back to Banner with a dull fire in his eyes. "No kidding."

"Fourteen."

Logan stood up, cracking his neck and shaking out his arms. The stylist had done up his hair, but left him dressed in a sleekly rugged black leather jacket, black pants, and an ice blue t-shirt that managed to match his eyes. Bruce thought he looked a little older now that he'd been groomed, not just wild and shaggy. And frankly, he looked a lot more dangerous. Like a polished predator.

"Wow."

Bruce heard the sound and turned in time to see Sin staring at Logan's backside. He nearly snorted a laugh, and she punched his arm. "What? I'm… sizing up the competition. Besides, you think I didn't notice _that__?"_ She stabbed a finger at his left hand and he snatched it away protectively.

"We're just… she's…"

"Yeah, right. Just watch yourself, Schoolboy, before you start throwing stones." They stared at each other for a moment, and then both looked away, grinning.

They had survived their interviews, and felt almost like they could relax. Since they had moved down the row, Bruce could still see the monitor screens that had been set up near the chairs for them to watch – but he also found, if he leaned a bit to the right, he could see right through a space in the masking curtains to the stage where Taneleer was sitting. The big white puff of the back of his head, anyway. Just beyond the puff, he could see about three quarters of the face of the tribute currently being interviewed, which was of course the man in black, Logan.

Bruce squinted, then pulled the glasses down a bit on his nose to look over them. Logan was frowning, rather typically, as the host was speaking. Taneleer leaned in closer, and Bruce heard his voice become more cloying.

"Your hair will be all the rage, James! It's so striking! So…so _animal!_ _Very_ much in style right now."

"Logan."

"I beg your pardon?"

The young man held back a sigh. "I go by Logan."

Taneleer shot the audience a look that made them laugh, and Logan shifted uncomfortably. "Well, of course, then, Logan. You're quite the scrapper, I've heard. Although, a bit of a lone wolf." Then, with a wink to the audience, he added, "Of course, you're a little short for a wolf. Perhaps a wolverine?" Logan stared at him coldly, refusing to be baited.

"A wolverine would suit me fine."

Taneleer clapped approval, and the audience roared right back. Letting his overdone smile settle into something more serious as the noise died down, the host leaned forward and tapped the boy on the knee.

"So, Logan. I understand that you have some connection to the Games already?"

"Connection?" For the first time the lumberjack looked confused and not just annoyed.

"Yes. Of course, not like the legacies we've met so far - Thor, or the Lady Sin - but we understand you had a dear friend in the Games just last year."

A picture appeared on the huge screen behind them, and Bruce had to crane his neck slightly to get a good view of it. It was a beautiful girl, with honey-rose skin and long, straight black hair. Her smile was somewhat mysterious, as if there was more to her than met the eye. Under her smile, the title on the screen read "Kayla Silverfox". Bruce looked at the screen for a moment, then back out through the space to the real stage, where Logan was staring in abject shock, his lips parted, eyes wide with a kind of delayed horror. Then it appeared he caught himself, and his jaw snapped tight. Even from where he sat, Bruce could feel the emotion and anger radiating from the stage. He shook his head and whispered to Sin.

"Crap. That's not fair."

Sin shrugged. "What's fair got to do with it?"

Bruce exhaled heavily as Taneleer went on.

"Of course, Miss Silverfox unfortunately didn't survive –"

There was a gasp from several of the tributes as the screen switched to a video they were all familiar with already – the girl's death. It had been seen as one of the most spectacular of last year's kills, but now, knowing someone directly who had been affected by it – most of the tributes looked away, not wanting to see it again. Especially after a series of pointed whispers up and down the line made it clear that several people had noticed the small medicine bag the girl was wearing around her neck – and that it had to be the same one they had seen Logan wearing in training.

Bruce kept his eyes on Logan, who was breathing deeply, roughly – and startled as the boy suddenly leapt to his feet and stormed off the stage. He pushed past the stagehand with a growl and Victor Creed, the mentor for Seven, tried to stop him. Logan bit off a comment and shoved the bigger man so hard in the chest that he stumbled back a few feet. Then he pushed past the handlers and would have been gone, had not three Sentinels grabbed him and held him still until he settled down. It took a few minutes for them to allow him back to the group of chairs.

Meanwhile, the mentor for Seven hovered nearby, and Bruce noticed with a grimace that Creed was smiling a twisted little smile.

Sin let out a low whistle as the crowd reacted to his abrupt exit, and Bruce shook his head, frowning. "What the hell is Creed smiling about?"

The girl shrugged, fingering the skull pin on her belt. "Good television."

Bruce shook his head, and noticed that the next tribute had already been hustled out onto the stage. It made him wonder how carefully they had planned on the best way to push Logan's buttons. He felt his stomach tighten, and took a deep breath. _Just how much of this is staged? Beyond what they tell us to do?_

The stagehand by the curtain exhaled, shaking his head. "Okay. Let's go, fifteen."

The little redhead with the streak pulled herself out of her chair and slouched toward the curtain. Clearly, if she could have avoided it, she would have. As she passed Thor in the front row it seemed she slipped, catching herself on his shoulder. When he turned with a surprised frown to look at her she shrugged, mumbled 'sorry', and abruptly straightened up, pushing her hair into place and brushing a speck of lint from her sleeve. The stagehand waved her on, and she made her way down the stairs to the stage.

Bruce noticed that she was proudly wearing the emblem of the stitchers from District Eight on the shoulders of her jacket. _Everything we do ends up being in uniform. Everyone has to be labelled._

Taneleer greeted her warmly. "So, Miss –"

"Rogue," the girl stated firmly. "People call me Rogue."

"I see." Taneleer looked toward the audience and they laughed at his expression. "I understand, Rogue, that you volunteered for the Games?"

She pushed back her bangs, and took a deep breath. "They called the name of my friend. I didn't want her going through this…"

Backstage, Bruce whispered quietly. "Unbelievable."

Sin spoke out of the corner of her mouth without turning away from the monitor. "What is?"

He shook his head. "Another volunteer."

Sin gave him a look, and they listened as Rogue spoke about her work in the factory. Bruce tilted his head curiously as he watched. For a girl who had seemed so nervous just a few minutes ago, she was doing fine now. He remembered her slipping and thought, with a laugh, that maybe some of the barbarian's cocky confidence had rubbed off on her.

A stagehand beckoned. "Sixteen."

Peter Parker, the last one in Bruce's row, had tied the string he found into a loop and was keeping his hands busy by weaving and unweaving a Jacob's ladder. He must have been keeping his mind busy, too, because he didn't react right away, and one of the handlers came and gave him a firm tap on the shoulder. Startled, he leapt up and shoved the tangled web of string into his pocket. Then he grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the stagehand to wave him out. Bruce had noticed him once or twice during the training. He seemed to be a pretty nice kid, underneath the constant jibes. Probably trying to keep up a good front.

When he was finally waved out, Peter seemed just a bit startled by the size and sound of the crowd. Once he was talking with Taneleer though, he got his feet back under him and was soon joking as much as he had been the last few days. That is, until he was asked about his family. Something about an uncle. Bruce watched the monitor, genuinely curious as he felt the change in the boy.

"Well, sir, my Uncle Ben was like a father to me. He…ah…he's been gone a while now. Aunt May-" and here, he looked around and spotted a camera, waving with what must have been feigned cheer. "Hi, Aunt May. I'm still fine, eating and brushing my teeth and everything." He smiled at the camera, and then looked back at Taneleer. "My Aunt May has been taking care of me since forever."

Taneleer nodded sympathetically, and looked at the crowd to take them into his sympathy as well. "I'm sure you're going to do your best for her, young man."

For just a moment, Peter's eyes began to water, and he looked young. Young and quite vulnerable. "Yeah. I certainly will."

Bruce looked away, and tried to think of something other than what these games were putting them through. All his brain managed to come up with was Betty, and standing in the rain…which, somehow, became standing in the rain with Jarella, which triggered a string of thoughts he was trying to avoid.

He tried, several times, to put his mind in some kind of calm state. He tried picturing himself in the woods back home, sitting on his favourite boulder – which only brought him back to Betty _again_, with an extra serving of guilt this time. He even tried remembering and figuring out the unbalanced equations he had been working on only four days ago, dealing with various types of radiation and cellular mutation. Nothing seemed to stick, nothing seemed to let him wander down a different path. He looked up startled when Sin nudged him, and she indicated with a gesture that Peter had come back and they had to shuffle down the row of chairs.

He sighed as he moved back to his starting place in the row. _How many of these kids volunteered to save someone? How many volunteered to accomplish something, be a champion?_ He was staring at the floor between his feet now, and noticed that he was tapping one foot. He didn't even know he was doing it; it was as if it belonged to someone else. Someone who was fed up with this whole process, and was becoming increasingly angry about it.

_Great. By the time I'm out in the arena, maybe I'll actually be mad enough to…_his fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically, but the thought stopped before it finished. He looked at the chairs that surrounded him, and couldn't imagine killing any one of the tributes sitting there. They might not be friends, but somehow they were all in this absurd mess together.

For now.


	34. Chapter 33: Transformation

**(A/N) Hey all, apologies for missing the Thursday update, but I hope that this one'll make up for it, as we out our last interview – this time written by Gumby1011, and featuring Cletus Kasady! As usual, Cletus speaks for himself, so I'm not gonna waste any more words introducing him.**

**Big thanks to sailorraven34 and GeekyComicBookGuy for their reviews, and we hope you guys continue to read, enjoy and review, because hearing your reactions really is everything to us. Thanks so much!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three – Transformation**

**Interviews (D9-D12)**

**Cletus Kasady of District Ten**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

_"Maybe I'm just a psycho, and the stage is a better place to go than either the loony bin or somewhere else."_ – Henry Rollins

* * *

He was in the bathroom of his room in the hotel, hard at work preparing for the games. His escort may have believed he was preparing for the interviews, but he was most definitely preparing for the Games. He absolutely adored his new look. The stylist had been so happily compliant in doling out every whim of his for matching his body up to his heart! Blood-red skin, black tendrils twisting ever-changingly across his entire body. The chaos in the black pattern replaced everything he'd lost in the removal of his hair, but then again, hair seemed almost like an intentional design flaw.

A convenient handle by which one pulled up the head before slitting the throat, and the boy was certainly _not_ getting his throat slit.

In addition to his baldness, his nails had been preserved, he'd been given a pair of contacts that made his eyes appear a solid white, and he'd been given some riveting prosthetics to put over his real teeth. They seemed to fit him flawlessly and added sharp, savage points to his grin. He loved the look. He loved the look so much that he couldn't even imagine a single part of it being taken from him.

There was no way anybody could take his colours short of flaying his skin, and it'd be a cold day in hell before that happened. He could always keep his hair from growing back. They had no reason to take his new eyes. The one thing they _could_ take were those beautiful fangs of his, which was why they currently sat on the counter next to his sink. He was using a metal nail file to whittle down his actual teeth into that glorious, lethal shape. There was some blood. Not a lot, to be perfectly honest. Enough that any on his skin would easily blend in. The blood as well as trace amounts of powdered white were dripping into the sink. And there was some pain too. But with pain came power. Pain was power. Power would be life.

Life. _IS_. Pain.

He'd been whittling from left to right, using his prosthetics as a model. First the top left canine, then the bottom left canine…He'd worked this way across like that throughout the week, and was currently working on his top incisor furthest to the right. After this, he'd only have three more to go. He grinned in satisfaction, admiring his bloodied, newfound fangs. Cletus Kasady may have been the happiest kid on the face of the goddamn planet. It was then that he heard a knock on his locked bathroom door. "Come on, Cletus, we're going to the interviews soon."

"I hear ya, Jimmy, just gotta finish putting my face on!" Cletus shouted, a morbid giggle quickly following. He popped his prosthetics back in place, covering his secret improvements by imitating them perfectly. _Go figure_. Then he grinned at the small pool of blood in the stoppered sink. He'd love to just use that, but he knew it wouldn't have enough staying power for the masses. He opened up a small cabinet beside the sink and retrieved a few bottles of red nail polish, pouring them out into the sink. He dipped his claws in the puddle of red fluid that resulted, and raised them out slowly.

Sensuously.

Letting the bloody polish coat his fingers.

Dry ever so slightly.

Then he swung with his claws viciously, imagining his glorious conquests when they were dropped from their podiums.

With one slash he ripped out Loki's throat. With another he gutted Romanoff. A quick, flat-handed thrust reached deep into Ororo's chest and punctured her little heart. With each strike an opponent fell. With each strike a life ended. With each strike Cletus' hunger would be sated another meal. With each strike spatters of red were flung to the bathroom walls until no more was left to splatter, and the Hands of Carnage looked like primal, gooey things. His nails were the bright blood red that the people expected. That the people _demanded_.

"Comin' out now, Jimmy," Cletus announced with the slightest titter in his voice. "Be a pal and grab my interviewin' shirt, would ya?" He walked over to the door and unlocked it, whereupon Jameson already stood with the deliberately-tattered red turtleneck in his hand, an irritated spark in his eyes. The spark only served to catch fire when he looked over Cletus' shoulder and at the mess he made in the bathroom.

"This again? Really?"

Carnage just smiled with feigned innocence. "What?"

* * *

The interviews were simply a treat so far. Cletus had already caught glimpses of the other tributes of course, what with the chariot rides and stumbling across them while training and the like. But this. This in particular was his best chance to familiarise himself with the meat. After all, the interviews were one hell of a display case. All the other tributes, they'd been avoiding him - as was a wise decision, if not terribly convenient for Carnage. But here…They couldn't avoid him. They had to sit in one spot while he studied him. Study he had so far, and ooooh wow, how he had learned.

He'd learned from the glimpse of the fire in Romanoff's eyes that she wasn't the ditz she'd tried so hard to look like while they'd been training. He'd learned that Thor was likely going to be an ambush kill. As mighty as the maniac may have known he was, he had the sneaking suspicion that Thor was somehow mightier. He learned from the waves of anger he could smell goodie-goodie Brucie Boy giving off that their fight would be much more worthy than he'd originally anticipated. But most intriguingly of all, Cletus Kasady had studied the screen as the Fox had fallen, grinned when he learned that Logan's pouch would contain things tasting of sorrow. A delicious seasoning to that particular meal, so much of anger and aggression marinating the meat already. The boy licked his chops at this.

Cletus heard one of the stagehands hiss. "Seventeen, you're up!" And just like that, the red-skinned boy realized that he'd been drooling. Snapping his head up, he was just in time to see that Maximoff girl walking out onto the stage. _Excellent._ There was a large roar of applause as there had been for all sixteen to come before her when Wanda took her seat across from Tivan_. _

_The cotton-headed fop._

While Cletus did adore the majority of Capitolites – what with their love of wanton blood that the Games represented – he couldn't help but feel urges about some of them, and Mr Tivan was the perfect example. The type of urge that make you want to rip the bowels from your kill so that you could get their vile contents a little further away from the good meat. Either way, Cletus had no choice. He'd have to at least try and work with him, so that he could win even more love from all of his adoring fans!

He felt his attention drawn to the screen as Wanda and Tivan finally started talking. He noticed for a moment how good she looked in the full-length scarlet dress she wore. _The girl looks good in red,_ Cletus mused as his lips split to reveal his wonderful fangs.

"To be honest sir, I have to admit that I'm grateful to have been able to visit the Capitol." Wanda looked sincere as she said this, and the crowd's chatter swelled a bit. "I mean, the food's good, the rooms are nice, to be honest it's a nice change of pace from back home."

She leaned back a bit as she spoke, her eyes looking up as if she was imagining all she was listing off. "It's really been quite the adventure!"

Tivan chuckled warmly at this. It was the artificial, stale warmth of a defective space-heater. "Well, my dear, I'm sure all of our fair citizens here are happy to oblige you, and all you fellow tributes. What do you all think, folks?"

He gestured out to the audience with this, and they all cheered enthusiastically. "Now I must say, you and your partner sure have got some of the competition beat when it comes to showmanship! Something we can all agree on, given your particular entrance to the District Nine chariot, yes?"

Tivan leaned forward in his seat, as if expecting something. "Maybe we can see a bit of a demonstration?"

Wanda just smiled at this and shook her head. "As much as I'd like to demonstrate, I'm afraid that little trick was Kurt's idea. You can ask him to give a little taste if you like!" She glanced offstage towards the other tributes and winked. And Cletus grinned like a little kid when he saw Kurt just roll his eyes at this.

Tivan clapped his hands together, a wide grin on his face. "Oh, that sounds like a wonderful idea!"

One of the stagehands looked up from a clipboard for a moment and hollered out. "Alright. Eighteen, your turn!" Just like that, Kurt rose out of his seat, a grin on his face. Yes, that was how he always was, wasn't it? He'd pay any price to be anywhere but here, yet he was the guy to always joke and lie that he was fine. Like that Parker boy, only not so terribly shit at it. As the Wagner boy walked down to the stage he readied a small blue smoke-bomb in his hand. Cletus may not have been the most artistic of minds, but even he could appreciate the way the blue smoke served to make that red and black suit of his just pop.

Not that it held a candle to Carnage's skin, of course, but still. Kurt quickly took his seat after shaking hands with Tivan, that winning smile of his flashing in the spotlight. "You know, I really must say, you are just a natural born showman, Mister Wagner!" Tivan gushed as the audience's roaring applause died down. "I don't suppose you have any experience in this line of work?"

"What, entertaining?" Kurt's eyes radiated nerves, but he had the willpower to hold them in check. Cletus relished the thought of the day he broke. "I'm afraid not, sir. Not a show or circus to be found in District Nine. Guess I've just got the knack for it," he shot with a wink. There were a few whistles from out in the audience. The man had talent to entertain, sure, but it was nowhere near as good as Cletus', naturally.

The red-skinned boy's eyes glazed over. True, the opportunity to inspect the meat was important, but he found that Tivan had begun repeating questions, from time to time. It had grown somewhat dull. He found his gaze drifting to the seat to his right, where that Ororo girl was sitting. What an _interesting_ specimen, that one. Cletus allowed his face to slowly turn towards her, his smile purposefully askew to present the most disturbing visage possible. Then he kept the look held, unblinking, for the few minutes it took for Ororo to develop that creeping feeling that she was being watched.

Eventually she did look over at him, and her eyes went wide. The good one glowed with that spark of fear that Cletus had thus far been careful to stoke at every possible opportunity. As if basting a turkey. That said, it only took a moment for the spell to be broken by a sharp jab in his left side. Cletus looked over to where Raven was glaring at him, her head shaking and her elbow cocked out. Then she plastered on a happy smile as Kurt walked back on from offstage. "Aren't you gonna wish me luck, partner?"

Cletus just stuck his tongue out.

"Well, alright." Raven got up and strode out to the stage as Tivan finished her introduction, her white, full-length dress trailing out behind her.

"Oh, and isn't Miss Darkholme simply lovely, folks!" Tivan gushed as she took her seat. Cletus had to give this one credit. His partner was by far the best liar of the bunch. Barring perhaps Romanoff. How ironic. Out in 'society' Cletus would have never been able to make it being true to himself. But in here, in the glory of the games, he was the only one who felt he could be the honest guy! It was sad, really.

"I prefer to go by Mystique, actually." Raven replied, to the amusement of the crowd.

"Ah, and what a fitting name it is!" Tivan leaned back in his chair, hands on his knee. "A young girl with no past, not a trace of history to be found. A truly unknown character! Do you think you would mind telling the folks here a little bit about your past, perhaps?"

Raven simply giggled at this. "You know Tivan, I'd simply _love_ to tell you, but then I'm afraid I'd have to kill you." She shot him a coy grin, and the audience half-laughed, half "oooh"-ed at the answer. "All you and the folks at home need to know is that I'm here now, and how honoured I am to be in the games."

"And what of your partner?" Tivan asked, grinning. "What's it been like, working with him?"

At this Mystique's smile faltered for the slightest moment. "What, Cletus?" She managed to regain her composure after the stumble, and retained her facade. "He… Well, that boy speaks for himself, really."

"Aaaaah, that he does." Tivan nodded, eyes closed, feigning sageness in his understanding. "That he _definitely_ does. Speaking of which, the people at home have been finding your two's looks absolutely stunning in contrast. Whatever gave you the inspiration for them?"

"Oh, yes." Raven leaned back in her chair. "Well, Tivan. As it so happens, I've had my particular look for _quite_ some time, actually. And our stylist Miss Cord absolutely _loved_ it! And Cletus…Well, you know Cletus, he was _all_ for it when she suggested that they match him up." The rest of the audience chuckled at this. He'd already been played up to all the viewers for his…eccentricities.

But backstage, Cletus had lost track of the interview. His excitement was building. Overflowing. He was up next. He was up next to show everybody what he truly was. He was up next to give his formal introduction to the world. He was up next to get a taste of what awaited him after the games. Fame. Renown. _Adoration_. His eyes fixated on Raven. Not hearing. Barely thinking. When Raven finally stood up to leave the stage, Cletus practically tipped his chair as he stood up. He registered that one of the stagehands was speaking. He tried to read his lips. "Are you alright," maybe? He just grinned at the man and shot a thumbs up before striding towards the interview.

He heard it. The pulsing. The flowing. The beating of a thousand thousand hearts waiting for him out beyond the stage. He could hear it pounding in his head. The screaming of thousands of gallons of blood begging, pleading to him to rip them from their veiny prisons. But the time for that was not today, not yet. As he strode out into the light, he could hear them cheering over the rushing of their precious vitae. They were screaming for him. All for _him!_ His smile stretched impossibly wide, the fangs in his mouth gleaming in the spotlights. And he started laughing. He laughed as the crowd cheered, and they only went louder. He raised his arms into the air, and felt the spotlights hit his face, shine through the intentional torn holes in his red turtleneck and matching pants. He raised his arms further, above his head. And then in a primal roar he shouted out two words.

"HEEELLOOOOOO! MMMMAHVEEEEEEEEL!"

And the crowd fucking loved it. They went absolutely bananas. They roared for him. Cletus dropped his arms and raised only the left one up again, slowly. And the crowd to his left screamed louder. He raised his right arm while dropping his left, and the volume switched sides. Then he raised his left without dropping his right, and the crowd was in a flurry of cheering again.

This was what it felt like to be a star.

This was what it felt like to be a _god!_

Cletus slowly lowered both arms, and the crowd slowly faded to relative silence. Then he silently sat in his chair, cleared his throat, and in the most classy, demure Capitol accent he could ape, spoke. He clicked his tongue like a nice-mannered housewife before asking "And just how are you doing tonight, Tivvy-Tiv?" The crowd chuckled at the instant switch of temperament.

"You know what?" Tivan grinned, instantly playing along. "I'm doing pretty well, it's been a _great_ set of interviews."

"Oh, hasn't it, though?" Cletus grinned, snapping his fingers at the crowd. "Yo, let's hear another round of applause for my amazing colleagues, eh? I'm super happy to be working with them!" a quick, polite round of cheers went up before Cletus hastily waved them all silent again.

Tivan couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, what a surprising gentleman you are. But let's get real here, sonny, now it's time to talk about you."

"Yeah it is." Cletus shot a wink at the crowd, and a small surge of laughter went up again.

"You've been causing quite a stir with your new look since arriving in the Capitol. Let's be honest, your modifications have been extensive." Tivan put a hand to his chin, as if pondering something. "Was there any hesitation in embracing this visceral, bold new look? It is quite permanent, after all."

"Oh, none whatsoever!" Cletus laughed, crossing his legs. "This is the start of a whole new life for me! Nobody stays the same person after the games, not entirely at least. So I thought, 'Cletus you silly goose, why fight the change? Why not grab it by the forelock and embrace it?' And that is exactly what I've done! I simply adore my new skin." Then he glanced around before putting a hand to his face and mock-whispering to the crowd. "Although, between you, me, and all these millions of people, I may have developed a bit of a problem. I just can't seem to stop thinking up new tweaks, you see."

Tivan chuckled along with the crowd for a moment. "Like what?"

"Well you see," Cletus popped out a contact for a moment. "These lenses look amazing, but they're such a pain, putting them in and taking them out constantly. I've been considering getting my irises bleached. Is that a thing? I think that should be a thing."

"Ooh, now there's a fascinating idea." Tivan looked up to the ceiling and seemed to think about it for a bit. In the meantime, Cletus put the lens back in place. "You know, I'm not entirely certain that is a procedure. I mean it sounds doable, but I'm not a doctor." Shrugging, the host moved on. "Were there any influences from past tributes in your design? There have been some fans who've taken to calling you 'Diet Drax.'"

"Oh, really? Interesting." Cletus ran a claw along his chin for a moment, pondering things. "Yeah, I can see why they'd say that. But come on guys, let's be real." He shot a teasing, reprimanding look at the audience. "Diet Drax? Really? If anything, I'm Turbo Drax! Or Super Drax. Or Drax EXTREME!" The child laughed along with the audience at his own joke, before dropping his voice an octave or two. "Muh-muh-muh-Maximum Overdrax!" After a further moment laughing, his face suddenly turned serious again. "But seriously though, I've been aiming to be new, improved, and totally original! I've already thought of a name for myself anyways."

"Oh?" Tivan cocked his fluffy white head, interested. "Do tell, sonny."

"I've been toying with the name Carnage. Whaddya think, everybody?" Cletus put a hand to one ear, and the applause that bombarded him gave his answer. "Welp, looks like I'm keeping it, Tivvy!"

Tivan leaned in close for a moment, a conspiratorial smile on his face. "Oh, well somebody's trying to play up his combat ranking, eh?"

Carnage shrugged, then leaned back in his chair, positively lounging now. "Well, wouldn't you as well, Tivvy? I says I was born for these Games, the Gamemakers agree, and I'm not gonna go easy on my fellow tributes just because I'm such a nice guy. When those podiums drop I want everyone to know exactly what I'll be dishing."

Tivan looked genuinely puzzled for a moment, before asking a question not on his docket. "But wouldn't you be worried about painting a target on your back for the other tributes?"

"You know, I've considered that possibility, Tivvy, and I've come to the following conclusion:" He leaned in, the grin turning vicious. "_No_."

A low round of "ooooohs" swept through the audience, just as Tivan stood up to shake Cletus's hand again. "Well, folks, let's hear it again for Cletus 'Carnage' Kassady!"

There were a moment of applause, but then Cletus held out a hand, as if saying "stop." The crowd quieted down, confused.

"Actually, if we have a little more time, I'd like to give a bit of a shout-out suggestion to our dear, powerful Prezzy-T?" The boy looked over at Tivan with pleading eyes.

"Th- The President?" Tivan looked down at him, trying to gauge his intentions. Then, for reasons he wasn't quite able to understand, he nodded his head.

"Thankya Kindly, Tivy!" Cletus looked at one of the few cameras he could actually see., then pointed at it. "Can we get a feed going from this one? Please and thank you." The boy looked deep into the lens and began speaking. "Good evenin', President! Glad I could be help to entertain you! Now we all know that this is the twenty-fourth Avenger Games, and that makes next year the big two five! Now I don't know if you were already considering it, but how about next year we spice things up a bit? There are only so many ways for mere teenagers to kill each other, of course."

He paused for drama before carrying on.

"Why not up the ante a little, eh? I say, next year, we _modify_ the contestants. Pump of the violence! I've seen the beautiful work the Gamemakers have done with mutts in the past, why not improve on the reaped next year for a great-big bloody bonanza? Have tributes breathing smoke, belching brimstone, launching lightning bolts from their eyes and acid from their bloodstreams! Give them scaly skin, or bladed tails, or snapping jaws like vicegrips! Make 'em loud, make 'em vicious, make them BLOODY! And above all: Don't leave anyone in doubt of just. Who. Pays. Their. Bills. My argument is not one of 'why.' It's an inquiry: 'Why not?'"

Cletus let his speech hang in the air for a few moments. A few silent moments. Then he turned and left the stage, chuckling impishly under his breath as the crowd confusedly clapped out of habit more than anything.

As Carnage walked past the other tributes back to his seat he wordlessly read their faces. Some looked annoyed at him. A few rolled their eyes. The smart ones just plain looked disturbed. Chief among these was Ororo, who Cletus wasted no time in throwing to the wolves. He shot a massive grin at her as he dropped down into his seat. "Welp, good luck following that, Orororororororororor."

The small girl stood in her black dress, keeping her eyes away from the red-skinned manic as she made her way to the front stage. Then the boy's eyes drifted back to the girl's partner, T'Challa. The two simply glared at each other for a moment or to. "Problem?" Cletus offered.

T'Challa took a deep breath before replying. "It is…Just…Must you _really?_" He shook his head at Cletus. "Of all of us here, she deserves such treatment the least."

The red boy mulled this over for a minute before looking at T'Challa in confusion. "Rororor?"

T'Challa kept staring down at the smaller boy, unsure what to make of that one word. Then he sighed and looked back at the stage, irritation written all over his face. At the moment, Tivan was just asking her first question.

He had dolled up his face with some imaginary sympathy before he started speaking again. "Now, Ororo, I've a question that I'm certain all the folks at home are asking themselves. You are just a wonderful girl, that said you're the youngest in the field. You have little to no survival experience, you're half blind, and clocking in at only a three you have the lowest combat rating of the year. What's your strategy going to be?"

There was a moment of silence just about everywhere but among the tributes.

"Ouch."

"Blunt much?"

"What the fuck?"

As for T'Challa, he just let out a flat "What?" as Cletus giggled to himself maniacally.

Ororo, on the other hand, was just as silent as the audience. For a moment or so, at least. "My strategy is not to spout it off for all my competitors to hear, I'm afraid. Apologies to the viewers. I can say, however, that there's more to me than meets the eye, Tanaleer. So it's a good thing you have two." At this the audience let out a low "Ooooooh." "And besides, I do have T'Challa."

Backstage, Cletus giggled. "Isn't that right, Cha-Cha?" She shot a sideways glance at the dark-skinned boy. "Little mister noble dark protector, guarding the weak and frail little treat, eh?" T'Challa kept his eyes forward, only allowing the barest trace of a wry smile touch his mouth. "Somethin' funny, Puma?"

T'Challa just shrugged. "It is nothing, Cletus. Just thinking back to the words of an old friend."

"Heh." Carnage spat at this. "Like you had any friends, mister prince."

T'Challa's smile vanished as he folded his arms. His eyes never left the television. "I know it is a foreign concept to you, Cletus. But I assure you, some people do indeed have friends. Not all of us crawled out of the pits you undoubtedly call home."

The red boy mimed an arrow piercing his heart. "Oh, foul play! I be-ith slain before the Games could-st begun!"

"Whatever." T'Challa rolled his eyes as he stood up, walking past Ororo as she came back from her interview. The light played wonderfully on his black suit as he took his place on the stage. The crowd's applause died down as he sat across from Tivan, awaiting the first question.

Tivan steepled his fingers before talking. "So, T'Challa. You can bet it caused quite the commotion when the viewers found out that you were none other than the son of you District mayor! What are your thoughts on being reaped?"

"Well, sir, I guess you could say that this time the odds were not in my favour." T'Challa replied with a shrug. "It simply displays how the games exempt no-one. What else is there to say, really? I am here now, performing my duty to the Capitol as is my responsibility."

Tivan nodded. "Yes, you are. Such a dutiful young lad, can we hear it for him, folks?" The crowd went up in a round of polite applause. "Now, you've actually been garnering a lot of support from the rest of the community. In fact there are a fair few betting on you actually becoming the victor, were you aware of that?"

T'Challa tilted his head to one side, interested. "As a matter of fact, I was not." He then looked out to the audience. "I sincerely thank you for this support. However I feel the need to tell you that the result of this year's Games have already been written."

Tivan clasped his hands together, surprised at this. "Oh?"

"Indeed." T'Challa spoke plainly. To him this was a simple statement of fact. "This year's victor will be of District Eleven. I promise this." A portion of the audience cheered. Whether they believed these claims or not, Cletus could not tell, but it seemed to go down a treat.

"Well my boy, you seem quite confident." Tivan finally said after the ruckus died down. "I like your spirit, stating so…_calmly,_ that you're going to be walking out of the Games unscathed. I mean, we hear this from so many tributes each year, but you really seem to believe it, T'Challa. I can see you carrying not just yourself through these Games, but your district partner as well!"

T'Challa smiled for a moment, the wryness of his grin almost palpable. "The fact that you believe I will be carrying anything only underlines how badly everyone underestimates the poor girl." He shook his head. "I have seen how strong she is, but however long you will have to wait to witness this is all up to her, I suppose."

"Oh now that is intriguing." Tivan put a hand up to his chin. "I think everybody's gonna be paying close attention to District Eleven this year, folks. Let's hear it once more for T'Challa!"

As the audience applauded and T'Challa left the stage, Cletus couldn't help but grin. There was pretty much nobody to stop him from emerging in these Games victorious. True, some of the tributes seemed like they'd pose more of a challenge, but hey. Different strokes for different folks. Like a throat slashing for Clint. Or a heart piercing for Ms Potts. Mystique in particular was actually quite annoying for him. Once she'd outlived her usefulness, he'd take great pleasure in gutting the still-breathing girl. But regardless, each tribute presented their own little unique challenges.

"Twenty three."

Take Miss Kate Bishop, for instance. A relatively normal girl. Black hair, slim build, and enough false confidence that it'd even let Ororo think she stood a chance at surviving. Ultimately, no problem for Cletus to dispatch – well, as soon as you got around the bow. Because if she got her hands on a fucking bow, she'd make his life miserable if he tried anything other than a stealth kill. Stealth kills _were_ nice and all. Low risk, for one. But where's the fun in that? Where's the fun in a kill without allowing your prey to squirm first? Where's the joy to be found in that? But, alas, a meal is a meal.

"So tell me, Miss Bishop." Tivan had already started with his inane little inquiries. You're actually one of two tributes operating with the name 'Hawkeye' this year. There any particular story behind that?"

Kate's cocksure grin didn't even falter, although that spark in her eye flared up. "You know, I wish I could tell ya that there was some big tale about that little quirk. That we're great rivals, or that Mister Barton stole my idea, but, eh, there's really not much to tell." She simply shrugged. "Turns out that Clint's stylist and mine just think alike, I guess."

"I see, I see. Well that's a pity, could have been quite the rivalry!" Tivan sighed. "Oh, but it is what it is."

"Oh, you can rest assured, sir." Kate winked out at the audience. "He may not know it yet, but I've got plans of my own. We're gonna see who deserves the name soon enough."

"Ah, now that's interesting Miss Bishop!" Tivan rubbed his hands together. "And in your opinion, which of you is the greater hawkeye?"

"Hah, do you really have to ask?" Kate shot a look at the audience. The kind of look that says "I'm not even going to justify that with a response." And they cheered her on for her confidence.

Cletus' attention span was finally starting to dwindle. Tivan had really started to reach the end of his material by now, it was showing. Of course he would be, it wasn't like any of them usually expected anything out of the normally rather mundane lower districts. It just so happened that this year represented the perfect storm of political intrigue and inter-district tribute drama. What with the kid's mayor, Cletus himself of course, then there was Loki.

Yes. _Loki_.

What _was_ it about Loki?

Carnage's mind finally rose from its musings as Loki rose from his seat at the very end of the line. The last tribute. The last tribute, yet somehow raised in District Four? The _hell_ was up with that? Bah, it would do no good to dwell on such questions now. Tivan was about to pry the answers from him, anyways. Loki took a seat, dark green robe bearing a stark contrast to his pale complexion. Tivan simply bridged his fingers as he began. "So. Loki. Odinson. What a baffling quandary you represent, eh?"

The District Four boy just shrugged. "It's not that complex at all, really. Apparently, I was born in District Twelve before being adopted. The fact that I was reaped this year is merely a case of terrible luck."

The host just nodded. "I see, I see. You know, there are some that speculate you might be prepared to sabotage the other districts to help secure a victory for District Four. Do you have any thoughts on this?"

At this, Loki's expression turned as cold as ice. "Tivan. I am a son of Odin, the first victor. I will do everything in my power to live up to his name myself. Even if it is for a different district." A short huff followed. "I trust those who 'speculated' will be satisfied with that."

"And what of your brother?" Tivan leaned forward in his seat. "What do you think would happen, should you and Thor end up pitted against one another?"

There was silence to this. Cletus could practically taste the tension in the air, feel the chill rolling off the stage. Loki's rage wasn't like Bruce's, with its raging heat and roiling boil barely being held inches beneath the surface. Loki's fury was cool. Collected. Focused, like a knife's edge. The ebony-haired boy actually managed a smile that didn't quite reach his livid eyes. He leaned forward in his chair, ever so slightly. "I know that Thor is a skilled warrior. And I hope it doesn't come down to just us two. But if it should, I know what will need to happen. I hope he does too. It's a simple as that."

And with that, Loki leaned back, leaving the crowd silent. There were a few more, much more boring questions after this, and Cletus' attention drifted ever so far away. To thoughts of glory. To thoughts of beautiful, bloody feasts. To thoughts of twenty-three lives waiting to be extinguished.

Some would fight. Some would run. Some would hide. _All_ would die. He grinned at the thought.

_Oh yes. _Cletus Kasady was the happiest kid on the face of the goddamned planet.


	35. Chapter 34: Checkmate

**(A/N) Apologies that this is coming a bit late, only realised last night that the chapter had disappeared from the collab's DocX inbox, but Taila was good enough to resend it, so now we can return to Tony, as the tributes recover from the interviews!**

**Big thanks to ComicBookGuy and VengefulVixens for all their reviews – it'd take me ****_way _****too long to address every point you guys have raised, but feel free to PM me if you have any specific questions! Glad you're enjoying the fic though, as we get within touching distance of the Games!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four – ****Checkmate**

**Night After Interviews**

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by Taila-Tai**

* * *

"_There is a difference between giving up and knowing when you've had enough."_

– Unknown

* * *

_Hell; a place regarded in various religions as a spiritual realm of eternal suffering and evil, the place where the sinners and ne'er-do-wells ended up._

_Also known as the Capitol._

At that thought, Tony shook his head, watching the lights outside the window move and blur. He had a feeling that the arena would be more like hell, his own personal level of it too. He shuddered to think what this year was going to bring, and his sleep addled mind wandered back to the previous years.

Now, two years ago, had literally been hell, if he remembered correctly. Well, there had been fire, if that counted for anything, and a lot of screaming that had managed to keep him awake at night, but sadly no brimstone. So maybe it hadn't _literally_ been hell, just a half way trip?

Sighing loudly, Tony leant against the glass before him, watching his breath cloud against the surface. In all honesty the only things plaguing his mind at the moment was boredom and he had emerged from his cave – bedroom, whatever – in hopes that he would find something to cure it. So far nothing had managed to hold his attention for more than a minute besides his own mind, and while that was always entertaining he was rapidly losing faith.

_At least you won't run out of entertainment in the arena,_ he thought sullenly, lifting an arm and leaning against the glass plane. _It would be hard to find boredom while hiding from death._

"And you thought you'd been in trouble before huh?" he muttered to himself, blinking hard in a weak attempt to push away sleep. He was still waiting for the fact to really hit him. For his brain to catch up and realize that he couldn't go home, that he'd never see his father curse while tripping over another wayward invention.

The only thing he could do now was die while hundreds of thousands watch, salivating at the mouth.

"Millions," he corrected himself softly, dropping his arm and swaying slightly on his feet.

"You haven't kicked the habit of talking to yourself I see."

Tony blinked at his reflection, vaguely noticing the green blur behind him before he looked past the glass to the city below. "And you haven't kicked the habit of sneaking up on people either, it would seem," he countered.

Soft footsteps approached and he smiled weakly over at his fellow tribute, studying the sleep mussed hair sitting on her shoulders. "You should learn to pay attention to your surroundings," she murmured, apparently scolding him as she glared out the window.

Despite himself and the situation, Tony chuckled. "Ah, well I will in the arena, but here? I'm not exactly worried about a red headed beauty sneaking up on me and stabbing me with a hairpin," he confessed, cocking a dark brow over at the frowning teenager.

Pepper narrowed bright eyes. "You're lucky I left my hairpin in my room or you _would_ have something to worry about," she folded her hands in front of her gracefully, eyes unblinking as she stared down at the bright lights and blurred buildings. "But I see your point."

After the short and sweet banter, the pair seemed to fall into silence, each wistfully watching the world beyond their prison. The Capitol was still wide awake, apparently unable to sleep with the event of the season only one day away, with people bustling on the streets and families laughing in the street lights. It was sadistic; the glee and wonder on their faces as they hopped over cracks in the white pavement or laughed over at a friend or lover. To them, the event that was coming was something to look forward to, a happening that would be spoken about until it's time to come again.

They practically drooled as they thought about the bloodshed and the misery. It sickened Tony to the point that his stomach settled oddly and his mind became fearful.

"You use to always call me this, and I can't believe it's my turn to say it," he suddenly spoke, brow drawn together. "You're an idiot, Pepper Potts."

He heard a small intake of breath, but didn't have to turn to feel the glare settling into the side of his head. "Excuse me?"

Tony drew himself up, and despite his short statue managed to tower over the girl before him. "You _volunteered_, remember? Now, I don't know what compelled you to kill every brain cell you own, or to enter a game you have no chance at winning and I'm beginning to fear said answer but out of all the stupid things you've done, this? This tops the list."

He shook his head somewhat violently, facing the window again. "The stupidity of others often baffles me but your stupidity keeps me up at night."

Pepper weakly hit his arm, the contact stinging briefly. "I'm the idiot? How many times over the years did I get you out of a mess? How many times did you fall back on me? You have no right to question my motives or to be _concerned_ about them." Crossing her arms, she huffed, continuing to stare imploringly at the side of his head.

"I have every right..." he whispered, looking down at his feet with a slight frown. "When we were little I used to follow you around like a lost puppy, always looking to you for everything and doing anything you wanted. Now, I need you to do something for me," he said softly, turning to face her with a weak smile.

"You think that—"

"Don't die, Pep. _Please_," Tony sighed, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly before moving away from the window.

Pepper didn't seem to have an answer, her mouth moving without sound as she stared at the genius. Realizing that neither had anything to say, Tony cracked a smile. "Night, Pepperoni," he said fondly, touching her shoulder before walking away, heading in a faintly crooked line towards his bedroom.

Her voice reached him just as he touched the door handle. "If I live... you die."

Freezing in place, Tony threw a smile over his shoulder. "Funny how it works isn't it? Sleep well; try not to dream of me _too_ much."

"I haven't dreamt of you in a while, thank you."

"Ah, but you have dreamt about me?" he said with a small wink, shutting the door behind him quietly. Their escort and stylist were already asleep, ready for the last day before it began, but it seemed the tributes were up and about.

Well, District Four was up and about anyway; most of the other tributes were probably knackered from the interviews, much like he was. Hell, his cheeks still hurt from all the damned smiling he'd had to force out.

The door next to his clicked and he nodded to himself, knowing Pepper was back in her room safely. He wasn't going to sleep, that much was obvious by the disgust he felt towards the inviting bed across the room, but he didn't need his partner knowing that. Maybe the cafeteria was open, or the communal living area.

Sighing, he pushed himself off the door, carefully opening it without sound as he wandered across the large open space to the elevator. He didn't think they'd close the communal area seeing as no one seemed to sleep around here, but he was hoping it wasn't crowded. He was used to throngs of people yes, but that didn't meant he liked them.

His breathing was deep and calm as the elevator announced his arrival with an obnoxious noise, his head shooting up as the doors opened. The room was dead, it would seem, a few quiet tributes hovering around the corners of the room or gingerly sitting on the edges of couches and chairs.

Tony repressed a light sigh as he moved forward with firm footsteps, his eyes – for an unknown reason – seeking out company. He recognized some of the tributes, the curly headed boy with the glasses was from Six if his mind was correct and the green eyed boy playing with the chess board was from Twelve. He'd met them both, though unofficially, and roughly got along with them, enough so to last in their company for an hour or two.

Shaking his head, he slowly moved over to the chess board and without question moved a piece. "Checkmate."

Green eyes shot up, the glare in them worn out. "Ah, the genius," the boy greeted, shifting in his chair and sitting up. "I was playing with myself, so despite that move I still win."

Tony shrugged, mentally preening at being called a genius by the somewhat stone-hearted child. "But, since you're playing against yourself, you also lose," he reminded him, shrugging as he dropped himself into the chair on the other side of the board.

"Correct. Since when did you become a philosophical being, Stark?"

Snorting, Tony rolled his eyes. "Well snowflake–"

"Loki."

"–Gesundheit. I am many things but it wouldn't take more than a mediocre mind to find that little snag in your logic." Tony was preening again, the emotional conversation with his old friend clear from his mind as he waited for a reaction.

Loki – also known as snowflake or chuckles, it really depended on his mood – rolled emerald eyes, chest moving with a large breath. "Why did you have to decide to bond with me?" he asked, slim fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Cause I love you so much?" Tony offered, idly resetting the board. His lips jutted out in annoyance as he struggled to reach the pieces across the board, Loki's arm hiding the discarded glass from view. "Move, chuckles."

A small huff of laughter came from the boys. "Here I was hoping that... _chuckles_ was a thing of the past. You have a way with words it would seem," the boy grumbled quietly to himself, moving his arm absently.

"You call me Stark."

"You call me snowflake," Loki countered.

"It's only fair," Tony snorted, smiling down at the now ready board. "You up for the ultimate challenge there, Lokes? Think you can handle going up against me?"

The disbelieving look sent across the board made his smile widen. "You are the ultimate challenge? I shudder to think," the words were teasing as a slim hand shot out, moving a pawn forward with practised ease. "But I shall enjoy beating you into the ground as my brother would say."

They talked about this and that as they played, most of the time falling silent in thought as hands shot out to move pieces left and right, forward or back. Tony didn't manage to learn much from the silver tongued boy, only rehashing what he already knew; that the blond hunk from Four was his older brother and was protective over the young creature.

"Hey, chuckles?" Tony asked, trying to keep his voice natural as he moved a rook across the board.

A smooth sigh reached his ears, the rook being taken out with ease. "Yes, Stark?"

"How come you look nothing like Goldilocks?" It was hard to pose the question so it didn't sound demeaning or imposing, and in the end, he just went with the words that left his mouth, smiling gently to take out any bite. "I mean, he's fair and you're dark."

Loki blinked brilliant eyes, a small lock of raven hair falling into his face as if to remind him of their colour. He brushed the hair away impatiently. "That is a story for another time, Stark." A pale hand slowly came out. "Checkmate."

"Aw, how the hell did – Lokes where you going?"

Loki sighed again, tucking the chair back in carefully. "I'm tired, Stark; I suppose I shall see you tomorrow and if I do not, I wish you all the best in the arena. I loath to think what things may befall you."

Tony stood out of politeness, reaching out a hand. "You too, Loki, just...if that..._pack_ of yours starts hunting me, you wouldn't mind leading them astray would you?" he teased effortlessly as a much smaller, almost birdlike hand entered his own, hesitantly shaking. "If...something does happen..." Tony was shifting awkwardly, mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right words.

"If something was to happen you hope it is fast and painless?" The tight smile the boy sent him was reflected in his own features. "I hope the same for you, you are not half bad. Although annoying."

"Hey, ouch, chuckles, that hurt. Low blow."

"Goodnight Tony." The farewell was thrown over a thin shoulder as they boy sauntered from the room, leaving it slightly warmer, although for Tony, slightly less full.

Once again, a long sigh was drawn from the teen's mouth. "Night, chuckles," Tony muttered, resetting the board to pass the time. The boy had won in a matter of minutes, effortlessly taking out most of the fogged glass that Tony had on his side while rarely losing one of his clear pieces during the match. "Gold star for effort," Tony decided, carefully setting the pieces down with a forlorn look.

He wasn't really in the mood to be alone, but Tony understood the younger boy's desperation to get away, seeing as the conversation he'd had with him was probably his social limit for the day. It was just that being alone meant being left with his thoughts and being left with his thoughts wasn't exactly plan A in the world he was in right now.

Plan A included the words: get, the, hell, and out.

Of course, that mission was a failure, and considering that he only had one day to go through with it he declared it a lost cause.

Swallowing thickly, Tony looked down to his hand and the glass piece resting in it. The King. The one person the rest of the board looked too, the one person the whole game revolved around.

_Thanos._

Popping the piece back onto the board, his fingers hovered for a few seconds before he scooped up another piece; the Queen. It was a powerful player, holding most of the board under a watchful eye and stepping in when it had to.

_The Gamemaker._

The Bishop was next, and Tony pondered over that one for a while, brain working at a thousand miles an hour. He couldn't name the piece like he did the others. It wasn't cannon fodder or a mindless follower like the pawns, but it wasn't an important piece like the royals either.

Perhaps...the citizens of the Capitol?

_No, wrong,_ he shook his head, picking up a pawn with the other hand. The citizens were the pawns, and the bishops were the other higher-ups - the previous winners, the sponsors, the escorts. They're important, just not important enough.

With that last thought lingering, he dropped the piece, suddenly feeling hopelessly exhausted. Each piece had a place, and each piece had a story. So where was he? There was no player representing him left standing on the board when the game was over, the match won.

There was no tribute piece either, nothing to signal that he was present at all.

Cocking his head, a finger tapped the squares they walked over. Perhaps that was him then, the board, the checkered squares the pieces marched over.

"Looking for a partner?"

_Well aren't you mister social tonight?_ The thought was somewhat bitter as Tony raised his head, eyes locking with blue. Absently his mind kicked back into gear, struggling to name the boy and district that stood before him.

"Steve?"

When the boy nodded once, he knew he was correct, mind filling in more information as the now named teen pulled out a chair, sitting down gingerly. "You're Tony right? I saw your interview," the blond admitted, smiling weakly as he settled in.

"Yeah, that's me, and please, _everyone_ saw my interview." Tony's words were cocky but the tone they were delivered in fell flat, leaving him frowning down at the board. "Can I help you, on this oh-so-fine night?"

Steve blinked owlishly, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "I guess? I mean, I was just looking for something to take my mind off...Well some company," he explained with another tentative smile, this one echoed by the clearing of his throat.

Tony nudged the board forward slightly, signalling that Steve should make a move. "Well, show me what you got."

"This is chess..."

Snorting, Tony leant back in his seat. "Thank you, Captain Obvious!"

Steve shot him a slightly annoyed look, but the smile tugging on his lips disclaimed it. "I was just pointing it out," he argued before fiddling with his fingers. "I think I've played it a few times, I don't know if I remember all the rules though..." Having admitted to the small fault, he moved a clear piece, cocking his head before nodding. "Your move."

"Do I have to say Captain Obvious again?" Tony asked teasingly, pursing his lips as he studied the board. The blond teen before him blushed slightly, the colour moving up his neck as Tony fiddled with a few pieces on his side of the board. Having moved, he gestured once again at the boy. "So Cap, what've you been up too?"

Steve was blinking dumbly at him before he shrugged slowly, unsure if he was meant too. "Uh, training? And I guess today was busy with prepping for the interviews and the like."

Tony rolled his eyes, unable to stop the action. "Man, you're a talkative one," he sighed, watching the blond hover over the board uncertainly. Deciding to distract his opponent – not that he'd need the advantage to win – Tony spoke up again. "Anyone back home?"

_Mission success._

Steve's shoulders had stiffened, the muscle becoming tense as he hunched over the table. "Uh..." Finally the boy coughed into his hand, looking slightly put out. "You could say that?"

"Who?"

Steve sighed loudly, pushing a pawn forward with one finger and a look of defeat. "Just some friends, my mum...What about you?"

Running his tongue over his teeth, Tony forced a shrug. "No friends, just my dad," he commented vaguely, frowning at the board and moving a piece. "I mean, I had friends and all, but the most important one kind of..."

"Came here with you?" Steve blanched at the heated glare he received, holding up one hand in surrender. "I – just, you kept looking at her in training and she kept sneaking glances...I just assumed there was something."

Tony seemed to age in a second, his normally set shoulder sinking and his face crumpling. "There's nothing there Cap, might has well forget about it," he suggested strongly, sending him a small look as the blond took his turn. "Me and Pepper go way back, practically siblings, but about a year ago, we just..."

Tony shrugged again.

"I guess you don't want to talk about it..."

Once again, they talked about nothing, commenting on the stupidest of things as they played. Tony learnt about some kid named Bucky, the boy Steve had volunteered for – practically everyone was volunteering this year, was he the _only_ one who didn't want to be there? – and another girl named Peggy. Of course, with the way he was explaining said girl, it sounded like he was trapped by love's embrace and Tony had to repress a snigger when he got the dreamy look in his baby blues.

"We should probably call it a night," Steve admitted, frowning at the mess they called a chess board. Pieces were strewn every which way, half off and half on while most either toppled constantly or stubbornly stayed upright. "We're getting nowhere..."

Tony had to agree, one eyebrow raised as he stared down the board. "I thought you didn't know how to play, Cap?"

"I don't," Steve said with a small smile, once again drawn back to the board. His brow furrowed as his hesitantly reached out, moving a piece with shaky fingers. "Checkmate?"

Tony was back to reality within a heartbeat. "What? No, you've got to be _shitting_ me," After staring and studying the board intently, looking at every piece and every possible outcome, Tony realised something. "You're _not_ shitting me."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey, at least now we can call it a night, and go to sleep," he offered as condolence, wincing when Tony let out a particularly loud groan.

"I am _so_ off my game tonight," the genius muttered, quickly cleaning up the board with skilled fingers. "Well done there Cap, I guess I'll see you later," the smile was wide as he looked up and bid the boy goodnight but as soon as he looked back down the grin was gone, replaced by a frown.

Sometime during their game the curly headed boy had disappeared and now with Steve disappearing through the elevator doors, Tony was alone, left to wallow in two defeats. And wallow he did.

"Stupid chess board and stupid blond boys..." His grumbling was unheard, and only the chess pieces before him seemed to understand the pain of his loss, allowing him the silence he needed to grieve his pride. Once the board was tidy, his fingers skimmed over the last piece out of place.

_The King._

Picking it up, brown eyes studied it intently, looking for chips or flaws in the fogged glass but of course, finding none. Snorting, Tony turned to head towards the elevator, purposefully dropping the piece and smiling when he heard it shatter upon contact.

"Checkmate."


	36. Chapter 35: Unveiled

**(A/N) Hey all – it's our last night in the Capitol, and tomorrow (literally tomorrow – Sunday the 28****th**** of June) you'll all get your first glimpse of the arena! Until then, we return to Benedetta Gaetani, and XxHerefor NowxX. **

**Thanks to sailorraven34 and GeekyComicBookGuy for all your reviews, and I know I say it a lot, but hearing your thoughts really makes all of our work worthwhile – it's great to know that people are enjoying are work. While there's too much there for me to address directly, if you have any specific questions that you'd like answered, don't be afraid to send a PM my way, and I'll see if I can clear things up for you!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five – Unveiled**

**Last Night in the Capitol**

**Benedetta Gaetani of District Seven**

**Written by XxHerefor NowxX**

* * *

"_There is a face beneath this mask, but it isn't me. I'm no more that face than I am the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath that." _

― Steve Moore, _V for Vendetta_

* * *

Benedetta glanced down when the piece of bread she'd been dipping into her bowl met resistance. The cheese sauce, or fondue, as Moira had kindly pointed out after bringing her some, had thickened up in places, and hardened completely in others, without a constant source of heat. Placing it on her bedside night stand she left it there and made her way to the bathroom. Only after hearing the subtle but sure click of the door closing behind her did Etta trust to remove her hood. There had been too many close calls throughout her week long stay here. Not that it mattered much now after her 'great' unveiling on the stage earlier that day.

* * *

_Benedetta made her way from her seat after the stage hand gave her the okay to mount the stage. She hardly noticed as the boy from Six – Bruce, she vaguely remembered from watching the scoring – returned to his seat._

_"And now, I'd like to introduce the one and only, Benedetta Gaetani!" Taneleer Tivan announced._

_She took a moment to smooth non-existent wrinkles, tugged slightly at the sheer material that started at her thighs, and adjusted her mother's veil; taking one last breath and then she was out._

_The surrounding crowd' s cheer was deafening as Etta walked onto the stage. As she neared Taneleer, he stood, taking one of her hands in his._

_"Might I tell you this dress is marvellous, if not a bit risqué? Nevertheless, it's a wonderful design."_

_And it was, Etta had to admit, if not particularly her tastes. She'd more or less told her stylist with her reaction – or lack thereof. But as Ms Green said, she had to find a way to spark interest in potential sponsors. And while that was a load of crap – Etta heard her speaking to one of the prep members on how she wasn't expecting someone "so young" not that long after- it didn't change the fact that she was right. If the few catcalls she heard mixed in with the roar of the audience was anything to go by, she was on the right path._

_"Well I have D– Squirrel Girl and her wonderful prep team to thank for." She caught herself when mentioning the professional name of Ms Green wished to be known as._

_"And a lovely accent to match! Let's give it up for Squirrel Girl!"_

_Out in the front row, a spot light shined down briefly onto the woman. She waved her furry paw and gave an ear splitting smile, showing off her altered teeth._

_The focus shifted back onstage and Taneleer proceeded on with the interview. Etta answered each question carefully, if a little vaguely, taking the time to choose her words, especially when it came to her veil. Taneleer took notice of this fact also, even going so far as to bring up the nickname the other tributes had created. All in all, everything was going rather smoothly._

_"Wink, may I call you that?" Etta simply shrugged her shoulders as response. Here it comes, she thought to herself._

_"I've heard that you've gone by that title back home, before…well, bfore your father's tragic death. You have my condolences on that, my girl," said Taneleer managing to just slip in the last bit. A collective gasp and aww's could be heard out in the audience._

_And now you reveal yourself. Etta closed her eyes for a moment. As soon as her father's filthy little habits had begun to become more pronounced, all ties were cut; the Gaetani name was swept under the figurative rug and they were left to their own devices. She wasn't surprised they would bring up his passing; if anything she thought it would be the starting point. Taneleer's condolences, genuine or otherwise, would fall upon death ears and those who wished to hear it. Instead of answering, she began gearing up for the rest of his question._

_"Might I ask who sent you off? And if there is anyone you wish to make it back to?" One intake of breath, one exhale._

_"For your first question, an old family friend I hadn't seen in a while came to say goodbye. It was our...moment of reconciliation." She wouldn't say anymore. She wasn't particularly on good terms with Johnny, but she wouldn't bring up his name to whoever he was lying low from. Sensing this, Taneleer moved on._

_"And who are you trying to make it back for? Is it this friend you mentioned before?" She really didn't want to talk about this now, in front of the entire nation. But this quite possibly might be her last chance, and what better time than now? Etta was almost positive that she was watching._

_"I'm trying to make it back to my mother." Benedetta's surroundings disappeared as she focused her gaze on a single camera, imagining that she was having a one on one with her mother._

_"Corazon, I don't know the reason why you left the way you did. I don't know why you didn't think to take me with you, or why you just couldn't stay." She bit her tongue to keep from rambling off the should-haves, or could-haves. She didn't have the time and they wouldn't change anything._

_"In the past two years...even longer than that...I've had to change, endure through terrible things. The one thing that helped me through it all was meeting you. Was gonna come see you after the Reaping," she said with a sad smile, before wiping a tear that escaped, and then she went on._

_"I won't lie, I was and I am still angry at you. But it doesn't change the fact that I miss you." The tears had gotten into her voice. She had to make this quick._

_"I know I don't have the best odds, I'll be lucky if I make it from the bloodbath. But I promise you this: I will do anything and everything possible make it back."_

_With her final word the buzzer went off. With it Etta became aware again. Most of the crowd appeared to be an emotional mess. Etta couldn't care less, she just wanted off of the stage. She slowly stood up, and Taneleer did also, mimicking her movements. She noticed his hand coming towards her and assumed he was attempting touch her shoulder. His hand travelled a bit farther, near the nape of her neck and onto her veil. Before she realized what was happening the damage had been done._

_The crowd and those on and behind stage all froze before either freezing in shock, giving sympathetic pleas, or chuckling. Etta ripped her veil from his hands and hurriedly returned to her seat._

_It'd taken quite a bit of coaxing from Moira, Ms Green, and the prep team, to get Benedetta up from the seat. Once they had she immediately went on autopilot, boarding the elevator in the Training Centre and immediately heading to her room. The only ones she'd let in was Moira who had brought her the fondue. And Taneleer. He'd blamed it on one of his rings, but the both of them knew he meant to do it. Why else would he come to apologize?_

_"It was for the ratings," he said. Which was just icing on the cake made of crap he'd forced upon her. It didn't change much, but it gave her a bit of satisfaction when he crumpled before her from a well-placed nut shot._

* * *

Etta realized she'd been absentmindedly running a finger over the particularly bumpy skin right under her right eye. She stopped herself before finishing undressing and stepping into the shower. A few taps on the keyboard and soon she felt the warm spray of water falling like come across continuing to rinse the rest of the soap off. When she was done she stepped out onto the mat, dried herself with a towel, and then grabbed a nearby bathrobe. A quick peek outside shown a change of clothes, her jacket, and her mother's dress being lain out on the edge of the bed by a male Inhuman. After peeking through the crack until he was gone, Benedetta came out and quickly changed as quickly as she could into her undergarments and the black sweats and a white t-shirt.

Once dressed, Etta eyed the bed. She didn't feel not even a teensy bit tired despite it being well past midnight. Staying put in the completely silent room was looking less and less desirable. Sliding into a pair of sneakers, Etta opened her bedroom door and made her way to the elevator in hopes of making it to the roof. It'd still be silent, but at least it would come with a view and fresh air.

She realized the instant she stepped out that she was not alone, that the girl from Twelve, Kate, or Beamer Bishop, as she had come to think of her, due to her constant smiling, was currently leaning against the railing, her dark hair flowing in the gentle breeze. The other girl didn't appear to feel her presence.

Rather than returning back to her room Etta made sure her hood was secure before moving to stand beside her. Beamer contained her shock better than Etta would have expected, and as expected a trade mark smile soon graced her lips. However, this one was different. It appeared to be genuine and reeked of sympathy. Etta had to keep from rolling her eyes.

"How are you doing?" Beamer asked, shifting around so that her back was facing the railing.

"I'm fine," Etta replied

"Are you sure, because-"

"I said I'm fine." There was no room left for conversation, or at least Benedetta thought so. Beamer, however, had other plans.

"That was a _complete_ dick move on Tivan's part. If I were you I would've-" Etta interrupted her once again.

"As it stands now, Taneleer won't be able to walk straight for a while. And not to be rude, but I'd rather put it behind me."

A moment of silence fell between the two as they looked out at the dark horizon that contrasted the brightly lit buildings; the only thing that could be heard were the wind chimes blowing gently in the breeze and occasional honk of a horn.

"Well for what it's worth I'm sorry, Wink." She said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine, Beamer."

Etta could see her raise an eyebrow in her peripheral vision.

"What?"

"I assumed we were addressing each other by nicknames."

"And you chose Beamer…because?"

"Because you smile. A _lot_," she said in matter-of-fact, if not a little dry, tone.

"Okay, you clearly don't like that name and...let me start from the beginning." Beside her Beamer shifted then pushed off from the railing before sticking a hand out. "I'm Kate…Kate Bishop. And you?"

Benedetta glanced at the hand for a moment before accepting it.

"Benedetta Gaetani. But...I prefer Etta."

"Well, Etta, I think it's time I went off to bed." A yawn broke out before she could catch it.

_So should I,_ she thought to herself. Even if she didn't sleep, she could at least rest her body. Who knew what fresh hell awaited her tomorrow.

Without a word both turned and headed for the elevator; the doors opened as they arrived and the red head from Six stepped off. The other two simply nodded at the other – Six to them both maybe though she wasn't sure – while Etta simply stared from beneath her hood until the doors closed.

One floor down, and Beamer was preparing to exit. Halfway out, she turned back.

"Good luck tomorrow, Etta. And don't go to the Tesseract."

As the doors shut, Etta couldn't help to reply. "Wasn't planning on it."

And then she was alone.

The rest of the ride was uneventful; she rested her head against the wall and until the 'ding' alerted her of the opening doors. Etta made her way down the hallway quickly and while passing through the dining area she saw the balcony door was open. A familiar silhouette could be seen, apparently pacing, in the faint light

She hadn't stayed in his presence for longer than was needed or mandatory after the incident that occurred right before assessments a few days ago...

* * *

_Etta had been on her way to the dining area, having finished a brief yet surprising round of practice questions with the intentions of training for the upcoming interviews with Victor and Groot and Moira; it'd gone surprisingly well and Moira believed that she'd draw the crowd with what she called her "eh-loo-sehv man-urh-isms."_

_The time spent had prolonged her plans of grabbing a quick snack before assessments started- she hadn't eaten the night before and she was sorely regretting it. With any luck she'd be able to grab a bagel with mandarin jam before boarding the elevator._

_"What's this?" Creed, her district partner's mentor's voice could be heard coming from the common room area._

_"She was your girl, huh?" Etta had just reached the entrance that connected the hall with the rooms and the common area. All thoughts of food had vanished as she peered around the corner to see what was happening._

_Creed had taken what looked like a leather bag from James and now was looking it over. James held his hand out for his mentor to return it._

_"Yeah. She was," he replied, his voice hard, "Give it back." It'd been her first time seeing him respond in such a way. Creed merely laughed._

_"You can't take it with ya anyhow. She got away with it last year on account a' her bein' in the tribe. You might get the bright idea to use this for a weapon, and we can't have that, can we?"_

_She knew what was going to happen from the way he'd been moving closer to the fireplace. The bag arched on its descent in to the fire, its impact causing tiny little embers to fly across the hearth. James had hastily tried to retrieve what he could from burning. Creed closed in on him before he could, his fist drawn back._

_She returned quickly to her room following the incident. She waited as long as she could for them to clear out before returning. Grabbing a poker she dug around in the spot the bag had landed. Most of the bag and its contents had burned away. All she managed to find were a few stones and the lone claw of a wolverine. She wrapped them all in a small towel she'd taken from her bathroom._

* * *

She had nearly forgotten about the towel and of bringing its contents to him. She quickly returned to her room and dropped to her knees to reach beneath the bed. Leaving it in the open hadn't seemed like a good idea since those damn Inhumans removed whatever she left out of place. She could only hope that they hadn't gone under there too.

Etta let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding when her hand felt the soft, plush material. Making sure not to unravel it she pulled it from beneath and grabbed onto it before exiting the room again.

When she got nearer and nearer to the balcony her pace began to slow. She hadn't really planned this out. What exactly was she supposed to say? Here you go, hope you enjoy your rocks? I'm sorry you got stuck with a psychotic asshole of a mentor?

_You suck when it thinking ahead,_ she mentally scolded herself.

"I know you're there. Come on out."

Well damn. It was now or never. Taking a breath, Etta took the last few steps until she was out on the balcony. Feeling eyes on her, she turned to see James a little further down staring up at her, back against the railing and arms crossed over his chest.

It shocked her at the distinct height difference; though the way he carried himself made it less apparent, she had clearly out grown the young man.

_Yay for puberty_, she thought to herself.

She was even more surprised to see him in nothing but a sleeveless muscle shirt and a pair of shorts. It wasn't _exactly_ warm out here; the draft seemed to be a little stronger than it was on the roof.

"You just gonna eye me up the entire time, bub?" A hint of amusement could be hear in his voice. "I know I'm quite the looker, but I doubt that's why you're here."

"Don't flatter yourself," Etta said while rolling her eyes. "Who says that I'm here for any particular reason?"

What sounded like a scoff rumbled deep in his chest.

"You don't hover unless there's a reason, or something's caught your interest."

_He's been watching you._ That thought didn't bother her as much as it should have, considering their situation.

"Well if you must know..." She extended her hand holding the towel towards him. When he didn't reach for it, she stepped forward. "Take it."

Reluctantly he took the towel. Once unravelled he simply stared, his expression unreadable. He didn't look up until she spoke once again.

"Most of the bag...it burned away. I savaged what I could. Not much as you can see."

"Thank you." Etta nodded. He didn't seem like the type to openly show his gratitude. This must have taken a lot for him to say.

"No problem. Now I owe you nothing."

A cushy eyebrow lifted in response.

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what it is I meant." Only now did she realize why she had been so compelled to retrieve the items from the fire.

"You tried to help then. I helped you gain some of what mattered to you."

He didn't appear to agree but simply nodded his head in assent. Having finished what she set out to do, she turned passing the through the doorway.

"Bub?" She looked over her shoulder to see what he wanted.

"Yeah?"

He opened his mouth before closing it.

"Don't go to the bloodbath tomorrow," he said finally.

_Really._ "I'm not an idiot," she replied, before heading back into her room.

The bed had had never looked better. Climbing under the sheets, she turned towards the wall before closing her eyes.


	37. Chapter 36: Countdown

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back now, and I'm really sorry that we missed our Sunday update. I had every intention of uploading this chapter that day, but unfortunately events led to me not being able to do so. Was not the best day I've ever had, to say the least. However, we're here now, with the launch of the Twenty-Fourth Annual Avenger Games! We may have a slight delay before the next update, but it'll be worth it, I promise!**

**Thanks to Elwaith for their review, and hope you guys are all pumped for the beginning of the Games, because I sure am! Last chance to pick your favourites, because after this, it'll be survival of the fittest. May the odds be ever in their favour. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six – Countdown**

**Launch**

**Wanda Maximoff of District Nine**

**Written by Tando**

* * *

"_May the odds be ever in your favour." – _Suzanne Collins, _Hunger Games_

* * *

Wanda watched from her window seat as the aircraft took off. She was able to tell the exact moment it lifted off the ground, for at that precise moment her stomach lifted as well. She'd never ridden in a aircraft before; she looked over at Kurt, wondering if he'd ever gotten the chance. But, seeing as they're both from District Nine...probably not.

"Do we have to stay strapped in the whole time?" Kurt asked, trying to make conversation. "I'm feeling fidgety already."

No one responded.

They were three S.W.O.R.D. aircrafts, each with eight tributes each. The 'craft was small, with a stainless steel interior and bolted windows. It looked like it was more suited to carry cargo than people.

Wanda shrugged – she had nothing against Kurt, it's just that they were so different, and it's not like she was a conversationalist to begin with. And why would Kurt want to be friends with her, anyway? He must have made some allies during meals and training, unlike her. He was friendly, out-going, likable, but then again...the other tributes weren't looking for _likable_, they were looking for someone who could survive.

The first half-hour of the 'craft ride was silent, mostly due to the noise of the take-off, but after they had made it up into the air, the jets quieted, and the eight tributes were left in the silence of the ride.

"Well, who's ready to kick some butt?!" Wade asked, his seat belt stretched out as he puffed out his chest.

The other two Careers on the plane, Clint and Thor, gave a nervous laugh. During training, Wanda had spent time observing the other tributes, so much so that she had memorized all of their names. For example, she could name everyone on this plane.

Wade, the cockiest of the Careers. He maintained a high-energy, uncontrolled persona, but he was actually highly intelligent. Combined with a heightened skill in wielding swords, he was the one to watch out for.

Clint, another Career. Sarcastic, but more withdrawn than the bombastic Wade. Good with a bow and arrow, and ranged weapons were far more dangerous than melee because they don't require an up-front confrontation.

Thor, brutish, and as hard and forceful as the hammer he wields. The tank of the Careers, but also strangely eloquent. Unusual eloquence, it must be a District Four thing.

"You're actually _excited?_" Steve asked, almost in frustration.

"Of course, give the people a show. That's what we're here for, right?" Wade folded one leg over the other, "Entertain the masses and all that jazz-"

"Would you shut your mouth?!" Anna barked from her seat.

The plane fell silent once again. Wanda leaned over to look out the window. She couldn't see anything but clouds and clear blue sky, in stark contrast to the cold industrial inside of the plane. A thick layer of clouds covered the area below – was this a method used to conceal the arena? Or was it simply a miracle of nature? It was completely clear when they had taken off, but as soon as they were high enough the world became concealed in clouds.

* * *

_"Erik Lensherr, pleasure."_

_Wanda shook hands with the past victor, still slightly in awe that he had been the one chosen to be her mentor, rather than Drax, the heavy brute who was currently making Kurt do a seemingly endless round of push-ups in the other room._

_"So, I hear that Drax thinks you unsuitable for combat, is that right?" he asked, as he sat back in his chair and folded his hands._

_She nodded, "Mhm. Apparently hurling whatever you can find at your enemy does not make for good combat strategy."_

_"But were you successful?"_

_"Eventually," she shrugged, "I got Kurt to get behind Drax and surprise him. It took a few tries, but he's very light on his feet."_

_He sat up, "And how long have you known Kurt?"_

_"Not...very long. I think I've seen him in the fields a couple of times, but we've never talked until now."_

_"And why do you think that is?"_

_Wanda swallowed, worried as to where he was going with this, "Well...judging by the clothes he arrived in, he must be from the wealthier side of the district. Maybe his parents are managers or overseers."_

_"For your examination for the ratings board, what are you going to do?" his voice was cold, and calculating, as if he was giving her a test, "You obviously couldn't perform any physical tasks, not that you'd want to, I'm sure."_

_Her examination? She hadn't even thought of that. What should she do...what was there to do?_

_"I...I honestly don't know. Maybe I'll just talk at them the whole time," she confessed._

_He sighed, "That's something we will have to work on."_

_"What makes you think I need your help?" she snapped back, glaring at her mentor._

_Not bothering to respond her question, Erik Lensherr leaned forward in his chair, "Do you know why they call me Magneto?"_

_"Because you used some sort of... some sort of magnetic device to disarm an entire Career Pack, and then proceeded to crush them with that very same device," Wanda recited, having remembered watching that old Game recording, "but I don't see how that's relevan-"_

_"What I'm saying young lady, is that you don't need brute force, or physical strength to overpower your opponents. When your body proves useless, your mind is your most powerful weapon. The Avenger Games is rather like a game of chess, you have your pawns, as indistinct and forgettable as all the rest, easily disposed of in the early game...and then you have your major players, your knights, bishops, rooks...and of course, a king and queen."_

_What was this old man going on about?_

_"I'm sorry but...what's chess?" a confused Wanda inquired._

_He stared at her, slightly dumbfounded, until his eyes opened in revelation, and he started to laugh, "Oh, my apologies, I'd forgotten these sort of things are generally unavailable to average residents. Just think of the Avenger Games as an actual game, with weak players and strong players. You can imagine that, right?"_

_She nodded her head, as he continued, "Well, I currently see you as maybe a middling piece at best. You have no physical advantages to speak of, and that will be a heavy on anyone who would form an alliance with you...if anyone ever does."_

_"What makes you think I need an alliance?!" Wanda snapped, "If they're better off without me, than that's totally fine! I don't need them!"_

_"You'll regret those words, child! If you lack physical prowess, you're going to need all the help you can get. What skills could you offer them? Anything?"_

_She stood up from her chair, her head bowed low, her expression hidden by an overcast shadow. She tilted her head up, just a little, to reveal a crooked smile. "Old man...I'm just here to die. I see no point in hiding that. I don't know what kind of stake you have in this, but keep your advice to yourself, and don't place any bets on me."_

_From out behind Wanda's shirt, her necklace containing her mother's ring slipped out to the forefront of her chest. The chain swung back and forth, the dull glint of the ring catching Erik Lensherr's attention._

_"The train has arrived," Drax announced in his disgruntled tone._

_Wanda turned around. "Thank goodness, I can't wait to get out of this dump."_

_Drax raised an eyebrow, confused. "What goodness are you thanking?"_

_"Wait, that ring!" Erik Lensherr held out his hand to stop her. "Where did you find it?"_

_She stopped in place, but without turning around, she mumbled, "It's my mother's, my district token. It was her wedding ring, I don't know much more about it."_

_She walked into the other room, where Kurt opened the door for her, and the two of them filed out, leaving Drax and Erik in the Justice Building, the latter of whom followed her every step, his face conflicted and his thoughts unfathomable._

* * *

"Hey!" a voice called out.

Wanda looked up to find Steve sitting across from her. He was one of the hardest of the tributes to pin-point – sure, he had a gentle, wholesome exterior, but could a person about to participate in the Avenger Games really be that down-to-earth? Whatever his true personality may be, his physique and strong facial build reminded her of the ideal young farmhand. As she glanced over him she realized that he was quite...attractive.

"Uhm...miss?" he repeated.

She snapped out of her daydream. "Huh?"

"I asked if you're ready."

She tried to conjure a response, shrugging her arms, "I don't know...how do you prepare for something like this?"

"Good point. I guess I figure that you make of it what you can."

"Hey Stars-and-Stripes, it's a little late to be forming an alliance, don't you think?" Clint questioned.

"I'm just being friendly. It's much easier to create camaraderie when you can't rip each other's throats out," Steve pointed out.

Wade started cracking up, his cackle echoed through the hollow metal interior. "Seriously?! Awe...man...you're hilarious, you know that?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "I don't see what's funny."

The aircraft touched down, and the hatch opened, revealing a covered ramp. The tributes unbuckled their seat belts, and made their way down the ramp, which lead into an underground facility just as cold and metallic as the airplane.

Kurt ran up to meet Wanda, as the slight patter of his feet made a soft pitter-patter on the ground, splitting off from the rest of the group from his aircraft.

"Well, I guess I'll...see you out there," Kurt interjected.

She looked down, she felt bad. Guys like Kurt and Steve were always trying to be nice to everyone, even to her. She just, didn't know how to respond.

"Yeah...thanks."

He chuckled. "Wow, you actually said something nice. I'm impressed, you've come a long way."

* * *

_Wanda and Kurt sat on opposite sides of the dining table, the both of them silent. Kurt was busy helping himself to thirds of a thick, whitish-yellow substance which he topped with an almost equally thick brown liquid. Instead of seeping through the mush like water, the brown liquid slid off the sides, and pooled at the surface of his plate. She tried to recall what Robert Kelly, their district escort, called that particular dish...mashed potatoes and gravy?_

_Whatever it was, Kurt was devouring it. They'd just gotten on the train to the Capital, and the first thing they'd seen was a long table filled to the brim with food of all different shapes, sizes, and colours. While Kurt went to work right away trying everything, Wanda took her time with her food, stopping periodically to stare out the window._

_Now that was something to marvel at. She'd missed Districts Ten through Twelve, since they were the districts they passed through first, but from what she'd heard about them, they weren't exactly worth seeing. As the train passed the boundaries of District Nine, Wanda was welcomed with wide open plains. Not the kind of plains filled with wheat to harvest, just vast, free plains. The train itself rode along on a elevated railway, which gave her a bird's eye view of the vast expanse below. Not a person in sight, nothing but patches of low grass, a few trees spotting the landscape, and small flocks of birds that spun through the air alongside the train._

_But, as the train continued on its route, the grass turned from shades of green, yellow, and amber, into a stark, muddy brown. What were they riding toward?_

_The train began to slow, and Wanda stepped back to the furthest window to reveal a massive enclave of concrete walls surrounding tall, foreboding warehouses with chimneys that towered toward the sky. Pressed into the fortress-like wall in only a slightly darker shade of grey are the words **"District Eight".**_

_District Eight? She remembered the name, she pulled her arms out of her sleeves and turned the shirt around to expose the label: **"Made in District Eight".** This was where clothes are made? But weren't clothes made by hand?_

_"Hey, try some of this cold sweet stuff! Look it's melting right on my-" Kurt stopped when he realized the position Wanda was in, "...uhm...why is your shirt backwards?"_

_She shifted her eyes in embarrassment. "...no reason."_

_She turned the shirt back around and fitted her arms back through the sleeves. Not looking Kurt in the eye, she continued eating._

_"Drax said that...that we have to work together, our district isn't exactly known for making alliances," Kurt informed, trying to make conversation._

_Wanda shrugged. "You'll do fine on your own."_

_"Th-that isn't the point. The both of us would only benefit if we stuck together-"_

_"Actually, I beg to differ," she interrupted. "I'll only slow you down, trust me. I don't get along with people."_

_She slumped down in one of the many cushioned seats along the train, and the ever-persistent Kurt sat down beside her, "Well...how do you know that, if we haven't even had a chance to talk?"_

_Wanda sighed, before she crossed her legs and folded her arms, an impatient pout on her lips. She'd come to see the wonders of the world, of the other districts. But from the bleak look of District Eight, it didn't seem like her pretty scenery was going to be coming anytime soon._

_"Fine, let's talk."_

* * *

After having said goodbye to Kurt, Wanda entered her Launch chamber to prepare. Her stylist, a woman with orange-yellowish hair by the name of Crystalalia Amaquelin, or 'Crystal' for short, was supposed to be on her way, although the room was currently empty besides herself. It was fine by Wanda, and it meant that she had a few moments to herself.

She sat down on top of a large table in the centre of the room. The fluorescent lights that hung above her gave the steel-plated room a sterile, emotionless feel. Kurt had said that she'd come a long way, and she realized he was right. She'd always been able to read people – it was part of the reason why she didn't engage with them. Whenever someone had an ulterior motive or made a white lie to avoid upsetting someone else, she knew right away. But now, around all of these different personalities from different cultures, different districts, she found them easier to comprehend, especially since they were so distinct from one another. It also helped that she was able to see most of the districts up close, and had at least basic knowledge of the rest, it explained their backgrounds, the worlds which they were coming from. And even though she had no advantage in the realm of physical prowess, the old man was right; her mind was her most powerful weapon.

* * *

_Wanda struck the dummy with her sword. No, no, this wasn't working either. She'd already tried the bow and arrow, and the larger sword, but even the smaller sword wasn't working for her either. She needed something small, something she could handle._

_She stopped to lean against the nearby wall, giving herself a full view of the training room. Kurt was browsing the numerous racks of weapons. While Wanda had gone in trying whatever she could find, he was looking for something specific, from the way he took out one weapon, examined it, and then put it back, like it wasn't the one he was looking for._

_By the sparring mats, the Careers were training with one another, showing off their physique, and generally trying to outdo the other. In addition, there was a dark haired tribute from District Twelve who was trying to nudge his way into the Career pack. Wanda frowned; he seemed to actually be doing a good job, and the Careers would be a valuable ally for anyone. But, just when all seemed to be going well, one of the Careers fired an arrow at the tribute, which just barely missed, striking him in the foot. The Careers laughed, before leaving the tribute, who was fuming in both pain and embarrassment._

_"Hey, check it out! It's just like the scythes we used at home just...you know...sharper," Kurt held up a large weaponized scythe from a nearby rack._

_She shook her head, District Nine tributes have always used scythes as their weapon-of-choice – it was what they were familiar with. But she'd never been good with a scythe, even at home, but maybe Kurt…_

_"Maybe you could try that on one of the dummies," Wanda suggested. She knew the idea was already in his head, all she had to do was encourage him._

_Hesitant, Kurt looked down at the scythe. "Well, it's a bit heavier than what I'm used to but...okay."_

_He approached the dummy, the blade of his scythe aimed at the plastic dummy. "Should I try a roundabout slash or a direct chop?"_

_"Depends on your situation. If there's a lot of enemies around you'd want to deflect them with a roundabout, but here, you're only dealing with one opponent, try something more direct."_

_"Gosh, how do you know all this stuff Wanda?" he asked._

_Kurt raised his scythe at the dummy, the blade pointed directly at its head. He hurled the weapon down, and the scythe sliced the dummy in two, right down the middle._

_"You know the old moonshine cellar out by the south fields?" She crossed her arms and walked over to the dummy to examine his work. "Behind one of the shelves is a collection of old books. I've read them all, multiple times. One of them is a book on military strategy."_

_"Illegal books? Cool…" Kurt mused. "Hey, want to give her a try?"_

_He handed over the scythe to Wanda, who dropped it right as Kurt let go. She tried picking it up again, but instead only managed to drag it on the floor a few feet. Kurt bit his lip, as he tried to hold in his laughter._

_"This...is why...I never...use a scythe!" she groaned._

_She eventually gave up, slamming the scythe onto the ground. She fell to the floor. "I give up, I'm not strong enough to hold this thing."_

_Kurt chuckled. "Hey, don't be discouraged, try again."_

_She tried again, but as her arms attempted to hoist the thick metal, she glanced around and noticed that same dark-haired District Twelve tribute was now on his own. He seemed to be aimlessly wandering the Training Room. Wanda's eyes widened, as she realized that he had no interest in the wide array of weaponry, but rather, the people who were using them. As if he noticed her gaze, he turned her way, and she instantly shot her head down._

_"Well, I'm sure we could find you something else to work with," he assured her, while he failed to notice that Wanda's attention had turned elsewhere._

_He took the scythe from her, but she made no reaction, "Wanda...something wro-"_

_She shushed him, and grabbed him by the back to turn him away from the District Twelve tribute. "He's surveying all the Tributes. I've seen him talking with the Careers, he must report to them."_

_"A tribute from District Twelve?! No way, they're ranked even lower than us!" Kurt reacted in a shouted whisper._

_Wanda's eyes darted around as she evaluated his statement. "...debatable. But nevertheless, we can't display our full abilities while he's around. So put down the weed-wacker and pick up something else, something you're not that good with."_

_Kurt gave a subtle nod, before he walked over to the weapon's rack and chose two sets of bows and arrows. He handed her one set. "I have no idea how these things work...let's give them a try!"_

_Wanda examined the bow and bag of arrows in her hand. She'd seen these weapons used before in Games footage, but never in her own district. She glanced over at the male Career with the bow and arrows. She watched how he held the bow in his hand, how he drew an arrow out of his bag which he kept strapped to his bag. It was hard to see any details from so far away, but Wanda hoped that she could use his example to seem incompetent, but not so much that the District Twelve tribute would catch onto their act._

_She drew an arrow, which connected to the string on the bow. With her hand, she pulled the arrow back, her aim set on the training dummy in front of her, and let it fly. The arrow flung off to the side, dodging the dummy completely. Its quiver and arrowhead clattered on the metal floor several times, which created a loud clanking noise. Two of the Careers turned around, the one with the bow and arrow, and the other with two katanas._

_"Ha, good going, Ms Everdeen!" the one with the katanas mocked, before the two Careers turned back to their training._

_Wanda's cheek flushed red, and she lowered her head. As much as the Career's insult didn't make sense, that didn't mean she wasn't embarrassed. She only looked up again to see Kurt, who wielded his bow in a similar fashion. He pulled back his arrow and released it. It failed to fly, and tumbled to the side aimlessly. He turned to her, and gave a goofy smile. Did he mess up on purpose, or was he following her lead? Either way, it worked, because from out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the male District Twelve tribute, who rolled his eyes before he turned around and walked off elsewhere._

_Wanda nodded to Kurt, and they immediately put their weapons away, in exchange for Kurt's scythe._

_"You sure you don't want to try anything?" he asked as he gave his signature weapons a few swings._

_She glanced around at the other stations in the training area, and spotted one titled: **"Wilderness Survival" **with an image of a dense forest superimposed on the wall behind it._

_"Actually...there might be something I want to try…" she mumbled, before she began walking toward the station._

* * *

After a couple more minutes of waiting, the automatic door to Wanda's Launch chamber zipped open. Crystal stepped in, and Wanda jumped off of the table.

"So...can I order my casket now, or do I have to leave that decision to friends and family?"

She shook his head. "Wanda, you're about to participate in a momentous tradition. You should feel honoured, or at least...optimistic."

Wanda scrunched her eyebrows. "Honoured? I'm going to get my throat slit by someone who grew up miles away from me. Someone who I hardly know, or don't know at all. It doesn't seem like much of an honour."

Crystal nodded slowly and the strange yellow full-body suit that adorned her shifted with her movements. Well...at least she doesn't have wings.

"So, for the Games, I have to follow official wardrobe protocol. But that doesn't mean you can't be fashionable," Crystal pressed a button on the table Wanda had been sitting on, which opened up to reveal a laid-out outfit on a brightly lit fluorescent surface. An autumn red cotton hoodie, grey tank top and jeans, a leather belt that matched the hoodie, and dark grey boots.

Crystal chuckled as Wanda stared down at her outfit in amazement. "Heh heh, pretty sleek, right? A much better outfit then the ones the tributes for the last couple of years ever got."

Wanda ran her hand over the fabric of the sweatshirt. "The outfits are picked for the tributes to accommodate the landscape we'll be facing, correct?"

"Yep. Last year it was all black raincoats because the terrain was a wet forest environment. Didn't you see the broadcast?"

She scoffed. "Who didn't? Everyone watches the Games, especially in District Nine. It's our only form of entertainment...our only window to the outside world."

Wanda tilted her head down, as her hand pressed up against the stainless steel wall. Crystal looked on wearily, before she walked up to her, and put her hand on her shoulder.

"The Games was a way for me to escape District Nine, to see the world and...and now all I want to do is go home."

Crystal scrunched her lips. "But hey...it was worth it, don't you think? Think of one moment, something during your experience, or maybe just a sequence of events. C'mon, there's gotta be something."

Wanda closed her eyes, smiled, and chuckled to herself. "Well...I guess I finally learned how to talk to people. Sort of."

"No kidding," Crystal commented.

She whipped around with a raised eyebrow. Crystal stepped back a bit. "I mean...no offense."

Wanda kept her annoyed expression for one second, before she let it fade, replaced with a smile. "Ha! You see? A week ago I would've been completely offended but now...now I'm just, more aware of people. More attentive. It's...hard to explain."

"So, you're saying that the Games has taught you how to take a joke? You are one weird kid, Wanda Maximoff," she grinned, and Wanda grinned back.

"Yes...I am weird. And I'm completely okay with that."

**"****Ten minute warning. Please enter your designated circle,****"** an automated voice called out.

Crystal started to throw the clothes at Wanda. "Okay, to business. Your hoodie isn't at all waterproof, so you're going to have shelter for the rain. The boots suggest rough terrain...God, I hope it's not another mountain.

Crystal pressed another button on the table and a side panel opened out of the wall which revealed a small changing room. Wanda hurried inside and closed the door.

"Well, the gear isn't heavy in terms of weather protection, so no snow, although it's enough to suggest that you'll be facing some cold nights. Examining the soles on the boots, it looks like you'll be doing more hiking than climbing. There's lots of support, but not much grip, so if you do try to climb anything, I suggest you be careful not to trip."

Wanda exited the room, now dressed in her Game attire. She handed her other clothes to Crystal, and took off the necklace that secured her mother's wedding ring.

"No...you keep that with you into the Games," she stopped her.

Wanda looked up, before she deposited the token back around her neck, and concealed it under her hoodie, "But...how will I know it'll go back to my family?"

Crystal's shoulders sunk, "Uhm...well...you don't. The Capitol has never been consistent about that...uhm...you know what? I'll give it to your mentor when you...come back, okay?"

_Erik?_ She wouldn't trust that man with a silver fork, let alone her mother's wedding ring. But...it was the best bet she had, wasn't it?

"Alright."

She turned away from her to enter her designated circle, a long tube with a platform at the bottom that she assumed would take her up to the top, when Crystal interrupted her.

"Wait! I have a surprise."

Wanda turned around to find Crystal, who was holding up the scarlet red cape she wore during the Chariot Rides. She gasped. "You kept the cape?!"

"I remember you said it was the only part of the costume you liked. And from the way you kept staring in the mirror while twirling it around...it tipped me off that you liked it more than you were willing to admit."

Wanda giggled. "Yeah...I mean, the leotard was one thing, but that M-shaped helmet? What was that supposed to be?"

"Trust me, it was Angel's idea. If I had been in charge, I would've gone with a cropped red jacket, black dress, knee-high stockings, and ankle boots. Looks more like someone from District Nine would wear and less like something clearly designed by someone from the Capitol. For Kurt...maybe a trenchcoat. Dark blue...or grey. Also, I would've kept his hair long. But you've seen how Angel can be...more flash will get more sponsors, he says," Crystal visualized.

"I don't know where you got the idea that people from District Nine wear trenchcoats or 'knee-high' stockings but...no. It's all thin cloth shirts and work pants, especially for the workers. What clothes we don't get from District Eight we make ourselves," Wanda informed.

She handed her the cape, and Wanda clipped it to her neck. "Well, while you have it. Why not give it one last twirl around? Just for the heck of it."

Wanda looked up at her with a knowing smirk, and Crystal sighed. "Fine, I'll turn away."

She turned her back to Wanda, which gave her just a little privacy. She had no mirror to see herself in, but she figured she'd take this opportunity while she could. On the balls of her feet, she held onto the cape with both hands and began to twirl around. The thin fabric of the cape followed her arms along with her as she spun in a circle aimlessly. She flitted her arms in different directions, which directed her cape in those same directions. She thrust her hands forward, which sent the cape flying in front of her and against her back.

"Five minute warning. Please enter your designated circle," the automated voice repeated, and despite having the same tone, sounded more impatient than the last.

Wanda removed the cape, and handed it back to Crystal. "...thanks for that. I know it...it was silly but-"

She was interrupted by Crystal who pulled her into a tight hug. Smothered in her arms, Wanda was unable to respond.

"No matter what you do out there Wanda...you're a good kid. Remember that."

They pulled away with the both of them smiling at each other. Wanda finally stepped into her designated circle, and the tube slid shut just as she entered. Crystal waved goodbye from outside as she clutched Wanda's cape. As the circle began to rise, Wanda slowly waved back, and a single tear fell from her cheek.

From above, the tube's top opened up, which let in a blast of sunlight. Wanda's breathing accelerated; this was it.

Her head peeked over the edge of the tube, and the first thing she saw, was a sky. Smoke was rising up into the air, partially blocking out the sun. Her next sight was of tall buildings, similar to the ones in the Capitol. But these were different. Older, made of concrete. Some were slanted to the side, others had large chunks missing, with holes that left their interior exposed. The concrete roads were just as torn up and ravaged as the buildings that stood above them. The buildings seemed to stretch on forever, tall skyscrapers divided by roads that led to infinity. Where was she?

The Tesseract, the large blue cube which held the majority of the supplies in the arena, appeared before her. Around it, all of the other tributes in similar circles – she must have been the last one to rise up. The Tesseract was surrounded by bags, some of them farther from it, others closer up. Within the Tesseract lay weapons, swords, bows and arrows, knives, and types of weapons that she didn't even know the names of. At the edge of her view, Wanda could make out the outlines of a scythe, perfect for Kurt.

_Kurt..._ She turned to him. What would he do? Would he go for the scythe, or run in the other direction? It seemed the most likely that he would run in the other direction, and get a head start on making distance between them. But then again, those bags looked tempting, even to her. What if they held valuable supplies? There had been dud bags before in previous Games, so was it worth the risk?

Over the haze of smoke in the sky, a holographic countdown began. If anyone tried to step out of their circle before the countdown ended, they would be obliterated immediately. Wanda had seen that someone in one of the Games used it as a suicide method, a good few years back. Otherwise, no one dared to move as the countdown ticked down.

**"****Ten...Nine…****"**

Wanda bit her lip as she mentally made her decision. She glanced around at her fellow tributes. Kurt looked just as nervous as she did. The District Eight boy to her left, Peter, looked scared as well. They were all part of the latter districts, expected to be slaughtered in the opening Bloodbath as tributes rushed to the Tesseract. Would Wanda be one of those tributes?

**"****Eight...Seven…****"**

On the other side of the Tesseract, the District One tribute, Wade was singing something...strange...

"NYC, the shadows at sundown! The roofs, that streak, the sky!"

Well, at least someone was happy about the situation, but what _was_ he talking about. _NYC?_

**"****Six...Five…****"**

More tears began to brim on Wanda's eyelids – Mom and Pietro were probably watching her right now. Watching her as she tried to hold in her tears. If only there was a way, someway she could send them a message.

**"****Four...Three…****"**

Wait...if they were watching her, they'd have to be watching her through cameras, right? She remembered the past Games – they always had multiple shots everywhere, and that must mean there were cameras…well, everywhere. So no matter where she was, a camera could spot her. She reached into the neck of her hoodie, and pulled out her mother's wedding ring. She raised it to the sky, as far as it would reach while on her necklace.

**"****Two...One…****"**

The first cannon rang, the shields around the tributes' circles disappeared. The Games had begun.


	38. Chapter 37: When a Plan Comes Together

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after a short delay, and while I know you're all dying to see the bloodbath, we're still not ****_quite _****there yet, as we return to our subplot with Nick Fury and Skye. There is a method to my madness regarding seeing what's going on with them, and with the rest of the Capitol in general, and it'll be interesting to see if anyone works it out before we reach the end of the fic! Anyways, we might have a slower update schedule over the next two weeks, as I'll be heading off to Florida with Deep (my girlfriend, who writes for Storm in this fic), but I'll be getting someone in to take over updates while I'm gone – you'll all get your ITEYAK fix, don't worry!**

**Big thanks to Idalove2read (thanks for calling out the Wade mistake, we fixed it since!), WhoPotterAvenge-X Kane, VengefulVixens, sailorraven34, GeekyComicBookGuy and Random Reader 17. So glad that you guys have stuck with us this long, and we're gonna pay you back tenfold with what we've got planned for the Games.**

**Enjoy!**

**\- .. - . .-.-.-**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven – When a Plan Comes Together**

**Director Nick Fury &amp; Skye**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

"_Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe."_

― Abraham Lincoln

* * *

"**Sir, your twelve o' clock is here to see you – she's looking impatient, probably best not to keep her waiting," **his intercom informed him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He promptly filed away the recent reports on one of the Tech Department's latest projects, the Ultimate Robotic Operating Network, sent on by Hiro and Tadashi Hamada, a pair of young and very gifted scientific engineers. He made a mental note to send the file on to Leopold Fitz, on Coulson's team, to have a look over – maybe that kid could make something of it, because the report may as well have been written in a different language as far as Fury was concerned.

"Send in her in, Hill," he replied, pressing down on the intercom button, and turned around in his chair in order to receive his visitor. The door opened a moment later, and Bobbi Morse, the victor of the twenty-second Avenger Games, now a mentor for District Two, walked in, a determined expression on her face.

Morse stood before him, her feet planted firmly on the ground, arms crossed behind her back, brushing against the ends of her long, blonde hair, standing at attention. "I'm here to make my report, Director," she announced, and he nodded slowly.

"Go ahead, Bobbi," he said, with a level of familiarity that he usually reserved only for a precious few. However, he regretted that a moment later, as there was a certain hint of hostility to her tone when she replied.

"I've continued to insert myself into the confidence of those victors you blacklisted at our last meeting, with some success, mainly within the context of my own district, as I've unfortunately had minimal opportunity to interact with the others, for obvious reasons. With regard to your plans for this year's tributes, I'm afraid I must-"

He held up his hand, tiredly, cutting her off. He had heard this argument countless times before, from her, from the other victors that worked for him, year after year. He understood their position - they wanted to bring the kids they were responsible for home safe. He might wish otherwise, as they certainly did, but it wasn't something he had power over - twenty-three kids _had _to die. "The Games are not up for discussion here, Morse – you're viewpoint has been corrupted by your closeness to those involved, which is why I haven't ask for your involvement in that area. Please make your report, and leave the future of the tributes to me."

Morse paused, evidently displeased with his dismissal, but swallowed her anger and continued on.

"I'm afraid Ophelia is still proving stubborn and frustratingly loyal to the current administration. When push comes to shove, I'm not sure what she's gonna do, but she won't be doing it on our side – she'll be on her own, like always. Masters, on the other hand, is a much better bet. He always tries to play both sides as long as he can, but if we look like we're gonna be the ones left standing when the smoke clears, he'll make sure to be standing there next to us."

Fury smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head. "Of course, if he thinks we're _not _going to prevail, he'll throw his lot in with the others."

The victor nodded. "It's still better than what we had a year ago. If this year's victor ends up on our side, it may be all we need to swing things in our favour. Jessica's said that Osborne has been in constant communication with Schmidt ever since the two arrived in the Capitol, and Octavius and Creed will probably throw their lots in with them, too. Other than that, though, everyone else is just waiting for the first coin to drop."

"What about your own tributes?" he asked, and Morse lips tightened for a brief second upon mentioning them. "Where do you think they'd fall?"

There was a brief pause as Morse weighed up her reply. "Clint would join us – he's a good guy, deep down, and he doesn't like seeing bad people go unpunished. Natasha, however…well, she is…headstrong. She looks out for herself, and herself only – that's how she's been trained. I don't know about her, but I think Natasha will do whatever's best for Natasha."

A moment of silence passed, and then Fury nodded slowly to himself. "Thank you, Morse. I'll take that on-board. Please continue to monitor the situation with the other victors, and ask Drew to do the same. As you know, we're moving forward with plan – Coulson should be talking to our…partners as we speak."

He frowned, deep in thought, and then gestured towards the door behind her. "Time to get moving. Back to the trenches, soldier – you're dismissed."

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."_

― Bob Marley

* * *

Somehow, after vowing never to venture down there again, after seeing the giant spiders that Fitz and Simmons had created, Skye found herself in their lab complex once more, staring at the latest batch of mutts.

"Those are some seriously ugly apes, Fitz," Skye murmured softly, not quite as disturbed as she had been when first seeing the spider mutations he had been so proud of, but still not_exactly_ at ease. "What the hell did you guys do to them?"

Fitz leant back against one of the table, and glanced over at her. "Actually, we haven't done anything to these guys, except for chipping them and giving them a bit of a wash – they smelled even worse when they first came in then they do now, which was a real achievement. Gemma thinks it might be some kind of pheromone secretion, in order to mark territory or perhaps to signal availability to mate…"

He trailed off, blushing furiously as Skye raised an eyebrow, and cleared his throat loudly. "Anyway, I just think they're doing it to spite us – they definitely are more intelligent that any of the mutts we've ever produced here. I told you about the guy who was almost strangled by one of them, didn't I?"

Skye nodded. "You said Ward saved him, right?"

Fitz and Simmons nodded, before glancing uneasily at the cage, where the pack of apes continued to stare at them, unmoving, with thinly-veiled hostility evident in their non-human eyes.

"Like Fitz said, we didn't make them here," Gemma explained, continuing on where Fitz had left off. "One of the heads of the Research Department discovered them while he and his team were on an investigation of a region just outside of District Six – found a whole colony of the things living out there, apes that had been mutated by prolonged exposure to radiation, to the point that we believe they've become very nearly sentient."

"Well, Gemma does," Fitz added, cutting in. "I'm still not willing to believe that they're anything other than really, really, really ugly-looking monkeys. Dr Strange – the guy Gemma was talking about – said that they had organised themselves into some kind of hierarchy, with their leader assuming total control over the others. Apparently he swapped the ones we have here for some of the weapons Strange's team had with them – it's all ridiculous, really. Strange probably lost the weapons and came up with all of it as a half-assed excuse – dude always seemed more than a little off to me."

"What part of Research is he in charge of?" Skye asked curiously, as she stared at the apes, wondering whether which of Fitzsimmons were correct.

"Conditioning and Rehabilitation," Simmons quickly replied, looking slightly uneasy about the topic of conversation. "But it's all pretty hush-hush, Skye – top secret, and far beyond our clearance levels. So, I am going to step out and feed our ravenous, venomous monstrosities down the block, before they decide to try and eat one another, which would be just my luck. And Fitz, for the last time, they're apes, not monkeys!"

With that, she stepped of the lab, leaving Fitz and Skye waiting awkwardly for the other to break the silence that had fallen between them, all the time being observed by the sullen group of caged apes. However, after barely a moment had passed, the door opened again and Ward stepped into the lab, and the pair sighed internally in relief.

"So, no one being strangled by your freaks today, Fitz?" Ward asked, walking over to them. "Damn shame really, was hoping for some excitement. Things have been pretty quiet ever since we got back – everyone's waiting for the Games to begin."

He strode forward, passing Fitz and Skye by, and made his way over to the cage, hunkering down and staring into its depths. One of the apes stood up and came a little closer, its lips bared back into a soundless snarl, and Skye could see Fitz twitch slightly, displaying his concern.

"Hey, check out this guy!" Ward said back to them, half-laughing, as the ape shuffled a little closer once more, coming within a few yards of Ward.

"Um…Ward, I'd move back a little," Fitz murmured, "that one there…well, he's a bit of a pain in the ass, to be honest. He thinks he's special, or something."

Ward glanced back at him and smirked. "Fitz, come on. I'm not one of your lab assistants; I think I can handle myself against some stupid monkey."

Those words had no sooner left his mouth than the ape in question darted forward, its arms reaching through the bars of the cage, far longer than Ward had anticipated, and clasped its hands around Ward's left arms, yanking him towards so that he slammed into the cage door.

"Fitz, it's got his arm," Skye yelled, as Ward grunted and struggled with the ape, while its companions hollered and whooped behind it. Fitz glanced around him, in a panic, before he noticed something out of Skye's field of vision and rushed off. Skye rushed forwards and grabbed Ward's free arm, pulling him back away from the cage, though with little success.

Fitz reappeared a moment later, with a hose nozzle in his hands, which was generally used for washing out the cages after the mutts had been sent off, the rest of the hose trailing out behind him to where it connected to the wall, and then to the water mains. Skye let go of Ward and backed away, and Ward tried to look back to see what was happening, but was jammed forward into the bars once more by his attacker.

Fitz took a deep breath, and his knuckles whitened around the lever of the hose. "Get your hands off him, you damn dirty ape!" he yelled, before pulling back the lever and sending several gallons of high-pressurised water flying towards the cage, where it slammed into the ape and knocked it onto its back, losing its grip on Ward.

Ward fell back onto the floor of the lab, and backed up quickly, pressing his back up against the table behind him. "Damn it, Fitz, you need to get those hairless monkey freaks under control."

Fitz turned off the hose, the stream of water fading to a trickle, and then drying up completely, and he turned to Ward. "I told you not to get too close, Ward. Those apes don't play around."

Ward grunted and inclined his head slightly, the arm that the ape had grabbed still held close to his chest, almost protectively, as he pulled himself up to his feet with his other arm. "Just sort them out. Sooner we get them out of here, the better." He groaned as he rotated his arm a little, grimacing as it clicked at each movement. "Anyway, what did you call me down here for – you said you had something for me?"

The smaller agent stared at him for a moment, before his eyes suddenly widened and a smile lit up on his face. "Ah, yes, I'll just be a moment!" he declared, before rushing over to a nearby table, and opening the silver briefcase that lay on top of it. He lifted out a sleek, black object with a certain degree of reverence, and held it out to Ward. "Here's the new night-night pistol."

Ward and Skye stared at him in disbelief, and Fitz's smile froze in place, uncertain as to what he had done wrong.

"You had this here all along…" Ward began, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice, "and instead of using it, you ran off to the get a hose instead?"

Without waiting for an answer, he snatched the pistol out of Fitz's hands, and weighed it critically for a moment, before shaking his head. "Sorry, Fitz. It's close, but it's just not right."

"'Cause Agent Coulson had no problems," Fitz muttered under his breath, frowning at the criticism in Ward's voice, and still rankling over the fact that he had forgotten about the gun during the ape attack.

Ward's brow furrowed, having heard Fitz's reply but deigning to ignore it. "It's an ounce too heavy," he explained, and Skye couldn't help but smile, unable to believe that he was being serious.

"An ounce? Seriously?" she asked, half-laughing, but stopped when Ward turned to her and raised an eyebrow, looking entirely serious.

"It's the difference between success, and failure. When you're on a rooftop with a fifteen-mile-an-hour wind, your target is five hundred yards away..."

"Yeah, but we do have a rifle," Fitz broke in helpfully, but faltered as Ward turned and directed his glare at him now.

"Lose the ounce," he repeated, and then left the lab, leaving the other two agents nonplussed.

"Yeah, okay. On it. 'Lose the ounce,'" he muttered, before deepening his voice into a passable imitation of Ward's. "I'm Agent Grant Ward, and I can shoot the legs off a flea from five hundred yards, as long as it's not windy."

Skye laughed, and Fitz glanced up at her, blushing slightly, but smiling all the same. Behind him, the doors opened once more as Simmons returned to the lab, evidently having finished feeding the spiders two labs down and having heard Fitz's impersonation.

"So, Ward was here?" she asked, smiling wryly. "Let me guess – the night-night pistol again?"

"Yeah, and he said it was off by an ounce."

"Of course he did," she replied, before doing her own imitation of Ward. "I'm Agent Grant Ward, and I could rupture your spleen with my left pinky...blindfolded!"

The three of them laughed, and Skye sat down on a nearby table, at ease for the first time since coming on-board Coulson's team. Maybe being an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't be so bad, after all.

* * *

Skye stepped out into the night, breathing in the fresh air – a welcome reprieve from the manufactured, recycled oxygen that they pumped through the S.H.I.E.L.D. base – and began walking, with no particular aim in mind. She passed by the Sentinels on guard at the perimeter without so much as a second glance, waving her badge as she did so, and earning a nod from Blake, who was on duty once more.

She passed through the quiet streets without incident – those out, like her, walking, barely glanced once at her, despite her lack of the typical adornments and modifications that most Capitol citizens sported. Then again, perhaps she was just letting her prejudices over the inner city blind her – plenty of people here looked normal, with only subtle modifications no stranger than a tattoo here and there, or some piercings.

However, the term 'normal' here, of course, didn't really refer to her usual experience of the word – she walked by a man with cat whiskers, orange skin with black and white stripes, and a long, thin tail trailing out behind him. Two women walked by, their skin a bright green, and their eyes snakelike and unwelcoming. Another was covered in a layer of downy feathers, and her nose had been surgically altered – elongated and strengthened – into a kind of beak.

Doing her best not to stare as each of these people passed by, Skye stepped up her pace a little, as she gradually became aware of the chill in the night. She passed by a Sentinel patrol – even here, they kept a vigilant watch on everything – and nodded to them, her hand half-reaching for her badge in case they stopped her.

However, they passed on by without incident, and she let out a breath that she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. Out in the suburbs, the Sentinels weren't quite regarded in the same way as they were here, in the heart of the Capitol – sure, they were respected and appreciated, unlike what they experienced in the districts, but there was also an undercurrent of fear.

It wasn't unknown for Sentinels to come and drag out families from their homes never to be seen again – of course, it was rare, and those people were…well, they were told that they were terrorists, plotting the downfall of the Capitol and President Thanos.

Looking at the splendour all around her, Skye couldn't help but wonder what kind of threat those people could have possibly been. Having spent the last few weeks in the very heart of S.H.I.E.L.D., the concept of an organised rebellion between the dissatisfied factions of the Capitol and the districts had become more and more laughable. Against the kind of weaponry, armour and training that the Sentinels possessed, not including the Nova Corps and the S.W.O.R.D. air force, the districts wouldn't stand a chance.

And here she was, now part of the system, something that she never would imagined only a few short weeks ago. Coulson-

_Coulson._

She froze in place, as she caught sight of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, standing at the very top of a staircase, talking animatedly to a small group of men and woman. Their clothes – all the very latest in Capitol fashion – contrasted starkly with Coulson's neatly pressed suit, and the agent looked more than a little uncomfortable in such a setting.

Skye pressed herself up against the wall behind her, keeping to the shadows as she drew a little closer, fairly certain that Coulson wouldn't approve of her spying on him, but determined to do so anyway. After all, she had been here for weeks now and still had no idea why Coulson had decided to bring her on to his team, rather than simply hanging her out to dry. Perhaps this conversation could shed some light on this situation.

If Coulson wanted to hire her on as a spy, then she'd be a spy.

She could just about make out a few of the words being exchanged between Coulson and the group, and was close enough now to recognise some of the individuals. Wilson Fisk, the escort, stood next to and owlish-looking man with white hair, and another, younger man, dressed impeccably in a dark suit, but one that was far more expensive-looking than Coulson's. A blond man dressed in purple stood with them, as did Ian Quinn, the slimeball who had tried to chat her up the day she arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D. Next to him stood a woman with small, reptilian wings, who was whispering something in his ear.

Other men and women stood with them, but the only other one that caught Skye's eye was the one talking to Coulson, who seemed to be functioning as the head of the group – Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman. Duquesne was one of the richest men in the Capitol, with an entire wing of Sentinels under his private command, distinguished from their brethren by the black armour that they wore. He worked as a trainer in the Tributes Centre each year, and Skye couldn't only imagine how many strings he had to pull in order to set that up.

She crept closer, and could now make out the full conversation, though she soon became aware that she had arrived at the tail end of it, as Coulson's voice rang through the air.

"I understand, Mr Ducard. I'll pass it on to Director Fury – we'll try to have a report prepared for our next meeting. At the very least, we'll have plenty of test subjects by the end of the next fortnight, and Dr Strange has commended his team's recent techniques."

"Very well, Agent Coulson, I'll be awaiting your report. We have a lot riding on the next few months, particularly Adrian and Leland here, whose financial support has been vital towards the endeavour – let us hope that we'll see some progress."

"'Til then, sir," Coulson replied, and dipped his head, nodding to each of the group in turn before making his way down the staircase, and catching sight of Skye. He froze, a fleeting, inscrutable expression darting on and off his face, and then smiled, walking directly over to her.

"Evening, Skye," he said, and Skye forced a smile of her own, though her gaze quickly darted to the stairs behind Coulson, where the Swordsman was staring at them, his face and eyes blank and expressionless. The group that had accompanied him had dispersed, but he still lingered, and Skye shivered, perturbed.

"Cold out tonight," Coulson commented, evidently noticing her reaction. "What brings you out to this part of town?"

She shrugged, and wrapped her arms around her body, conserving heat. "Got bored," she replied truthfully, after a moment had passed. "Fitzsimmons had left for one of the labs after dinner, and Ward and May disappeared soon after. Since I don't have access to most of sectors when I'm unsupervised, I thought I'd take a walk after dinner. Not much for me to do at the moment – still not sure why you brought me into all of this."

"I have my reasons," Coulson replied, before glancing over his shoulder, but Duquesne was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to her, frowning, and then remembered who he was talking to, putting on another smile. "Right now, the Games are just starting – it won't be until they're over until your talents become needed, but you'll be pretty busy then."

"Does it have anything to do with the Swordsman?" Skye asked, nodding to the stairs that Coulson had just descended. Coulson's lips tightened slightly, but his smile never wavered – Skye had to give him points for that.

"It might," Coulson conceded, at last, but there was a warning glint to his eyes as he continued on, "but I think we should drop this conversation, Skye – now isn't the right time. Give it a week or two, and then all will be revealed, I promise. Until then, though, you're just going to have to accept that I can't share everything with you."

Skye frowned, pressing her lips together, but she inclined her head slightly in acceptance after a moment or two had passed. "Two weeks, Coulson, and then you either give me the answers I've been looking for, or I walk."

"Two weeks them, Skye, I promise."

"You've been making a lot of promises lately," she remarked bitterly, and shook her head. "You do realise that you called Jacques Duquesne – one of the richest men in the Capitol – 'Ducard', right? What was up with that?"

Coulson paused, wrinkling his brow, looking even more uncomfortable than he had before.

"Oh, you know me with names, I'm all over the place," he admitted bashfully. "Ducard, Duquesne, Dufresne, Duqeutte, it's all the same to me. Hell, May can tell you about the time I met Professor X – that is, Charles Xavier – and I found myself calling him 'Picard' for some reason I can't quite recall. He took it with good grace though…" Coulson trailed off, with a thoughtful look on his face. "I also think I called Hank McCoy 'Bones' one day at a banquet – he did not take it so well, probably thought I was commenting on his table manners. I've never seen someone so skinny demolish a plate of chicken wings so…ravenously."

A moment passed, and then he snapped out of whatever kind of reverie he had been lost in, glancing back to Skye and smiling. "Guess 'Beast' was an apt name for him after all – just never let Taneleer Tivan know that I said that. His ego's big enough as it is."

Skye smiled despite herself, and shook her head again, with Coulson chuckling to himself next to her. When he stopped, he turned back to her, and the charm offensive that was Coulson's standard method of procedure was back in place.

"Do you think he noticed? Duquesne, that is? I'm really not at the point where I can burn any more bridges in this line of work – Fury was hesitant enough to fund my team as it was."

"No," Skye replied, rolling her eyes. "I don't think he noticed. And according to Fitzsimmons and Ward, everyone in the Capitol loves you. I doubt you've ever had problems getting money out of wealthy men."

"I could say the same about you," he quipped back, with a smile and wink. "I _have_ seen your file, you know."

She smiled, and the pair walked back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, while only a few hundred metres away from then the tributes for this year's Games slept the last peaceful night of their lives away.

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

_Lights. Camera. Action._

Those were the three words running through Nick Fury's mind as he took his seat, surrounded by a dozen or so television executives, each yammering about different things at the same time, making it impossible for any of them to be heard over the din.

Someone yelled something off-stage, and the executives froze as one, turning their heads towards the source of the noise, and then swiftly darting off of the set, as the countdown began for them to go on air.

Taneleer Tivan turned to him, and smiled widely. "I'm sure all this is nothing to phase you, Director, but can I just say, before we begin, how excited I am for this year's Games. Last year's was so…underwhelming. I think we really needed the fresh blood."

Fury inclined his head towards the announcer, and smiled slightly. "I can only hope we'll live up to your expectations, Taneleer. Just go easy on me, please. It _is _my first time, after all."

"I'll be gentle, I promise," the Collector replied with a wry smile, and Fury sat back into his chair, chuckling slightly, when the countdown finally ended.

Taneleer introduced him to the cameras with his usual level of panache, and for once, was met with an equal measure of flair and showmanship, as Fury met every one of the questions posed to him in kind, playing the crowd with ease.

After all, he was the man who essentially ran Marvel, or at least, ran the infrastructure that kept it all together – keeping an audience enthralled was nothing to him, not when all he had to do was keep them entertained. Having spent months suppressing seditious figures, within the Capitol and the districts, organising troop deployments, supervising the maintenance of Marvel's borders, and countless other tiring, stressful tasks.

This was practically a holiday, in comparison.

"Now, we've all heard the rumours that you may be using an old, ruined city for this year's Games – something hearkening back to the civilisation of Old America. I've got to ask, because it was always a favourite of mine…" Taneleer paused dramatically, before leaning in slightly closer to Fury. "Is there any chance that we might be seeing Washington later on today?"

Fury smiled, or at least, opened his mouth to show off a pair of dazzlingly white teeth – he had been forced to have his teeth whitened by Taneleer's make-up team, a condition that had been unavoidable, but not one he was entirely pleased with.

"I'm sorry, maybe next year," he replied, shaking his head to the amusement of the crowd. "However, I think you'll like what we have planned instead. It's definitely going to be…well, I can promise that it'll be something special. Something _fresh, _which I think is what we've been missing these last few Games."

"I don't suppose there are any details you'd like to share?" Taneleer asked, already knowing that Fury was going to refuse. After all, that was what this show was all about – you weren't meant to reveal anything new to the crowd, you were just meant to explain the things they already knew. They'd get enough to whet their appetites when the launch occurred, in just a few short hours – everything until then was just busy work, reflections and summaries of events so far.

The next few hours passed without incident, as Fury and Taneleer bantered away, accompanied by the oohs and aahs of the crowd, laughing, applauding and cheering at the suitable times. They ran through the contestants, Fury giving the audience little titbits of new information on each of them, all carefully calibrated to ensure that no advantage was conferred on any particular tribute due to what he said.

Of course, the whole show had been a set up for the big reveal of the arena, as the twenty-fourth Avenger Games were finally launched, and eventually they reached the point where Taneleer asked Fury if he had any last words to say, before the Games began.

Fury looked thoughtful, and then turned to the crowd. "I could delay this further and give a big speech, but I know that none of you really want that right now, so I'm gonna keep things brief. I only have one thing to say, to the audience here, to those watching, and to the tributes waiting to ascend into the arena, though of course, they can't hear this."

He paused dramatically, and smiled once more. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

Thunderous applause met his words, and he leant back in his seat as Taneleer took over, waiting until the crowd settled down once more to reveal the big screen behind him, which displayed each of the various tributes within their elevator tubes, and they began to rise towards the arena.

A few seconds passed, and Fury scanned the crowd, as their collective gaze was locked upon the screen behind him.

_I've done it, _he thought smugly. _All that time worrying, and it was just this easy – a little showmanship, good presentation and a solid touch of vagueness. Let's just hope Thanos will be taken in so easily, but I really think he might be._

The crowd held their breath as the cameras within the tributes' tubes began to show sunlight, as they reached the surface. The gasps from the audience behind him assured Fury that they had chosen their location well, as the still-breath-taking skyline of the ruins of New York came into view. His team really had picked the perfect moment for the launch, he had to admit, as the sun was just about visible behind the skyline, framing the view perfectly, and lending an orange glow to proceedings.

"It's…" Taneleer trailed off, his hands curled out in front of him, shaking uncontrollably, before unfurling them and gesturing towards the screen, "beautiful!"

Fury smiled once more – his lips were hurting with all the forced smiling at this point, and he was counting off the minutes he had left – and inclined his head slightly, accepting the Collector's praise.

"You're too kind," he replied, and this time his smile was genuine, but perhaps not for the same reasons as the viewers would expect, "but I have to agree – 'beautiful' certainly is an apt word. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to New York City, the 'Big Apple' of Old America. Home, at its peak, to over twelve million people, but of course, the Infinity War left it a barren ruin, as indeed it left that entire civilisation."

"It must have taken a lot of work to prepare it for the Games," Taneleer mused, and Fury saw plenty of people nodding along to those words, though more were barely paying attention to the conversation on the stage any more, as the ten second countdown began. "While I'm glad to see the rumours were correct, as it's been too long since we've experienced a city landscape, I was under the impression that New York was still basking in a high level of radiation."

_Seven._

Fury nodded. "Indeed. We had to cordon off Staten Island – this area here," he said, speaking quickly and pointing to the screen which now displayed a map of New York, highlighting the area in question in a bright red. _Six._ "The levels of gamma radiation were too high for the Games to take place there, given that it was the site where the nuclear missiles had fallen in the past. Tributes would have suffered the effects of radiation poisoning within mere days – and this, of course, wouldn't make very interesting viewing."

_Four._

The crowd nodded to this, unsurprisingly. "However, the levels of gamma radiation within the rest of the city are harmless, barring a small section of Manhattan." He pointed once more, and a few blocks on that island lit up. _Two._ "We call this 'Hell's Kitchen, and it's been barricaded off to prevent tributes from entering. So, in short, don't worry – we have things under control."

As he finished, so too did the countdown, and he settled back down into his seat to watch the bloodbath begin. Within only a few short moments, blood had already begun to flow.


	39. Chapter 38: First Blood

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after our delay with a new update. First of all, I'll like to apologise for the break – it was partially due to me going off on vacation for a few weeks, and also due to chapters not coming in on time. Hopefully, there'll never be a delay like this again, and I promise that we're working as hard as we can at making sure that it never happens again. With luck, we'll be able to return to our normal update schedule of Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays after this, with our next chapter coming on Tuesday, but we're still waiting on a few upcoming chapters to be submitted, so I can't give any guarantees. Just know that we're still here, and the fic is still coming, so just hold on for a little while – it'll be worth it in the end.**

**sailorraven34: Hope this chapter lives up to your expectations from the last one, and once again, sorry for the delay!**

**GeekyComicBookGuy: Actually, Big Hero 6 is no more a Disney movie than the Marvel Cinematic Universe – okay, there'll all Disney movies technically (barring one or two, like The Incredible Hulk, which was produced by Universal), but Big Hero 6 is based off a Marvel comic. Indeed, Sunfire, a former X-Men, is one of the members of Big Hero 6 in the comics. All the characters in the fic, which includes Tadashi and Hiro, are and will always be based on comic book characters, I promise. And more of everything you asked for will be on the way, I promise that too!**

**As always, guys – enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Eight – First Blood**

**Bloodbath**

**T'Challa of District Eleven**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_This I choose to do. If there is a price, this I choose to pay. If it is my death, then I choose to die. Where this takes me, there I choose to go. I choose. This I choose to do."_

― Terry Pratchett, _Wintersmith_

* * *

His nostrils flared, taking in the scents of the old city, and that of the tributes nearby – dust, rust, mould, stagnant water, faecal matter, decay, sweat and fear. More difficult to discern, in some cases, was which smell to associate with which of the two.

T'Challa glanced down at the reddened, raised circle on his right arm, where only an hour or so earlier he had been implanted with a tracking device, which would monitor his coordinates and vital signs during his time in the arena. It had hurt like hell going in, despite the assurances of the doctor holding the pneumatic implanter, but the pain had subsided after a moment or two, and T'Challa could already see the raised circle going down.

Within a couple of hours he'd barely be able to tell where it was, and wasn't that just a terrifying thought?

Birds of some kind crowed above them, and T'Challa glanced up, but couldn't make out their forms against the harsh sunlight that burned just above the skyline of the city. They were almost certainly crows though – he had spent plenty of hours keeping them off the crops back home, working for a couple of months, like many of the younger boys in the district did, as a kind of living scarecrow.

Then again, they could be a muttation manufactured in the Capitol, merely gifted with the vocal chords of crows, and shaped into a monstrous manifestation of chaos and evil…

He swallowed at this thought, frowning. No point in worrying about that now – there was no way the Gamemakers would launch mutts at them this early, not when they'd be tearing each other apart in just minutes. Save the monsters for later, when the deaths start becoming too far apart and they need something to juice-up the action.

_After all_, he thought, seeing Cletus in the distance, his eyes alight with an animal look of intensity and hunger, chomping at the bit as the timer continued to count, _there are enough monsters down here._

He followed Cletus's stare, and his heart sank slightly as he followed it to Ororo, standing on the platform next to him. As much as he hated him, T'Challa had to hand it to the kid from District Ten – once he marked out a target, he stuck with it. There was no indecision, no hesitation, no conscience – only the hunter, and the prey.

Of course, he wasn't going to let that happen, not as long as there was breath in his body, but looking at Ororo – more specifically, at how small, frail and defenceless she looked – he couldn't help the feeling that stirred within him for a moment, knowing what price the Games would inevitably demand of him.

_I could have made it all the way,_ he thought ruefully – no, _bitterly_, he couldn't lie to himself at this moment, not with such stakes on the line. And he _was _bitter – not towards Ororo, she didn't deserve to be here anymore than he did – but towards those who had put them in this position.

"_The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing," _he mused, unable to remember who had first uttered those words, which had never seemed more true to him than at this moment.

The Capitol's very existence, logically, depended upon the existence of the majority to accept its rule – it is a mathematical impossibility for it to survive in the face of a united uprising of all twelve districts. Therefore, its survival hinged upon the fact that it was easier for people to do nothing, than to take up arms against it – and also that the majority of people would always choose to take the easier option.

President Thanos might do all he can to minimise the possibility of a revolt – cutting off interaction and communication between districts, and making moving between them all but impossible. Unless, of course, you happen to be adopted by a victor, as in the case of Loki Odinson, but T'Challa doubted that that would ever be pulled off again.

Indeed, Loki's reaping for this year's Games – along with Thor, Odin's biological son – could be seen as retribution for Odin's decision, all that time back. T'Challa had no doubts that Odin had faced opposition when he chose to adopt Loki, taking him from District Twelve. No matter how favoured the All-Father might appear to be on the outside, his decision _must _have caused friction between him and the powers-that-be.

T'Challa had no time for the claim that the Reapings were randomised, fair and unbiased – no government would risk the existence of their society on that, no producers would run that kind of risk, and this year, in particular, the odds were just _so _clearly not in their very specific favour, and poorly disguised to boot.

Something was going on, at a deeper level, not one that his eyes could see. He snorted to himself, shaking his head slowly, knowing that he'd never know the reason behind it, but certain in what his gut instinct was telling him – that there was something off about the Games, this year in particular, and their strings were pulling pulled from behind the scenes.

This he _knew_.

Shifting his thoughts away from the Capitol, his mind filled with images of home, and of his family.

His father, giving him the same stern look that he had seen all too often, and yet his throat constricted slightly at the thought that he would never see it again.

His sister, putting on a brave face even though he knew that she was hurting so, so much inside – a look that she was probably wearing right this moment, as every pair of eyes in Marvel would be locked onto a screen, waiting for the countdown to end and the Games to begin.

His brother – for Hunter had earned that title in all but genetics, and those were the least important indication of family – grim-faced and furious, his fists clenched together, knuckles whitened, as he watched T'Challa standing on the platform, waiting for the buzzer to sound and for the blood to begin to flow.

What would happen to Hunter, when T'Challa didn't make it home at the end of the Games? He had always been volatile, and his association with Man-Ape and his supporters made T'Challa genuinely worry for him. Could his death propel his brother over the edge, and cause him to do something stupid, bringing harm upon their family and the rest of District Eleven?

He shook his head, dismissing those thoughts, knowing full well what he was doing – trying to find a reason to stay alive, an excuse not to fulfil his promise to Ororo, to abandon his obligation to do everything within his power to keep her alive.

Whatever Hunter did, that was business, and T'Challa couldn't make his decisions for him. All he could do, right now, in this…arena, was to make his own decision.

_I cannot do nothing, _he told himself, shaking off his despondency and hesitation. _I cannot abandon her, no matter how easy it would be, no matter what the cost ends up being. _I _cannot, because if I did I would not be me anymore, and I would be just as dead as if I gave my life to save her._

_I am afraid, _he finally admitted to himself, and glanced towards the nearest building, hoping that a camera would pick up his features, so that his family could see him and understand that he was saying goodbye, just in case there never was another chance for him to say it.

_Oh father, I am _so_ afraid, _he thought, glancing back towards the Tesseract and steeling his nerves for what was to come. _However, I must face my fear. I must conquer it. I make this choice, not just because it may save Ororo, not just because it is the right thing to do, but because it is the only option before me that allows me to remain myself._

_There are worse ways to die than with the knowledge that your death might mean something, and the certainty that you made the right decision._

_We must not stand by, paralysed by fear and indecision, and let evil carry out their will._

_This I know._

Then the horn sounded, almost surprising him, despite the fact that the countdown had been ringing out in his ears, unheeded and uncared for, but snapping him out of his train of thought all the same. T'Challa began moving, hearing the whoops and yells of the other tributes as they began charging forward towards the Tesserect, bloodlust already hanging heavy in the air. He glanced over at his district partner, his only concern getting her safely out of here, even if it meant they left here with nothing.

T'Challa was fast, but Ororo was faster, already speeding on ahead of him, causing him to bite down on his lip and run even faster, trying to catch up with her.

"Ororo!" he yelled, trying to get her attention, but she couldn't hear him over the din of the other tributes, or perhaps didn't want to hear him, going off a plan of her own.

A small grey backpack lay only a dozen-or-so yards ahead of her, lying at the edge of the Tesseract, and T'Challa realised that she was making her way to it.

However, she wasn't going to make it, he realised after a moment – his heart rising to his mouth – as Thor Odinson and Wade Wilson, the male tributes from Four and One, came into sight out of the corner of his vision. Thor leant down to snatch an object from the ground – a huge, one-handed, short-handled hammer – without even having to break pace, glancing over at T'Challa with a brief look of concern, before realising that the tribute from Eleven had fallen too far behind to help Ororo.

Ororo and the Careers had veered off to T'Challa's left, where he caught sight of Steve Rogers, who had evidently reached the Tesseract first, and turned around for some unknown reason. "ORORO!" he heard Steve cry, trying to warn her of the Careers behind her, and T'Challa was suddenly reminded of Sam's promise to talk to Peter Quill, Steve's mentor, to try and see if they could find an ally of some sort in Steve.

Ororo had reached the backpack by this point, though until Steve had called out to her she had no idea of the Careers approaching, as they were coming from her left, her blind side. Hearing his yell, she glanced over at him, and then saw the two Careers approach her, Thor weighing up his new hammer in his hand, tossing it into the air and catching it as it came down. Wade was turned away from T'Challa, eyes apparently locked on Steve's, which meant that neither Career were paying any attention to T'Challa, dismissing him from their concerns.

A metallic glint caught T'Challa's eye a couple of feet away to his right, and he turned away for a second, smiling as he realised what the object was.

He sprinted to it, throwing himself forward and rolling as he picked it up, and threw it forward in the direction of the Tesseract, all in one smooth motion, yelling, "On your left!" as it left his grip.

The metal disk sailed through the air as Steve charged forward, his arm snapping out, on reflex, and catching the shield, throwing himself forward and sliding the last foot or so, bringing the shield up above his head as Thor brought his hammer down.

Steve caught the blow with the shield, only a couple of centimetres above Ororo's head, and she shrieked in shock, no doubt having expected the blow to land. He stood up, having taken the brunt of the blow, throwing Thor back a few feet and kicking out before the giant had the time to recover from the surprise, catching him at knee-level and knocking him back onto the ground.

T'Challa in the meantime had seized another of the prizes lying around the Tesseract – a small group of throwing knives, bound together by a piece of plastic cord. Snapping the cord with little difficulty, he drew the first knife, firing it off in Wade's direction.

The tribute from One dropped to the ground, the blade whistling off harmlessly into the distance, and got to his feet, retreating into the heart of the Tesseract. Thor was getting to his feet, his face flushed and furious, well aware that Steve had just made him a laughing stock in front of all of Marvel, stealing an easy kill from his grip.

T'Challa darted towards Steve and Ororo – the latter of whom was still on the ground, having ducked beneath Steve's shield as Thor had swung the potentially-fatal blow – and drew two more knives, strapping the others to the belt loops of his trousers.

"Get her out of here!" he roared, as Steve stared at the knives in his hands, evidently doubting his intentions. However, as his words reached Steve's ears, a series of emotions rapidly flickered over his face, from the initial confusion and hint of fear, to just confusion, to hesitant understanding, and then finally grim, relieved acceptance.

The boy from Five picked Ororo bodily from the ground, throwing her over his shoulder. She screamed briefly, the events of the past couple of seconds proceeding so quickly that she didn't have the time to register that Steve could be considered an ally now, and not a threat.

At least, T'Challa hoped he wasn't.

Then again, considering that it was Ororo, he noted glumly, she may well have been screaming in protest that she wasn't allowed stay and help him take the Careers on. Either way, he was just glad to have her out of here. All he had to do now was to buy them enough time to get away…

He turned away from them, his heart sinking slowly, knowing that he only had one option left to him if Steve and Ororo were going to make out of here, now that Thor would no doubt be looking for Rogers's head.

Thor was back on his feet, and had retrieved his hammer. Worse still, Wade had reappeared from the Tesseract, now holding two slightly-curved swords that glinted in the sunlight – katanas, if he remembered correctly from the swords-centred training station, back in the Training Centre.

He gripped the knives tightly, gritting his teeth together, and took a deep breath. Moving forward, he flung the first knife towards Thor, who knocked it deftly aside with his hammer, and charged towards him. The second knife went veering towards Wade, who ducked at the last second, chuckling as it whizzed by.

_Just my luck, _he thought glumly, as Wade dodged the blade, and the two Careers charged forward, swiftly covering the gap between them. _Of course it'd be _these _two I'd have to hold off. It couldn't have been Cletus and Pepper, or Wanda and Parker. Instead I get two that are bigger and stronger than I am._

Frowning now, T'Challa reached into the pockets of his hoodie and drew a fresh pair – once more, Thor deflected his, and Wade knocked this one by with a casual swipe of a katana. Hope was sinking fast now, as his only advantage was his ability to pick them off before they got close to him – once they got near enough to use their weapons, he was done for.

However, T'Challa's last knife flew through Wade's defences, catching him on the left shoulder, embedding itself deep within his flesh, causing him to drop the katana he held in his left hand. He grinned, ecstatic to have landed a blow on the Career, well aware of the damage that he had caused Wade. It didn't exactly tip the scales in his favour – not even remotely – but it was _something_, at least.

T'Challa darted forward towards Thor, as the blond tribute from Four roared, incensed at seeing his fellow-Career injured, and vaulted over the giant as the latter swing his hammer wildly. He tumbled on the concrete, hearing Wade Wilson's curses echo in his ears, and kicked out at the tribute from One, catching him in the torso and knocking him to the ground.

He picked up the dropped katana, cursing himself internally for not spending more time at the swords station – having believed, at the time, that the meagre amount of time available to them wouldn't have allowed him to gain any measure of proficiency with the weapon. Setting his feet down squarely onto the ground, he tried to adopt a stance that would convey that he had at least _some _idea of how to use the weapon, but Thor didn't seem fazed.

T'Challa feinted towards Thor's right side, but the blond's eyes barely flickered in that direction, easily deflecting the intended attack when it came. He pressed on, batting away T'Challa's assaults like one would a housecat's, and behind him Wade Wilson got back to his feet, plucking the knife from his shoulder with a curse, tossing it onto the ground next to him.

Facing two Careers, T'Challa knew that his options were swiftly running out, even if one of them _was _injured. He glanced around, looking for something that he could use as a distraction, or for an event occurring nearby that he could use to his advantage.

The ground around the Tesseract had been consumed by chaos – blurry tributes and shining steel darted to and fro, triumphant yells and screams of pain sounded out all around them, along with the harsh, clanging noise of metal on metal. Blood already lay on the ground, and the scent of it was in the air, tinged with sweat, urine and fear. Whose it was, he could not say, but Wade was certainly not the only one to have helped the bloodbath live up to its name.

There was nothing, however, that he could use to help him – other than Steve, there were no tributes that he trusted to approach at this time, and those that were still at the Tesseract were already locked in furious combat in any case.

All that he had was his own instincts, his skills, his strength, his courage, and the gleaming katana that he still held in a two-handed grip, knuckles locked firmly around the hilt, white and raw-looking.

_At least Steve got Ororo out of here, _he thought to himself, as he darted forward once more, surprising Thor with a newfound ferocity, which the Four tribute only barely managed to match. _They'll all know I kept my promise – that I did everything I could to keep her safe. She's in Steve's hands now, and her own. She's in with a chance, and that's more than she had just a few short minutes ago._

The world had begun to slow down all around him, and the weight that had lain upon his shoulders for so long – a weight that he hadn't even realised had been there – dissipated, leaving him free. The katana in his hands curved through the air in slow-motion, blocking an attack that had come from his right as Wade threw himself back in the fray, then twisting to knock Thor's hammer aside, which only grazed his arm rather than shattering his shoulder.

He ducked gracefully underneath Wade's katana, turning as he anticipated Thor's attack, but too late – Thor's was already swinging forward, and T'Challa tried to step backwards, but was unable to dodge the blow.

The hammer slammed, dead-centre, into his torso. He was thrown back onto the ground, the katana flying from his grip and landing on the ground several feet away, crashing down onto his back. He wanted to scream, as a burning pain blazed in his chest, and a copper taste crept into his mouth as blood came gurgling up through his throat. His ribs were broken, he could tell – at least three, and probably one or two more – and one of his lungs were probably punctured, given the difficulty he was having breathing.

Wade retrieved the dropped katana with a flourish, and moved forward to finish T'Challa off, but Thor raised his free arm and blocked his view of T'Challa, signalling him to stand down.

"He's mine," Thor grunted, a grim look of determination settling upon him, and while Wade looked for a moment as if he was going to argue with the larger Career, he nodded slowly after a moment and stood down.

T'Challa closed his eyes as Thor walked towards him, savouring each breath – even as previously-unimaginable pain tore through his body each time – thankful, at least, that he had been given a chance to save Ororo's life, and content in the knowledge that she had escaped the clutches of the Careers.

_Steve will take better care of her than I ever could, _he thought, and a hint of a smile crept onto his face, which would no doubt puzzle all of those watching. _With him, she's got a chance at making it out of here. That is enough – it is the best that I could do for her._

Thor had paused only a foot or two away from him, and T'Challa opened his eyes after a moment, aware of the blond's presence nearby, not sure why it hadn't all ended yet.

There was something going on with the Career, signs of indecision struggling across his features, and his grip gradually tightening harder and harder on the hammer in his hand.

"Do it," T'Challa coughed, and Thor's eyebrows darted upwards in surprise at what he had just said, unable to process his request.

T'Challa coughed again, and this time the grass next to him ended up covered with droplets of blood. "Do it," he repeated, clearer this time, and then coughed once more, groaning quietly as the fire continued to rage throughout his shattered torso. "You have killed me already; at least have the courage to finish that which you have started."

Thor stared at him for a moment, before making his decision, and bringing the hammer upwards in a rising arc. T'Challa closed his eyes once more, breathing in the smell of fresh grass, and a lone tear trickled down the side of his face.

_I return myself to you, my ancestors. All that I ask of you is that you protect the little girl for who my life has been given – guide Ororo, look over her, care for her. Above all that I ask – keep her safe. The fate of my family is in their own hands, and their decisions decide their futures, but Ororo has had her future stripped from her. If there is_ any_ justice in the world, let her live._

Then Thor brought the hammer down.

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**Fatalities (In Order):**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**


	40. Chapter 39: Seeing Red

**(A/N) Hey all, here we are, back with the Tuesday update for In the End, You Always Kneel, this time featuring Logan as we see what he was up to during the same period of time as the last chapter. We've had to shuffle around the planned order of chapters a little bit, because of people not getting chapters in, alas, but I really love this one right here, and I'm so glad to be able to share it all with you. We've been keeping it to ourselves for too long!**

**A big thanks to sailorraven34, Idalove2read, GeekyComicBookGuy, for their reviews, and I'm very glad that you enjoyed the last chapter, as it was pretty tough on me to have T'Challa bow out that early. I'm going to miss the guy. Falcon did indeed say the "on your left" line in the MCU, GeekyComicBookGuy, T'Challa's was a callback to it, given that Sam is his mentor.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Thirty-Nine – Seeing Red**

**Bloodbath**

**James Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

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_"The dance of battle is always played to the same impatient rhythm. What begins in a surge of violent motion is always reduced to the perfectly still." _

– Sun Tzu

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The announcement that echoed around the arena sounded clouded from the ringing in Logan's ears. He blinked hard, trying to clear his head and regain a better handle on his temper. He was still trying to adjust to the surreal sensation washing over him as he tried to better take in his surroundings. Talk about feeling wildly out of place. Tall crumbling buildings covered in vines and moss, random trees popping up through the broken concrete that was littered with all kinds of debris that he could not readily identify.

He had to get a grip on himself. His chest was heaving and the blood was hammering in his ears still from Creed's parting words. He had been perfectly fine until Creed had to open his damn mouth again. Now, Logan just couldn't think clearly. It was almost as if he had a red haze in front of his eyes.

He had no plan, no strategy. What he did have was a savage burn building that pushed him to win simply so he could have a shot at killing Creed. That was all he wanted, and God have mercy on anyone that got in his way.

Being the fine mentor he was, Victor had given him his twisted version of a pep talk moments before the launch – making sure to outline what he'd done to Fox after Logan was unable to get a hold of him – locked in the launch tube. His stomach clenched when he'd found himself in the ruins of a massive city, the pressure sensitive trigger plate below his boots, his head spinning from the rage Creed had made sure to send him off with.

On one side Benedetta had stood, wide eyed as she stared ahead, looking as if she was ready to hyperventilate as the countdown began. To his other side – well it was just his luck to end up next to the redhead from Two. She'd looked almost surprised to see him there when they first saw each other, her eyebrow arching up for a moment, but that gave way to her flat out glaring at him by the time the countdown started. He sneered while he watched her in his peripheral as she gave him the once over, sizing him up openly now – finally. He ignored her for the most part. He had seen that she was trying to act coy in training. Her targeting him wasn't really a surprise.

Halfway through the countdown, he looked toward the Tesseract, still unsure if he should try for a weapon or run the other way. Then he saw something that he knew could be useful for more than just a weapon amid the backpacks and random items – a bowie knife better than halfway to the glowing blue cube. He'd no sooner realized his plan of action when the sound of the klaxon rang out unbelievably loudly and he all but dove off his platform, running like hell for the knife.

Right out of the gate, he realized Two was matching him step for step. It had only taken about three strides before he realized they were running for the same prize, though after that moment passed, neither of them were really looking at it, glancing at each other as they barrelled toward it. A full on race.

Predictably, they both reached it at the same time, but instead of even trying to make a grab for it, she swung her leg up and tagged him in the ribs when he raised his arm to block her kick. He gritted his teeth and took a blind swing, missing her by millimetres as she dodged out of the way. He cursed himself for the reactive move, mentally chiding himself for not thinking first.

_Damn_ Creed for screwing with his head! Before he could take a second shot, she drove forward, a flurry of tiny fists, as she showed her years of training with technically perfect form.

It probably would have done wonders against damn near any other tribute there, but Logan was used to grown men throwing a lot more substantial punches than what the little 'Black Widow' could dish out. What he wasn't blocking may not even leave a bruise. She seemed shocked and her eyes widened when he didn't flinch from her blows and simply started pushing back, blocking and redirecting her hits, no longer letting her back him away from the prize they both had started out racing for.

She spun on one foot, the other flying toward his head, and to her shock, he grabbed her ankle and twisted, making her lose her footing and hit the ground hard. He tried to simply step around her, but no luck. She leapt to her feet trying a different tactic as he started to balance defence and offense a bit more evenly.

She was visibly shaken – her attacks were being deflected while he followed up with attacks of his own that she was then forced to try to dodge, though try as she might, she couldn't evade all of his hits any more than he could evade all of hers. It was clear she hadn't expected this good of a fight from him and he smirked, knowing she wasn't prepared for what he brought to the table. Suddenly, he felt like he was just warming up. He was finally focused, making sure that he gave as good as she did, never dropping eye contact from her as they fought.

Before long, Logan made the move to push forward, steadily gaining ground as she entered unfamiliar territory, forced to back up to avoid his blows. His attacks were building and he became more aggressive to match her, the red head grunting slightly with each blow she threw and he blocked. As she narrowly dodged yet another shot at her face, she quickly realized they were back where they started.

In a desperate bid, she dropped the training and charged him, just _shoving_ him with all the muscle and momentum she could manage, knocking him backwards hard enough for him to have to catch himself from going over.

In the second or so it took for him to get his feet squarely under him and for her to turn back to face him, she had retrieved the knife. At first she held it out in front of her like a rookie, but after a heartbeat, she readjusted her grip to something that showed a little more familiarity. She had a cocky smile on her face, as if she really thought he'd go down that easy. He all but growled as he tried to take a second to decide how to handle the situation. Knife fights are notoriously dirty when only one person is armed, but not impossible. He had no idea who taught her how to handle a blade, but he was about to find out how District Two's training held up to the dirty bar room disputes that were common in Seven.

She curled her lip up and shouted out as she made a wild lunge forward, a bit quicker than he'd expected from her. He barely twisted out of the way in time, his eyes widening as he sucked in a quick breath – despite his quick action, she'd managed to hit him anyhow. It was more of a shock than anything. He didn't even think about how deep the cut was, all he knew at that moment was that he wasn't going to let this little broad take him down that easy. The sensation of blood starting to trickle down his side enraged him as he once again locked eyes with her, a growl on his lips. The sound seemed to shake her.

Running on pure instinct, he grabbed her arm that held the knife just above her wrist before she could make another lunge at him.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, though she tried to cover it quickly – clearly she'd misjudged him. He would have laughed, had he not been so pissed off. He twisted her arm cruelly – harder than he would normally do to disarm an opponent, but even so, she refused to drop the blade, gritting her teeth in her efforts to retain the weapon.

She took a quick swing at him, but he caught her other arm, stepping in close enough that there was no space between them as he roughly pushed her backwards. The two of them were locked like that, in a standoff, Two pushed with all her strength as he finally smirked at her – did she really think she could beat him in upper body strength?

She snaked one leg around his, trying to pull him off balance, but he simply adjusted by pushing forward again quickly. She dropped her attempt to trip him in favour of trying to keep her feet under her. Somehow she managed to pull her arm free, though she couldn't pull the knife hand loose, his grip on that arm like steel, even as he blocked her blows.

He felt the knife tip at his side as she tried to angle her wrist to cut him again while she reached up to get a grip on his face, jockeying to try to jamb her thumb in his eye. That tipped it.

He finally dropped all pretences of trying to play somewhat fair, laying into her with two quick, solid punches. She tried to pull away after he made contact the first time with her solar plexus, the wind knocked out of her. With the second hit he made contact with her face and the knife clattered to the ground. She went partly limp before he let her arm go, the little black widow falling to the ground punch drunk and scrambling backwards, instinctively trying to put distance between them.

The knife now long forgotten, he took a step forward to finish the job bare handed when he heard a twang and a cry from closer to the Tesseract. The girl from Eight had just taken an arrow to her chest.

He glanced quickly toward the archer, irritated to see that it wasn't the cheerful little trickshot from Twelve handling the bow.

"Damnit," he spat out knowing that Barton wouldn't leave his partner in the lurch for long once he realized she was in trouble at Logan's feet. The sharp pain in his side as a trickle of sweat ran across his cut drew his attention suddenly and he searched the ground surrounding him. He was running out of time. He had to make a choice.

He spotted a satchel and dashed over, picking it up before he stepped on Tasha's wrist nearest the knife, kneeling down quickly. His eyes remained on the bowman trying to decide if he had time to choke her out. She was starting to get her senses about her. As he leaned in, Barton finally spotted him and began frantically grabbing for another arrow.

_That's it. Time's up_.

"Yer lucky yer little boyfriend's coverin' yer ass, Red. Keep the knife – you'll need it," he growled out low, his voice sounding more like Creed's than he realized possible.

He hit her one more time, knocking her out cold then he quickly stood and dashed off before her district partner could get a good bead on him. He heard a twang, but when he didn't get hit, he realized he'd gotten away fairly clean. Likely, Barton was more worried about the little redhead he left battered and unconscious on the ground.

He rushed off at first, peeking through open windows and doors as he ran, his whole focus on rushing off as quickly as he could, changing directions every few blocks, trying to move north west to the best of his judgement. Distance was his friend right now, and the further out he got, the more he began to calm down, allowing him to think a little more clearly.

He was angry with himself for engaging Two. He had just wanted that damn knife _so_ badly – and like an idiot, he didn't even take it with him. What the _hell_ kind of stupid move was that anyhow? All he had to show for his poorly thought out actions was a damn cut on his side. He had to wonder for a moment how deeply she had tagged him.

He slowed down when he thought about the injury, looking around him for anywhere that might act as a good place to gather himself. He didn't see anyone nearby, but he knew that likely wasn't a good measure of safety. He stood very still, listening as he watched for any signs of life. Minutes ticked by and still – nothing. He glanced at his side – there wasn't as much blood there as he thought there would be, though the tear in the fabric of his clothes looked significant.

He looked around him again, double and triple checking that he was alone before he lifted the hem of the shirt and tried to see the injury itself. From what he could see, it didn't look too bad. Just enough to make him bleed, not deep enough to need stitches. It was the placement more than anything that might irritate him. Right across his ribs.

He shook his head, realizing how close it had actually been. Had he not dodged quickly, or if that damn knife had caught … He took a moment to cautiously take a peek in the satchel he'd snatched up, half holding his breath, not knowing what he might have wandered off with... and he very nearly smiled.

Bandages, disinfectant, gauze, and tape. Damn near like it was custom made just for his little problem. The cut wasn't much, but he knew well enough how quickly something small could go downhill.

Memories of loggers back in Seven with minor cuts they didn't clean getting horribly infected sprung to his mind. He didn't have to go too far before he found a little low wall and slipped behind it. No reason to try and deal with his injury in the open. He cleaned it up quickly to the best of his abilities, being careful not to waste anything, packing away what he didn't use for later. It was a hard angle to work with, but with what he'd done to clean it; he felt it would likely be alright, as long as he could live long enough for it to heal.

Glass clattered, sounding as if it was tumbling down some rocks off to his left and over his shoulder. He froze at the sounds, hardly breathing as he listened for a sign of someone on the hunt or sneaking around. He sat like that for as long as he felt wise, but he heard nothing more. He dressed the cut quickly and quietly, surprised that after the initial sting of the disinfectant, it really didn't hurt much and the bleeding hadn't re-started. His bandaging job left something to be desired, however. He slung the little satchel over his shoulder and cautiously looked around before moving out.

That was one problem down. The wound was cleaned up, but he was still up a creek without a paddle. What he _needed_ was a weapon.

_Go in for a knife and get it in entirely the wrong way_, he thought to himself. He wasn't going back to the Tesseract. Not unless there was no other choice. He needed something that he could use up close … but would still give him a little distance from whoever he was fighting.

_A sword would be damn near perfect__,_ he mused to himself, looking at the ruins and wreckage around him. _Pretty sure I'm not going to just find something like that layin' around though._

The size and scope of the arena was amazing. Massive buildings, some of them crumbling ruins, others looking as if they were swaying in the breeze forty stories up. Lots of places for nasty beasties to hide – or nasty tributes. Plenty of debris of various material and origin littering the stagnant filthy water accumulated in puddles. Old cars, broken glass, rusty metal. Plenty to play around with, but so far nothing that looked like a viable weapon. He was inspecting a broken glass bottle for a moment, but quickly dismissed it, tossing it into a patch of grass before moving forward again.

He kept wandering until he found an area that looked like it had been hit by a bomb – and in all likelihood, it probably had. Further down the street he'd found another spot that looked – well, different. Hunks of concrete covered the area – but very little grass had grown between the rubble, making him think that maybe this was a newer ruin.

He grabbed onto a short piece of metal sticking up from the concrete, using it as leverage to pull himself higher onto the broken bits of building. He stared at it for a moment in his hand.

He remembered seeing this stuff a few years ago when a new building went up to house some equipment for the cutting crews. One of the guys on the crew had gotten drunk, stumbled and fallen down past the caution markers while walking past the work site. They found him the next morning skewered on a dozen pieces of the stuff that was sticking up from the concrete.

Rebar. Steel. He ran his palm across the protruding steel bar before he cautiously climbed across the concrete and found a fairly straight piece of good length. He took a hold of it and tested it, pushing hard until it was bent right by the concrete at a steep angle. Looking around him one last time, he began to rock it back and forth until it snapped off at the base. He held it in his hands, looking it over, weighing it out and inspecting the sharp ends. He swung it back and forth hard, the rebar whistling through the air. No, not quite heavy enough on its own. It would need a little backing, but he didn't want to go through all the work of forming and shaping it just to have someone get the chance to take it from him and use it against him.

He turned his hand over, looking at the steel bar in his palm when he got an idea. Inspired, he began searching the wrecked building for more straight pieces of similar length. He broke them off, fairly pleased that he'd managed to keep all of them fairly close in size. Carrying the lengths of steel, he began looking for a good way to hold them steady. If he couldn't brace them properly, the idea was worthless. There would be no reason to continue with what he had in mind.

After searching thoroughly, Logan quickly determined that there was nothing of good use in the area around him. Most of the materials he'd found so far were half rotted. He quickly decided it was time to move on. Look elsewhere. But, when he made to climb back over the rubble, the medical kit got caught on a piece of twisted steel well enough to stop his forward motion. He slipped it off to release the pack from the rubble, and froze, just staring at it for a moment. There may not be much layin' around, but he could sure as hell use the damn bag itself.

Inspired, he sat down on the spot, shoving the remaining supplies in his pockets before starting to tear the bag apart. He could use the straps to hold the rebar tightly to his arms, and parts of the bag itself to brace it. Some leather from the body of the bag wrapped around the ends would make it so he didn't cut the hell out of himself just wearing them.

He worked quickly and within a couple hours, after trying out several different configurations of how many and how to arrange them, he'd decided on what he was sure was the best route. He had managed to secure three lengths to both of his forearms, the steel running from nearly his elbow to a little over a foot past his closed fist. He used the leather satchel he destroyed in several different manners, and by the time he was done, his one-of-a-kind weaponry was actually very easy to wear. A little medical tape held the spacing of the rebar evenly as it snaked between the knuckles of his hand. He whipped his arm around a bit…it would take a little getting used to, but he could still use his hands and there was no way he was going to drop them.

He just wasn't _entirely_ sure it would work.

"Logan? Are you alone?" The Elf's voice rang out clear and quiet. Logan spun on the spot, his eyes locked on to the thin hooded figure slowly making his way toward him over the rubble.

"Elf?" Logan called out warily… "Izzat you?" Kurt's chuckle echoed the ruins around them as the hooded Elf started to carefully head for him. Right off the bat, Kurt didn't seem his usual self…the way he moved was somehow a little off. Slowly and deliberately, Logan found his way out of the rubble, watching as the Elf began to head his way, his right side angled away from him.

"Ja, it is just me. We need to regroup quickly, before the Careers come through. They must be hunting by now." Kurt's voice was a welcome sound as he called out in his sing song manner, though his usual warm, friendly lilt sounded laced with uncertainty.

"Regroup with who?"

"Our team, mein freund, the girl from Twelve…Katherine. She's waiting for us," Kurt's voice echoed out as they started to close the gap. His hood covered his down turned face, obscuring his expression and making getting a good read on him a helluva lot harder. The more Kurt moved though, the more suspicious Logan got of him. Where was his unsinkable enthusiastic gait? When he got to the little clearing Logan had made his way to, Logan stiffened up and started to take a step back. This was off. The movements – they weren't quite as graceful as Kurt usually was, his body seemed to be angled strangely, his shoulders hunched over. But the voice was absolutely Kurt...

"What's wrong, Logan? Come, we have to hurry back to our team." Logan narrowed his eyes as Kurt moved in closer, closing the gap and looking around nervously. Logan's expression changed suddenly, no longer as confused – to something decidedly more determined.

"Yeah, well, there's a problem," Logan said low as Kurt's right arm remained hidden and he began to crouch the tiniest bit, looking over his shoulder as if waiting for someone to sneak up on him.

"What's the problem?" Kurt's voice rang clear and true, body language betraying his incertitude. Logan countered his movement by suddenly lunging forward and jamming his right hand full of rebar just under the breast bone, angled up into the centre of Kurt's ribcage. He grabbed the forearm he had angled away from him, wary of a hidden weapon that might come out to nail him, but he needn't have worried.

"We're not on the same team," Logan growled out menacingly in the gasping teenager's ear. He reasserted his grip, wrapping his free arm partly across his shoulders and pulled his body closer with his left hand while his right drove the claws all the way in and through his back, Logan's fist was resting on the torn, bloodied fabric, nestled tightly to his would be attacker's belly as the hood finally fell back revealing the shocked expression on the blue tattooed face of the girl from Ten.

_Raven._

She made a choked gurgling noise as he locked eyes with her, a single tear escaping her long lashes and trailing down her cheek. She was positively dumbfounded, unable to react at all. His mouth set in a frown and he quickly withdrew his claws from her torso with a fair amount of effort and a wet sick sounding _schluck_. She crumpled to the ground without more than a gasp. Blood quickly bloomed out from the three puncture wounds and as one hand drifted up to cover the wounds, her eyes locked on his.

As she slumped backward, her hands shook and her eyes fluttered shut. Blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth as she took her last shuddering breath. A long silver knife fell from her fingertips, slipping nearly silently from her delicately outstretched fingers. He barely paused before picking it up and pocketing it.

He let out a weary breath as he looked down at her body then to his freshly bloodied 'claws'. The sound they'd made when he pulled them from her body was just so...

He shook his head hard. She'd gotten in too close. He'd _let_ her get in too close. The relief that washed over him – the pure relief when he realized that he didn't make a mistake was unmercifully short lived when he realized that no, he hadn't killed Kurt, but he might still have to.

_Shit_. Maybe Creed was right. No alliances would have made the whole damn thing run without any guilt.

His hands were surprisingly steady when he finally looked at them. He knelt down next to Raven's body and tore part of her shirt off, only to use it to wipe the blood and gore clean from his claws and hand. The brutality of the kill was not lost on him. She had died quite painfully, but it wasn't like she was innocent. The dagger she'd carried would have done him in if he hadn't stuck her first. And if he hadn't made those claws, it was possible he'd be the one waiting for the transport to haul his corpse off.

_They'll work a helluva lot better once I get 'em sharpened,_ he decided grimly, steeling himself to the task ahead. He needed to sharpen the steel lengths into blades. He could do that. Simple enough if he could find a few of the right rocks, start a little fire maybe. It would make for cleaner kills, more humane. He huffed out a silent laugh.

Humane. _Here_. Right.

The distant sound of the transport caught his attention.

_Time to move._

Someone would be watching where that transport was headed, and when the body was cleared, it would give away his location if he was stupid enough to stick around to watch it. Wasting no more time, he quickly climbed out of the rubble and hurried off for cover. He wanted to be as far from Raven's body as possible when they picked her up.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**


	41. Chapter 40: Enter the Ring

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back up and running again after the recent delay in updates. Apologies there, but unfortunately they were unavoidable on our end, but we've learned our lessons from this, and they shouldn't occur again. Or at least, not for the same reason. Anyways, we're back, and will be returning to our Tuesday/Thursday/Sunday update schedule, so keep an eye out for the next update!**

**A big thanks to KJAX89, GeekyComicBookGuy, sailorraven34 and Elwaith for their reviews – as always, guys, they mean a lot to us, so keep letting us know what you think! Screw alcohol, reviews are the real writer's fuel (sorry Hemingway)!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty – Enter the Ring**

**Bloodbath**

**Brunhilde of District Four**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

"_Did I…did I make a difference? My life, and my...my death…was I worth it? Did my life really matter?" _

_"Yes. You were brave. You were strong. You were good. You mattered."_

_"Yeah. Okay, then. Okay, then."_

– K.A. Applegate, _The Ellimist Chronicles_

* * *

Brunhilde had stayed low in the middle of the plate as it rose through the tunnel to the surface, a coiled cat waiting for her chance to spring. None of the tributes would have weapons before the sound of the starting horn, but she would have to time her own leap precisely if she were to be amongst the first armed in the field.

This was what she'd been trained for. This is what they had planned for, in that onslaught of quickly passing days since she'd volunteered. Thor had been transported in a separate jet, as had Loki, but they had gotten to decide their method of attack before take-off. They knew that at least she and Thor would arrive into the ring standing next to one another. It was too much to hope that Loki would rise up on her other side, but Thor was confident enough in his own skill and hers that they would each have their own mission upon arrival: he was to secure a base of operations where their allies might gather around the Tesseract, and she would gather up Loki.

Thor had wanted to search for his brother himself, but both Brunhilde and Loki had vetoed that suggestion. If Thor were to lead the Careers, he had to show that he could maintain their central pillar. There could be no whisper of weakness due to Loki's presence among the pack, not when Elektra and Natasha already tested Thor's right to leadership. There would be no time to discuss the finer details when the horn sounded them to battle and the cannons roared; there was no use in wanting one more moment with Thor, with Loki, with all she'd left behind - this was her purpose and she would fulfil it now.

The arena seemed too silent as the walls about her platform dropped back down below, Thor to her left and the District Eight boy to her right in the circle. The only noise seemed to come from the carrion birds overhead, calling one another from distant moss-covered man-made pillars to the upcoming feast. Even the more garrulous tributes were silent across from her, using the last precious seconds before the starting klaxon trumpeted to orient themselves with their crumbling concrete labyrinth, then–

The platforms shook, and Brunhilde was off, catching the eye of Elektra on Thor's opposite side. She could not hear over the ringing echo of the horn as she retrieved a light, ill-made throwing spear from the outer rings of the Tesseract's bounty; she could not see all the way around the ring, but she doubted that any of the opposition had gone the easy way of the mines beneath the platforms. She had to find Loki and be certain that he had not plucked a decision out of her hands in that fashion, either. Her younger cousin was a survivor; with the ratio of his mouth to muscles, he had to be. But Loki was also notoriously contrary; trust the one game that he refused to play to be the one that would kill him. She knew that Thor worried that this would be the case. Loki had been brooding, and all too quiet before they were sent to this bloodbath.

The snake-woman of District One nodded coolly to her elder cousin's bellowed demand - though it could not be a true demand, not from Thor alone, unless it was in the name of protecting her and Loki - before following after the blonde, picking up a pair of sai as she flowed in Brunhilde's wake. They were approaching the centre of the circle, and the two Careers were not the only ones to pick up weapons. Brunhilde could only hope that Elektra's sai were not yet intended for her when her spear already was launched into the onrushing fray, a better-balanced short sword quickly snatched up in its place.

Some of the tributes risked the wrath of the Career pack to steal supplies from the outer rings of the Tesseract, and Thor and Wade turned away to deal with a few of the more troubling scavengers as Brunhilde continued after that momentary glimpse of dark hair and lithe movement she'd seen on the far side of Parker's end of the circle.

The mouthy, lithe little boy had fled from the ring like an arachnid scuttling back to its web, wisely enough, and Brunhilde and Elektra ignored him and his more aggressive (and foolish) district partner as the two Careers closed in on Loki's position. Neither of the Eights were going after her cousin, what with Rogue running directly at the girl from Five with a knife in hand as quickly as Peter had faded away, and either the Twos or Thor and Wilson could take care of the interlopers. If Romanoff could survive her battle with Logan, of course, but Brunhilde trusted that that would solve itself to her satisfaction. Their ally would prove her worth, or there would be one less uncertainty to deal with in the coming days.

It was already a leap of Brunhilde's faith to accept the convicted murderess at her back, long pronged knives warding back the white-streaked girl and sending the blonde of District Five flying until Barton was armed and in position to finish off at least one of the rogues standing between Brunhilde and her goal. She trusted Thor's resolve, she trusted that Loki would depend upon them on this day, but her trust in the other Careers was as yet unfounded.

Loki had found a certainty. He'd come up not far from the berserker of District Ten, and his partner had run off into the ragged trees shooting up from the rubble behind her rather than face the red-tattooed monster. Barton had held out some hope for the little archer from the outermost district, but Bishop's actions did little to earn Brunhilde's respect. The girl might have the eye of a hawk, but she'd flown like a startled dove.

With Cletus Kasady leaping at Loki with the rage of a beast already once denied its rightful prey, no weapons necessary, it was easy to see the differences between the two young tributes. Both were scrawny things, more limb than muscle, but Cletus was a whir of claws and bloodlust, a possessed force of nature compared to Loki's affectations of arrogant control.

"Thor!" Her cousin was out of control now, screaming for his brother, his father, his long-dead mother, anyone who could free him from the long-nailed claws tightening about his windpipe, and both Loki's choked cries and his wriggling shots for freedom were becoming subdued and muffled in the greater butchery. Cletus bashed his victim's head against the ground, his arms jerking even as his fingers tightened, as if he were sacrificing Loki to the greater god of his bloodlust in some ritual now beyond his control. This she could not condone. Loki would not be taken from her, not here, not now, not while his brother had sent her specifically to be sure he was safe. Loki was Thor's self-appointed responsibility, and had been from the time they were young in ways Brunhilde had never quite bonded with her own sisters, and she would not disappoint them both by failing when Thor had trusted her with the one he cared for the most.

Brunhilde entered the fray before Elektra did, barrelling straight into the maniac atop her youngest cousin. Cletus rolled, taking Loki with him for a rotation or two before the dark-haired boy wriggled from the stunned grip. Afraid she'd finish Cletus's work in the chaos, Brunhilde turned the sword into a reverse grip, bringing it down on a grasping hand as Loki scuttled away, crawling more than staggering behind his eldest adoptive cousin with a hand to his abused throat. His free hand gripped the bottom of her coat, needing a form of physical reassurance regarding his safety that she did not have the time to offer. Perhaps Natchios would have the time for more immediate softness, though Brunhilde doubted it. The District One girl had always struck her more as a lone predator than a maternal housecat.

The blood-tattooed monstrosity in the shape of a boy merely chuckled at the sight of her blade, the sound wet and heavy like the bodies he meant to leave behind. Unfortunately, his own body was much quicker than she'd given him credit for, and Cletus dove away from her sword, raking back with his claws before leaping up into a tree to regard the Careers with a too-sharp smile. "I'll leave you little morsels to marinate a bit longer. Hold tight to your weapons, girlies."

"You had best stay out of the distance of my bow, as well as my sword," Brunhilde retorted confidently, but when Loki put his weight against her side in an attempt to stand back up, there were rents of crimson rising from her right shoulder as well as her sword arm. Nothing deep yet, though with those sick claws, perhaps they did not have to be. Cletus was already away, his maddening laughter fading into the ruins. A shudder went through her, and Brunhilde told herself that it was merely from the force of Loki's desperate gasps for air as he leaned against her steadier form.

"We ought to meet up at the Tesseract," Elektra suggested, saying nothing about their wounds, nothing about Loki's panic for air, nothing about the weapons that had been left in other Careers' hands – and with good reason. There were two unmoving bloodied bodies in the outer rings of their bounty already, one sporting an arrow through the chest and the other missing most of its facial features. The dark-haired snake-woman herself had survived the bloodbath unblemished. "Thor will be looking for us."

Brunhilde nodded, brushing a braid back behind her shoulder and offering Loki a steadying pat as her right hand moved to guard his back and guide him onwards. Her left tightened about her sword, holding it outwards. "We shall continue onwards with his plan," she agreed. They could come to a decision later. Loki panted as if he had been running beneath her arm as they walked, but there were no enemy tributes awaiting them beyond the pack.

"You survived! Come, we feast and celebrate our victory this day!" Thor was not trembling when he rushed to greet them from his position in the centre of their bounty, but he pulled Loki away from Brunhilde's wing with troubled alacrity, his stained warhammer left swinging at his belt instead of kept in his hand as he embraced his younger brother, knocking away what air the darker boy had recovered since his encounter with Kasady. Wade slouched against the smooth blue glowing side of the Tesseract itself, barely acknowledging the new arrivals with a distracted wave and ignoring Brunhilde's raised brow. Both boys' clothing was stained the dark ochre of drying lifeblood, but Thor, at least seemed filled with life and virve at the sight of his younger brother. Wade Wilson kept a hand over the bandage inelegantly wrapped about his shoulder, but he did not yet appear to be bleeding through.

"We haven't won yet," Elektra spoke up before Loki could recover enough breath to add his own acid-tongued reminder that there could be no victory for a "we." Thor, and for that matter, Brunhilde, would be glad that Loki had recovered enough confidence to return to his usual cynicism once he could speak, but now, this was not what they needed to hear. "Where're the other two?"

"Here," Natasha said, ghosting into view like a pale and angry wraith. She was bruised and limping slightly, deep red curls in disarray, but she walked up to the Tesseract with knife in hand. Brunhilde had not seen Logan's corpse on the field, but she had yet to leave Cletus down within the cold dirt, herself. "Clint's still playing lookout in the trees."

"Good," Thor replied, not yet letting go of his brother. Loki settled his head against his elder's chest with a long-suffering sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. Brunhilde stood still, examining the scattered weaponry for a better spear to wield beside her blade. "We shall rotate the watch as need be. We need to care for Wade's wound, as well." That knife embedded beneath the bandages might make their lives easier in the long run, but Thor hated to have decisions of life and death taken out of his hands as much as she, even when the decision should have been easy. It seemed wrong when Wilson was not talking a mile a minute beneath his mask.

"You're injured?" Natasha asked, despite the clear damage to Wade's shoulder. She sounded as if her encounter had taken too much of her, as well. Her girlish mask had slipped away, leaving only exhaustion to inquire about the obvious.

"We left the blade in, so I don't start squirting you ladies in the face." With his good hand, Wade mimed a spray of arterial blood, adding unnecessary sound effects mimicking a beating heart. "We got the guy that did it, though." He thumbed the crushed body with not enough head to identify. Thor's gaze did not follow with the rest.

Wade shifted restlessly away from the Tesseract, not quite fit for standing by himself. "I don't think I really oughta be touching the blue box, though…It could explode everything into little bitty pieces. Or turn me into a rat or something. I mean, the other tributes'd just love it if they looked up and here's this singing dancing mouse in an amusement park instead of another stone-cold badass with a couple sharp points on him...and some swords, too. Schwing!"

Elektra shook her head, steadying her eccentric district partner on his feet and turning him to get a better look at his poor attempt at emergency medical treatment. Natasha simply sat down in the dirt, watching for the planes to fly in and pick up the bodies without another word spoken. She did not watch Wade as they tied off his shoulder and plucked out the blade before rebandaging it, no matter the risk of an aerial visit if the procedure did not go as intended. Brunhilde remembered the lesson of a pulled weapon with no pressure upon the wound all too well.

They'd watched it happen on Avenger Games broadcasts since her girlhood; all the district was required to watch, even the youngest ones yet too little to be Reaped. Her mother, swordsmaster and uncle insisted that it was especially important for the young ones to see, so that they would respect the power of a blade before they touched one. But it was not until the dulled practice knife was pulled from one's hand, blood welling up faster than it should from such a shallow piercing, pain sharper for the blunted edges of the steel, that one truly appreciated the pressure of the tourniquet.

Loki hadn't meant to bring it down through her glove. He was merely frighteningly careless when incensed. And the destruction of his metallic mechanical guardian had pushed him far beyond Skuld's hotter rage against the older boys who had ruined her work. When Loki saw the marvel built for his sake turned to scrap, he had not immediately called blood feud in the way that only angry children too young for the Reaping might, as scraps with his elder brother's friends had broken him of that thunder before his time, but moved to hurt anyone, anytime he could. Loki hadn't cooled his anger until it was Thor he'd hurt.

Brunhilde could only hope that this time, Loki would hold back from that edge and remember who his allies were. He was still limp in his brother's arms, but once he opened his eyes, they glimmered with that same cold green ice she had seen when he had been left without the weapon made for him and him alone. If he did not have his weapons, her adopted cousin would make his own from whatever was nearby to break. And after his first encounter with Cletus Kasady, Loki would be in the mood to break others, if merely to prove that he was not broken despite his brother's fears.

"Elektra, Brunhilde…Thank you, for bringing my brother safely back to me," Thor told them softly.

"I'm thrilled that I could be returned to you like a missing toy, brother," Loki spoke up before either of them could answer his thanks. He straightened, patting Thor's elbow indulgently before he tried to step away. "So glad I rank up there with your favourite wooden sword. Couldn't sleep without either of us, could you?"

Thor didn't let go. "On this night, I don't think I could."

Brunhilde did not know if she would be able to sleep if she were surrounded by Sif and her sisters this night, all of them properly armed and all out of this arena. She did know that she would not get the chance to discover if that were so. She planned to volunteer for night watch with sword and spear to hand. She could sleep once the final decision had been made.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**


	42. Chapter 41: Wink and You'll Miss It

**(A/N) Hey guys, as promised we're here again with a Tuesday update, as we return to our tributes for our last bloodbath chapter, taking a very different look at it from the eyes of Benedetta Gaetani, written as always by the wonderful XxHerefor NowxX. I'm sure you'll be glad to move on from the initial chaos and excitement of the bloodbath, and watch our tributes get to grips with the reality of surviving in the arena, and that's all coming soon. In the meantime, enjoy a new take on that chaos and excitement, and leave us a review to let us know what you've made of the Games so far. Our next update will go up on Thursday, as we continue with our normal schedule - and hey, if people start getting the remaining due chapters in, maybe we'll even get an extra update in their somewhere. After the recent delays, I think you guys deserve it. And remember - three down, twenty-one left to go! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One – Wink and You'll Miss It**

**Bloodbath**

**Benedetta Gaetani of District Seven**

**Written by XxHerefor NowxX**

* * *

_"Fight or flight? If I had wings, there'd be no choice. But since I don't have wings, I have to rely on my cape, and a long running start."_

– Jarod Kintz

* * *

Benedetta, once the tears had be wiped away, had to give her eyes time to adjust to her new surroundings after the plate she was on had settled into place. When it had, she could do nothing but stare in awe. All around her stood giant, smoking buildings in various stages of decay, lit in soft orange hue by the morning light. It seemed that the wild had just begun to take back the long abandoned city; greenery grew wherever it could find purchase. Vines wove in and out of most of the buildings, stretched across power lines, enveloped old rusty vehicles. Looking at the ground before her showed patches of grass breaking through the cracked asphalt. A single yellow dandelion in particular caught her eye.

_Ladies and gentlemen! Let the Twenty Fifth Annual Avenger Games begin! _she thought wryly to herself, imagining those exact words being issued in the Capitol at this moment, as Taneleer Tivan beamed to the cameras.

Her muscles began to inadvertently lock up and her gaze fell on the Tesseract and the sixty second timer above it began to tick down. The space inside the giant glowing cube was full of supplies, ranging from large crates to several backpacks.

And then there were the weapons. Oh, the weapons.

The majority could be seen propped right at the mouth, practically beckoning to those daring enough to try their luck. She noticed with a frown that her weapon of choice from training, a pair of black gloves with a long blade on each that would extend over her balled fist, was propped against the outer edge of the Tesseract. It had clearly been set there for her – as bait, no doubt, intended to draw her right into the heart of the bloodbath. Glancing around at those closest to her, Etta could see that some had fallen for its allure. The blood of those who failed would soon coat the ground in red. Etta had no intentions of being one of them, despite the bait that was used – she wasn't an idiot, after all, and she knew that the best way to survive the bloodbath was to avoid it.

_Fifty-Seven, Fifty-Six, Fifty-Five..._

Focus, she thought while letting out a small breath. She knew exactly what she had to do.

* * *

**_"Five minutes until launch."_**

_Ms Green had paced back and forth in the small launching room as she waited with Benedetta, the sound of her heels and elongated toenails making contact with the concrete floor and causing a constant click and scratch noise to occur. Etta had watched her the entire time and did so now as her stylist stopped mid-stride after the voice came over the intercom. Monkey Joe hopped from her shoulder the moment she stopped and went to sit on Etta's lap, much to the girl's displeasure._

_"Well the time sure did fly, didn't it?" she said, letting out a slightly nervous chuckle._

What was funny?_ Etta thought, confused, and didn't reply as a result. Instead, she remained quiet, reluctantly running her hand over the squirrel's head when it began to fidget and sniff at her fingers. To her the wait felt like it would never cease and her stylist's constant movement hadn't made things any better. You would think that it was _her_ who was about to have to fight for her life. Sensing that she wasn't going to get a reply, Ms Green moved on._

_"Have you eaten anything? Want me to get you a glass of juice? It's no bother at all," she asked, glancing over at Etta with a helpful smile – and, to her credit, it was only _slightly_ forced. As far as stylists went, Etta could have done a lot worse._

_She hadn't eaten anything, as a matter of fact, and nor did she plan on doing so, either, considering the way her stomach was turning; it would only make a reappearance along with the rest of the contents of her stomach – which, of course, was something she could not afford. Seeing the expectant look on Ms Green's face, Etta decided to respond._

_"I'm fine."_

_Her voice broke on 'fine' and from the way Ms Green frowned it was clearly audible. She stopped to clear her throat before trying to attempt speaking again._

_"But thank you," she finally managed to get out, almost choking on the words, and swallowed nervously, wishing that she had some water as her mouth was drying at a worrying rate due to her nerves._

_"Don't mention it."_

_Silence fell once again between the two._

* * *

_Forty-Three, Forty-Two, Forty-One..._

Sweat had begun to gather at Etta's brow. She was beginning to lose her nerve. The time between each tick of the timer felt too quick and seemed to last a lifetime altogether. The irony that she was essentially wishing to start what could potentially be her final moments was not lost on her.

Her marred lips – which had been hidden behind her mother's veil and tucked slightly under her hoody – raised at one end, a bitter half grin settling upon her features.

She could feel a few eyes landing on her, but she ignored it. She instead decided to focus her attention forward. Moira had urged her earlier today while ushering her out of her room to draw as little attention to herself as possible, to keep her movements to a minimum in hopes of hiding her intentions from her opponents. She hoped she was doing a decent job, but if not... shoving her hands into the pockets of her hoody had little to do with the chill of the arena.

_Calm down! Panicking will only make things worse,_she thought furiously, but of course logic did little to sway her budding panic attack. Fear didn't listen to reason, because fear wasn't rational in most cases.

Of course, in this case fear was entirely rational, but her chances of survival depended entirely on her ability to lie to herself and pretend that everything was going to be okay. As of that moment, this plan wasn't going so well.

By the thirty second mark, Benedetta had begun to tremble. Repeating the little mantra did little to ease her. Now beyond caring for her appearance to the others or of the immediate death should she make the wrong move, Etta kneeled on her plate, her hands leaving her pockets to wrap around herself, knuckles going paler from the grip she had on her elbows.

_Maybe I could just...tumble forward. End it before it begins,_ part of her thought, remembering Groot's warnings that the platform that they entered the arena on was surrounded by mines, which remained active until the klaxon went off, and meant instant death to whoever took the chance to gain a couple of seconds' worth of a head-start on the opposition. In hindsight, that had actually been a lot of information for Groot to communicate, and she couldn't quite remember how he did it, given how quiet he normally was. He was a master of inflection and body language, she guessed, and dismissed it from thought, returning to the choice before her. Her voice of reason – which had begun to sound a lot like Johnny, from back home, of all people – had instantly denounced the mere suggestion.

The Games hadn't even started and she felt like she was starting a steady descent into insanity – though she guessed that it wouldn't be anything new for the viewers.

_Twenty-seven, Twenty-six, Twenty-five..._

Her gaze focused on the patch of grass again as she warred within herself, eyes landing on the lone dandelion. She didn't know why she found any interest in it; she had seen plenty around the back alleys, growing aside Roekel's office, blooming abundantly on the edges of town where the trees grew thicker back in District Seven, all larger than the tiny yellow weed. The only real difference was that the others had grown in soil while, against all odds, the one before her had grown up out of the concrete. Perhaps that was the reason.

If a measly little flowering weed could grow and prosper in the unusual environment, what did it mean for her and her current position?

_Thirteen, Twelve, Eleven..._

With her confidence renewed, Etta lifted her head, rising into a crouched stance and began to contemplate her next move. She glanced back to where she saw the gloves. After all, she _would_ need something to defend herself while in the arena. If she moved fast enough, she could be there and gone in a flash.

_Great. Traded in one suicidal idea for another._ She could hear Johnny as clearly as if he were right beside her.

_Nine, Eight, Seven..._

Indecision was beginning to take over once again. She'd have to decide soon, given that there was now less than ten seconds left on the timer.

_Etta, it's a longshot. Think of all that can go wrong. What about your promises to the others – didn't they mean anything to you?_

* * *

_Benedetta watched as Ms Green crossed the launch room in order to grab her shoulder bag, and began to rummage through it. Monkey Joe leapt from her thigh, abandoning Etta and heading quickly to its master at the perceived thought of a treat. Etta's stylist kept him at bay with her foot while she looked through her bag, glaring at the squirrel. Had it been at any other moment, Etta may have chuckled; the most she could do now was grimace._

_"Aha! Got it," Ms Green said triumphantly before tossing the bag aside once more. Monkey Joe stared at the spot where the bag landed on the table, before spotting the food near it and climbing up to it._

_"I figured this would be very important to you, being from home and all," she said while extending her right hand to Etta what she had drawn from her bag – the veil that Etta had worn back home, which she had discarded after the disaster that had been her interview._

_She was still furious over it._

_"Plus the jacket that you all were given didn't have hoods as long the one you're accustomed to having," Ms Green continued, almost absent-mindedly, helping Etta put it on and adjusting it until she was happy._

_Etta had noticed that as well, but had chosen not to comment. After all, Taneleer's stunt had made its reason for use redundant. Still, as Ms Green had mentioned, it was nice to have something from home._

_"Thank you."_

_"As I said before-"_

_"For getting the veil. For the outfits. For not treating me like...like a victim. For everything," she continued, her voice raised slightly and insistently, cutting off her stylist mid-sentence. And she meant every word._

_Ms Green just stood looking back at her in silence. Etta felt uncomfortably bare. It was true that her stylist had seen her disfigurement, and continued to treat her like her equal. Etta had even gotten somewhat comfortable to go unmasked around her and Moira, but she still was not used to such unadulterated staring without the protection of her hood or veil, especially after speaking aloud about her feelings. She was glad when the whiskered woman moved, sitting down next to her on the couch and placing a hand on her shoulder._

_"You have no reason to thank me for doing my job, and especially not for behaving as a decent person should." She smiled, and after a beat Benedetta smiled back._

_**"****One minute until launch."**_

_An air of foreboding replaced all good feelings from the previous conversation, the tension almost palpable. The stylist and tribute rose from their seats and headed over to the opening tube._

_"Remember what Moira and Groot said. Run as far and as fast as you can from the bloodbath," Ms Green said as Etta began tugging at the corner of her veil, trying to get it comfortable, but also to keep Ms Green from noticing, as she'd insist on fixing it._

* * *

"I remember," she muttered aloud. "Everyone 's felt the need to remind me. But if I can get those gloves, maybe even a pack..."

_Five, Four, Three..._

_I can make it. I _know_ that I can._

* * *

_Etta nodded before stepping into the tube. Once inside the glass began to descend around her._

_"Good luck, my little shadow." Ms Green had begun to cry and Etta had to blink furiously to keep her own at bay._

_The tube was half way shut by the time Etta decided to speak again._

_"Thank the others for me when you get the chance, would you?"_

_"Of course."_

* * *

_I thought you were smarter than this. Do you not _care_ for about how the others will feel? Moira, Groot, Ms Green. _Hell_, what about Beamer or Logan? What about _me?

Reason was not reaching her at this point, no matter the voice it used. With supplies she could still die, but without them she was as good as dead.

_Two…_

_Your mother?_ She faltered.

* * *

_The glass had shut halfway._

_"My mother's dress. Could you make sure it-"_

_"You can do it yourself when you return."_

_Only a quarter of open space remained._

_"Ms Green, I need to hear you say it. Please."_

_"Etta, I-"_

_"Please!"_

_The glass sealed shut completely, cutting off her reply; the last thing Etta saw was her nod of assent before the plate set her in place in the arena._

* * *

_Do you want her to watch you die here after that speech?_

_One…_

Etta wiped away a lone tear and took a final breath, determination settling on her features.

The klaxon rang out, startling her even though she had known that it was coming, and in that moment the decision that she made just a moment earlier was confirmed for her. This wasn't the time to do something stupid.

Benedetta cursed under her breath as she rose, spinning on her heels, moving hastily away from the Tesseract, from her gloves, from supplies.

_From the bloodbath and potentially your death,_ she thought, surprised to hear her own voice instead of Johnny's.

Far behind hear she could hear the sounds of combat and the impact of bodies hitting the ground, urging her to move faster. She didn't dare to look back, however curious she may have been. She didn't doubt for a moment that she may still be in range of Two's weapons or that one of the others would chase her down if she lingered too long.

Etta hopped at the last minute over a particularly large crack in the side walk before dipping off into an alleyway and out into another street. She ran as far away as she could before tiring out. The sounds of fighting, yelling and screaming had gradually died away, and by the time she stopped to catch her breath she hadn't seen or heard anything other than her own breathing for minutes.

That wasn't enough though, she knew, and began jogging away from the bloodbath once she had regained her breath, knowing in her bones that the advice everyone had given was the right way to go about this.

Survival was paramount, and sure, food, water, shelter and a means of defence were all important, but they weren't the _most _important things right now – distance was the thing that would keep her alive.

Something moved in the corner of her eye, and she snapped her head around, heart pounding, but whatever it had been – if indeed, anything had been there at all – was gone now. Everyone was still and silent, and remained so until she began moving again, though she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Sighing, and knowing that she was probably being paranoid, she turned her back and began moving again – she was in the biggest city that she had ever seen, so there must be plenty of space to put between herself and the rest of the tributes. At the very least, she had made it unscathed from the bloodbath, which was more than several tributes would be able to say at this point, no doubt.

_Let them try and find me,_ she thought to herself. _They'll have to keep both eyes open. __Hell, they'll never find me even if they do._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**


	43. Chapter 42: Minimum Carnage

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our Thursday update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we return to everyone's favourite psychopath, Cletus Kasady! Gonna keep this as short as I can, because I know you're all probably chomping at the bit to get on with this chapter, so here we go - it is a little shorter than normal, but we've got a real behemoth coming out in a bit, and that'll more than make up for the recent short chapters. Maybe not a lot of quantity, but the quality in this chapter here is unquestionable! Just keep an eye out for our next update on Sunday, and please take the time to let us know what you think about the chapter, because it really means the world to us to hear your thoughts. And hey, people have started dying - no harm in guessing who's next!**

**As always, a big thanks to Created to Write and sailorraven34 for their reviews, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter – I know that the Games have an obvious drawback in that all but one of our characters will be dead by the end of this, and indeed, three have already bowed out, but I really do think it'll be worth it all in the end, because we have some great stories to tell between now and the end of In the End. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Two – Minimum Carnage**

**Bloodbath Aftermath**

**Cletus Kasady**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

"_My name is Cletus Kasady and I kill people and I love it. I know nine million ways to kill a body and I love every single one of them. All dull day every day right up until I hit the hay I think of bodies. Bodies burst. Bodies slit right up the middle and shared across a hundred nice little gardens. And when I sleep I dream of ways to kill a body that ain't nobody thought of yet." _

– Cletus Kasady

_"God didn't create monsters. Monsters created themselves." _  
― Karina Halle, _Donners of the Dead_

* * *

The boy was currently busy being a tornado. And not even the good type, either – you know the ones, all full of screaming, bloodied and battered corpses waiting to splatter hundreds of feet below.

_No. _

Cletus was currently a tornado of emotions. There was elation – He was finally here! At the Games, through the bloodbath, not a scratch on him, nothing to stop him! There was loss – His claws, his claws, his _beautiful_ claws _stolen _from him! Now all he had were these clumsy, shrivelled up sausages for fingers, not at all befitting of the eventual victor! They'd even taken his glorious white eyes from him – was that _really _important enough? There was anger – goddammit, god _thrice dammit! _Cletus had been within moments of killing that False Career with the black hair! He could still _feel _the child's pulse in his painfully empty hands, the breath that had tried so valiantly to get by Carnage's shorn claws.

But rising above them all – as he slowly regained his breath from his _humiliating _retreat from the other Careers – hunger reigned supreme. Now was time to hunt. To feed. To _feast. _It wasn't just Loki's pulse he could sense, no…No no no, Cletus feel all twenty-three of them! They were pulsing in a cacophonous symphony throughout the shambles of the ruined, ancient city. Or were they? Were there twenty-three of them? It seemed like less. No. Noooooo.

"NoooooooOOOO!" Cletus shouted to the heavens as all the bickering emotional voices in his head drowned out his conscious thoughts. "How _DARE _you little _BASTARDS!" _They were already killing each other. How _dare _they. How _dare _they feed while the top predator still famined! He was Cletus Kasady! Carnage personified! And he was HUNGRY, dammit!

Cletus looked down to the ground as the fury in his chest wavered between being a raging inferno and a chilling knife-blade. Speaking of which…the boy's eyes were drawn to the large, square blade of the cleaver he'd picked up on the way away from the Tesseract. It was simple. It was sturdy. It fit. Cletus had half a mind to test it out on some of the saplings jutting out from the cracks in the sidewalk. Then he heard movement. Mechanical movement.

The boy's eyes darted up. Hanging off the side of one of the buildings, across the street. A small camera. It was _new, _all smooth white lines contrasting sharply with the jagged, crumbling concrete and decrepit, rust-riddled steel of the rest of the city. Cletus sidled to one side, and the camera followed. So this was from the _Gamemakers. _They were watching him. _Everyone _was watching him. The gravity of this hit the young boy for the first time. They were watching him. They'd seen his _failure. _They were watching him. They were _laughing _at him. They were _judging _him! Cletus felt something bubbling deep in his chest, something made of spite and salt and _hate_.

"Oh, oh you Capitol pricks think this is _funny, _eh?" Cletus bellowed. "Y'all think this is some two-bit carnival side show? Well, fuck you!" The boy shot a toothy snarl and an ancient, one-fingered salute at the camera. "Fuck EVERYTHING!" He bellowed, spinning in a circle. "I ain't gotta take this! I'm _Carnage! _I can-...I…I can. The fuck?"

Cletus turned around, beady eyes darting back in forth in search of the source of the noise. It had been small. A little squeak.

The boy began sneaking towards the sound, cleaver and nose twitching slightly as he moved. He could sense it. _Smell _it. It wasn't human. No, it wasn't his true prey. But it smelled of fur and meat and he could _sense _the tiny pulse as he stalked along and he was _so hungry_. He walked across the street, into some old building with a little sign over the front door.

For a moment, Cletus allowed himself to be distracted by the weird word on the sign. _The fuck's a Shawarma? _He stared at it for a moment, his head cocked to the side and his brow furrowed, but ultimately the boy just shrugged it off. Probably something forgotten from the before-times. He couldn't remember it, at least.

He pushed open the glass door, and he could hear it. No. He could hear _them. _They were _so many. _Cletus looked on the floor, and grinned maliciously. Rats! Rats everywhere! Fat, juicy, delectable rats! Sure, maybe not the boy's _first _choice of protein, but they were _alive. _A snack or two right now wouldn't hurt.

The vermin seemed to sense his intent, as the tide of the small creatures shifted away from him as he strode forward. But there were too many rats and not enough room for them to evade Cletus for long. The boy stomped down, hearing an absolutely delectable crushing sound beneath his boots. He took a large, sweeping kick after that, and of the shower of rats one of them shot straight up, hit the ceiling, and fell to the ground again stunned. Cletus grinned, picking up the rat in his hand. It was squeaking feebly as the boy pressed his thumb against the back of the creature's head until he heard a meaty _pop. _Then the rat fell limp.

"Well thanks for the help, guys!" Cletus shouted, stuffing the dead rat in his pocket before grabbing the crushed one from the floor. "Y'all are gonna be part of a _beautiful _victory, now!"

And what a beautiful victory it was going to be, indeed! As Cletus walked back out to the street, he began running the edge of the cleaver along the rat's stomach absentmindedly. You don't grow up in Ten without at least _some _kind of understanding of butchery. Least of all if you grew up as _dreadfully _interested in it as he had. He could stomach almost anything in his meat – gristle, tendons, fat, bones, organs – but hair?

_Come on, that's just gross._

But where would he go now? Carnage pondered the question as he slit the wrists and ankles of the rats and loosened the skin ever so slightly. Of course, he would have to go where his prey was, but where would that be? He knew that they'd need water and food, but there weren't likely to be many water sources in a city. Why _were _they in a city, anyhow? Hadn't their training been all wilderness prep? The boy looked around the streets as he wandered, eventually shrugging. In a way this city _was _a kind of wilderness, wasn't it?

Cletus grinned as he ran the knife around the rat's neck, then grabbed it by the scruff and slowly, sensuously pulled the skin off in one solid piece, laying all the wonderful meat bare. Or at least, what meat there was. It was a _fat _rat, but still a rat, nonetheless. Cletus shrugged, still wandering about as he bit into the raw flesh, relishing the rivulets of blood running down his throat. Now _this _was food. None of that hoity-toity Capitol crap. So anyways, the prey would be headed for green areas. Forests. But why on earth would somebody put green in a city? More importantly, how would he find it? He needed to get his kills in, after all, not only for his dinner but for the replays on his victory circuit!

Carnage chewed on a bit of the rat's belly fat as he thought about this. He even glanced up and down the wide city street as he thought. Then his eyes locked on one of the faded signs lining it. It was a wide thing, it almost seemed like a cross between a sign and a frame for a poster or something. But it was the faded contents of this strange case-sign that got his attention. There was a huge grey grid, yes, as he'd expected, but towards the middle? A sizeable green rectangle with faded pink splotches- maybe they'd been blue at some point? The sea around the island was pink as well – that was labelled **"Central Park." **

Cletus couldn't help but grin. There had been a park when this city had been running. From the look of this map, it was massive. And with all the time there'd been since then, it was likely overgrown, and rampant with various plants and animals. In other words, it would draw his prey like moths. Cletus felt a chuckle form in the back of his throat. The map even had a big ol' "you are here" marker on it! And he wasn't that far from the park at all! The boy snickered as he set off down the street, towards the park. Wouldn't be nothing to stop him now. Nothing at all!

The boy's jagged, toothy grin returned to him as he strolled down the ancient sidewalk. And why wouldn't he grin? He had a plan. He had a plan, and time to kill. Time and twenty-threeish people! Although, that said, he was going to have to rethink how he was to go about actually securing the kills. He couldn't very well claw out somebody's jugular with just these lousy sausages, now, could he? That said, he had a weapon now. Cletus snickered at the blade tucked under his waistband. If he had the chance, he would just _love _to familiarize himself with it. It was just about this time that he finally swallowed his current gob of fat, and bit a leg off his rat.

_Mmm. Crunchy. _

When he finally looked up from his snack, his jaw dropped- and dribbled a little bit of blood- as he saw what he stood in front of. Mannequins. There was a window full of mannequins. Cletus Kasady was standing in front of the shattered window of a storefront with several mannequins on display, the ancient clothes they wore all but tatters after the ravages of the elements and time. They were his size.

Carnage grinned as he walked into the abandoned store, stuffing his rat into his pocket and drawing his blade. He walked in, and there were even more mannequins. Some were smaller than him, some larger, but almost all of them were representative of teens. The boy laughed at this. Truly, the infinite chaos had the universe had shone luck upon its herald once more! It took but a moment for Carnage's mind to make over the mannequins into who he _wanted _them to be. Now, it was time to get intimately familiar with his weapon. He could just imagine it now…

* * *

_Cletus was behind the giant blonde now. He had no idea what horrible fate was about to befall him. He struck forward with a chop to the side of the career's neck, and the blood happily gushed out from his severed jugular. The red tribute took a few quick steps back as the giant turned and tried to raise the hammer in his hand. Then it dropped to the ground. Thor swayed for a few moments longer before falling forward._

"_Timbeeeeer!" Cletus chuckled as he fell. Then he hopped over to the Career and pulled him up, baring his fangs. He bit down around the open wound and began sucking blood straight from the source._

* * *

Carnage grinned at the thought. "Okay, that ain't half a bad start." He stood up, leaving the fallen mannequin with the gash in its neck. "Now whatever shall I think of next…" The boy pondered as he turned to the next mannequin. Tall, slender, female. Oh yes, he knew _exactly_ who this would be.

* * *

_The Black Widow looked around frantically, her cold composure rapidly crumbling. Then Cletus came from one side, cleaver at the ready. In one precise swing, he severed the redhead's hand. She let out a scream of unbridled pain, with the slightest, delectable edge of terror creeping into it. Cletus punched her once in the face with his off hand, stunning her, before he grabbed her other hand and severed that one too. Then he took a few steps back as she looked up at him with those big eyes of hers._

"_I… You…"_

"_What's wrong, Career?" Carnage growled, his grin splitting ear to ear. "Come on then, fight me!"_

"_What the fuck!?" Black Widow all but screamed, raising her gushing nubs up._

"_Are you gonna let that stop you?" Carnage cackled. "You ain't weak enough to let that stop you! Come on. Hit me. FIGHT me! Stab me with yer ulna! Do it! DO IT!"_

_Instead, Black Widow staggered to the ground from crippling blood loss._

* * *

"Huh." The psychopath sighed as his imaginary scenario ended "Well that's a little disappointing." _Gonna have to save that one for someone bigger. Like that Rogers kid._ Cletus walked down the aisles of the decrepit store, searching for a mannequin with the exact features he needed. Small. Female. _Perfect_.

* * *

_Without a doubt, the best part of finally chasing Ororo was the chase itself. Cletus strode slowly after her. She wasn't running. She couldn't run. She'd twisted her ankle doing so back when Cletus had finished off T'Challa. Now she had no guardian. And the boy Carnage could take his sweet time. He followed with just enough speed that he could catch up. Long. Leisurely strides. And as he did so, he could hear her panting. The delicious sound of struggle. Of desperation. And of course, of fear long ago sown._

_He was almost within arm's reach of her now. Just as he lifted his cleaver to swing it, she spun around with her fist raised and planted a punch in his gut. She was lucky enough to graze that sweet spot, the wind almost got knocked out of him. She tried to throw another, but Cletus simply caught the tiny fist._

_"Shhhhh. Just let it happen." He whispered before turning her around by her arm and planting a light cleaver-chop just below her nape. Ororo hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Her nerves connecting to her body had been expertly severed. Cletus wasted no time in turning her over, blade still brandished. She had that fear in her good eye. Excellent. He brought the cleaver down, severing her pinkie. He knew she wouldn't feel it. That was the best part. There was no pain to mar her perception of exactly what was happening._

_Ororo Munroe let out a ragged, impossibly long scream._

_Cletus, meanwhile, just ripped the nail off the severed finger and popped the pinkie in his mouth, bones and all. He crunched on the delectable morsel as the girl screamed once more, and shuddered ecstatically as he swallowed it. "Now now, this is really a great learnin' opportunity. Don't think nobody's watched me do this, before."_

_He raised up the cleaver as Ororo screamed once more-_

* * *

_-_When he heard something. Cletus tossed the severed mannequin pinkie to one side as he heard something passing by the shop. It was larger than a rat. It sounded like it has two legs. Cletus quietly walked to the door, when he saw her walking down the street. Ginger. Not the Widow. What was her name again? Right! Pepper!

Cletus grinned, his grip on the cleaver tightening. She certainly wasn't in any hurry. Was she hurt? She seemed to be walking... Funny. Maybe she was hurt? _Meh, it doesn't matter, _Cletus shrugged. _Either way...The park can wait for now. _The boy began after the young ginger with a wicked grin on his face. Pepper was a good name. It sounded..._spicy._

Cletus took long leisurely strides. He wasn't in any rush, after all.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**


	44. Chapter 43: Don't You Dare Give Up

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our Sunday update! Left off on a bit of a cliffhanger last episode, so I know you guys must have been waiting impatiently for this update – after all, there **_**are **_**lives at stake!**

**sailorraven34: Well, we'll get to see what happens to Pepper, as her chapter is up right now, following on from Cletus'! I'd honestly be worried about anyone that would be rooting for him though – he is a murderous, borderline-cannibalistic psychopath.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three – Don't You Dare Give Up**

**Bloodbath Aftermath**

**Pepper Potts of District Three**

**Written by XxBrendaMichelexX**

* * *

"_Forget what hurt you in the past. But never forget what it taught you." _– Unknown

* * *

Pepper had stood in the dilapidated city, blood and death all around her. She had no time to hesitate; she had to move or she would die. So she had started to run toward the large glowing cube, to fetch much needed supplies, but she thought better of it as she got a closer look. It was a massacre. Weapons were swinging and blood was splattering. Pepper felt like throwing up, but she swallowed the feeling. There was no time.

She didn't even have seconds to decide her next move. She just ran. There were a few supplies scattered around the cube, so Pepper picked up whatever was in front of her and started to sprint to the right, away from the carnage. She looked around, trying to find where Tony and Sinthea had gone, or if they were even still alive. Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to focus her eyes; look for the people she needed to find, but instead all she saw were blurs of red and shadows everywhere.

Pepper wondered how many would die today, and who they would be. It felt…odd. That was what she hated about the Games the most – you got to know people and recognize their faces; recognize them as other human beings, only to see their lives be cut short and their plans for the future destroyed. Only one could come out alive, and everyone going into the Games knew that, but it did not prevent the odd feeling of a melancholy nature that came with the deaths.

At one point she fell, tripping over a piece of debris and twisting her ankle at the same time. She tried putting her wieght on it, and while it hurt, she could just about run with it, relying on the adrenaline in her system to override the worst of the pain. After all, any amount of pain was better than the death that awaited her if she didn't keep moving.

After an hour or so of half-running, half-limping, with intermittent breaks, Pepper stopped for good, her body on fire and her lungs aching for air. She leant down, panting and exhausted, when she felt someone grab her from behind. She couldn't see them, as they knocked her to the ground before she could turn around. She immediately kicked out at them them and twisted herself out of their grasp. She scrambled away from them, stood up, and started running/limping again, her heart beating a million times a minute.

Pepper suddenly saw Sinthea running a long distance ahead of her. When her eyes caught the sprinting redhead, Pepper ran with all her might in an effort to catch up with her. She hadn't thought to look around as she ran, the pain in her ankle keeping her attention off her surroundings, or perhaps she might have noticed the footsteps hitting the pavement behind her. But she did not. Not until they caught up with her.

Pepper ran behind Sinthea, and she saw the short red hair fall up and down until she felt something in her side and she was face-to-face with the dirt and concrete.

Suddenly she was flipped over and the back of her head hit the ground. Pepper was startled by a boy with large eyes, brown feathery hair, and an eerie smile standing over her and holding her down. She recognized him as the boy from District Ten, Cletus.

"Ah, you thought you'd made it, _didn't_ you?" he said with a chuckle in his voice. Pepper struggled to get away, but she wasn't strong enough to escape his grasp. His left hand held her down by her neck, and in his right he held a large cleaver, like that of a butcher.

"You should have known this would happen; you're no more qualified to be here than a spoiled five-year-old," he said. He pushed her further into the ground by her neck and Pepper choked. "You will make a delicious meal, little _Pepper_. I'll chop you up and sprinkle you on my next victim. You see, I'm here to _win_. I can't imagine why you volunteered. A meaningless life too dull? Money? Fame? Or could it be…revenge? Well, it will all be over soon. And I want to thank you, for sacrificing yourself for my benefit. You're a saint, sweetheart."

Cletus drew back his right hand, and Pepper flinched as he sliced her left side. She screamed in agony, but he moved his left hand over her mouth.

"Shhh…" he said. "You don't want to scare the others more than they are already, do you?" He smiled menacingly. Tears rolled down Pepper's face as the pain swallowed her entire being. He struck her again on her opposite side and then lifted his hand off of her and stood upright. Pepper wanted to run away, but she couldn't bring herself to move.

"Sit tight dear," he said. "I'll be back for you later." He took off.

Pepper felt her throat tighten and her consciousness weaken. She was going to die now. All that she had planned, all that she had worked for, and all that she had ever done in her life meant nothing all of the sudden. Pepper wished she hadn't volunteered. She didn't know what she expected or why she had been such an idiot in the first place, but in seeing all the blood and murder, she realized that her cause was far from worth it. She hated Tony Stark and she wanted to kill him. But with that goal she had risked her own life, and ultimately taken it from herself. Her mother's voice echoed in her head.

_You should never harbour any sort of resentment or hate, Pepper,_ she would say. _The only one you hurt is you. We have to forgive those that hurt us._

Pepper thought of her mother and hoped with all her heart that she wasn't watching this – or rather, that Mr Beaumont was telling her. Pepper thought of Mr Beaumont and hoped he wasn't watching either, even though she knew that he would be – after all, it was all but compulsory. She lied on the ground and took deep breaths.

"I'm sorry Mom," she said under her breath. "I'm sorry Dad."

Pepper felt a surging pain and she placed her hand over the place Cletus had struck her on her right side in agony. Tears trickled from Pepper's eyes and slid down her cheeks. This is what she deserved for being so selfish and stupid; no one was here. No one was here to watch her die or at least tell her it would be okay. She was alone. She wouldn't get to take her revenge on Tony now, but for some reason that didn't matter to her anymore. Now, it all seemed so trivial. Everything she had worked for, everyone she had loved, everything she had ever said…all of it meant nothing because soon she would be gone.

Pepper sat up a little and shifted herself to lean against a building. The pain was excruciating and she cried as she moved. She looked down at her side. Blood stained her clothes and when she saw it Pepper felt more pain.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps nearby. Pepper's muscles tightened. She did not want to be attacked again. She closed her eyes and pretended to already be dead, secretly afraid that she might actually die while she was pretending. It was quite hard to pretend because her breathing was hard to control. Her stab wound made it difficult for Pepper to breathe correctly so her breath hitched every two seconds.

Pepper felt herself losing consciousness. She couldn't tell if she was dying, passing out, or falling asleep, but she entered a dream of her father.

She was in a field of blue and purple flowers, and there was nothing as far as the eye could see except a large weeping willow tree. Pepper looked around. She wondered how she got here. She walked a few steps forward and noticed a figure a little ways in front of her. It was a man, facing away from her, just sitting in the grass. He looked up at the horizon and Pepper was mesmerized at his peacefulness. Pepper recognized him, even from behind.

It was her father.

Pepper felt a tug in her chest. She wanted to run to him, but she hesitated. She was overcome with a feeling of shame. What would she tell him she had done without him? Plot to kill her once best friend? He would not be proud of her at all. That was when Pepper realized that her cause was useless. Here she was, staring at her father from afar, and suddenly nothing she had worked for mattered. Killing Tony would have done nothing. It wouldn't bring her father back, and he sure wouldn't be proud of her for doing it.

Just then, he turned around and Pepper felt her breath hitch. There he was; the man that she had missed for over a year now. The man that had haunted her mind ever since he had left her. He looked at her and smiled. Pepper smiled back. She still didn't move; she was afraid that if she did, he would somehow disappear. After a moment, he started to walk away, but before he did, he put his hands up to his mouth to shout to his daughter:

"I love you, Salt and Pepper!"

Pepper felt tears rolling down her eyes and she waved at him. "I love you too, Dad!" she shouted back, half-sobbing.

She watched him walk into the horizon, out of her sight. Pepper would have just stood there and cried, but she heard a voice behind her.

"Pepper, Pepper!" She turned around, but she could find no one. "Pepper, Pepper!"

* * *

"Pepper!"

Pepper woke up to Tony shaking her. Her eyes fluttered open and she remembered what had really happened: she was dying. She actually couldn't believe she was still alive. She felt paralyzed; she couldn't move and it was such an effort just to breathe.

"Pepper, oh God," Tony said, sorrow etched into his face. Pepper noticed that he was holding her in his lap.

"He stabbed me," she said. Tony swallowed and Pepper could see the wetness in his eyes. She was bewildered. He cared about her? He'd gone all this time without speaking a word to her and suddenly he cared?

"Yeah," he replied. "But you'll be okay. I'm going to take you to our alley. Sinthea and I found a place to hide in."

Pepper looked at him and shook her head slightly. She couldn't move it very well, she found.

"No, just leave me here," she said. "I'm dying anyway." Tony was shaking, and a few tears rolled down the side of his face. Pepper was a bit surprised. It made her feel bad. She'd treated him like shit this entire time. She'd planned to kill him, and here he was crying over her.

"What? No! I'm not leaving you, I—I can't," he replied. He looked around. "Where is Sinthea?"

"Tony, it's okay," Pepper said, also trying to comfort herself. To be honest, she was scared. She didn't know what actual dying felt like, or what would happen or how, and it terrified her.

"No Pep, I was supposed to keep you alive; I was supposed to be there…Who stabbed you?"

"The boy from District Ten," Pepper choked out. She tasted blood in the back of her throat and almost threw up as she tried to swallow it.

"I'm going to kill him first," Tony said. He looked down at her with what Pepper could only define as a deep sorrow and regret. She knew these feelings well herself.

"Pepper…I'm sorry," Tony said, choking back tears. "I'm sorry I messed up your stove; I'm sorry I killed your dad and crippled your mom, and I'm sorry I was too much of a coward to face it. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you." Pepper felt tears well up in her eyes. "I didn't want to admit to myself that it was my fault, and I knew I couldn't be your friend because you'd hate me."

"I don't hate you," Pepper said, just realizing that it was true. Pepper couldn't find it in her heart to bear any resentment toward anyone right now. Suddenly none of it mattered. All the hate and the revenge and her previous problems didn't mean anything anymore at the hour of her death. "I don't hate you."

Tony looked down at her with sorrow and she looked back up at him.

"Will you do something for me?" Pepper asked.

"Yes, anything," he replied.

"Win," she said. "You have to win and go and tell my mom I loved her. _Please_. I'm all she has. _Please_ take care of her." Tears rolled down the sides of her face as Pepper thought of her mother. She hated herself because she had lied to her mom; she'd told her she was volunteering for the Games for her, so that they could live better. But really it was only to satisfy her own selfish hunger for meaningless vengeance. Now her mom would have no one and it was all because of Pepper's selfishness.

"I'll try," Tony replied.

"Promise me…if you win…you'll take good care of her," Pepper said, choking out the words.

"I promise."

Tony looked up and around, and Pepper could tell he wanted to call out for Sinthea, but he didn't because if someone heard him they would come and kill him. Pepper almost wished she would hurry up and die. She felt odd; she felt half-conscious and she knew she was hanging on to life, but she wished it would just go. She didn't like lying here in pain, waiting.

Tony just sat there, holding on to her and watching for Sin.

After a few seconds, as if Tony's thoughts had reached her, Sinthea appeared as she turned a corner of a building. She stopped in her tracks.

"Oh my god," she said, rushing over to Pepper and Tony.

"It was Cletus," Tony said. "He stabbed her." Sinthea gave Pepper a sort of melancholy look, but it faded quickly as she looked away.

"Well come on," she said. "We need to find a hiding place. This is too open; if we stay here with her we'll all be killed."

Tony carefully picked Pepper up and she cringed in pain.

"I'm sorry," he said. Pepper said nothing. She couldn't bring herself to speak. All she could feel was the pain and all she could hear was the rushing of the blood in her ears and the faint voices of Tony and Sinthea that sounded as if they were miles away. She couldn't tell where they were going, but it really didn't matter to her at this point.

Pepper didn't know where they were when Tony set her down, but Pepper recognized vaguely a desk chair.

"Where…"

"We're in some kind of old corporate building," Sinthea said. She knelt down to Pepper. "How bad is it?"

"What are we gonna do?" Tony said.

"We should just wait here until…" Sinthea didn't finish. Pepper knew what she was going to say: that they would wait here until Pepper was dead. A wave of fear came over her. Pepper didn't want to die. She was afraid of it; what would happen after? Was there a heaven or hell, and if there was, which way would she go? Silent tears rolled down Pepper's face.

"I'm sorry Pepper," said Sinthea. "I should have been there."

"There's nothing you could have done," Pepper wanted to say. But she couldn't say anything. She was too weak to try, and she didn't think she could make a sound if she did.

"Do you think they're watching?" Tony asked Sinthea, referring to the districts. He wondered if the camera was on them. Tears streamed down Pepper's face as she thought of Mr. Beaumont watching, telling her mother what was going on.

_Don't tell her_, she thought. _Please don't tell her_.

"I don't know," Sinthea replied. She looked over at Pepper, who was now beginning to breathe quickly and shakily. "She probably needs some water; I'll be back."

Tony knelt down to Pepper once more and brushed some of her hair out of her face.

"You know Pep, you've been a really good friend to me," he said. "This past year has been pretty shitty without you." Pepper mustered a smile. Suddenly she didn't hate Tony anymore. Maybe if she hadn't been stabbed she still would, but right now she just couldn't find it in her heart to hate anyone. It didn't matter anymore; hate was useless to her now. She tried to say something, but it came out very shaky and raspy:

"I'm sorry Tony." He wouldn't know what Pepper was sorry for, but that was okay. She thought it best that he didn't know her plan or why she volunteered for these games. She knew in her heart what she was apologizing for and it made her feel better just to say it. Tony teared up.

"You don't have to be sorry for anything," he said. Pepper saw tears well up in his eyes and they fell on her. He gently wrapped his arms around her and shifted her into his lap. Pepper's eyes began to cross, and she fought to keep them focused. She tasted blood and felt it running down the sides of her mouth. It wouldn't be long now; she could feel it. Tony wiped her face with his shirt. He was crying.

Pepper leaned her head on his chest and Tony held her close to him. She waited for her suffering to end.

"Pepper I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Tony said, his voice shaking. "I—I just want to tell you that…I love you, and I've loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry you had to find out like this, but I—" Tony choked. "—I didn't want you to die not knowing it." Pepper felt so sad and happy at the same time when Tony said that. She looked up at him weakly, trying to focus her eyes on his face. She smiled at him as tears ran down the sides of her face. It was now.

"I have to go now," she whispered. "Don't forget to win for me."

"Pepper please," he said desperately, hugging her with his head on her shoulder. "_Please_. Don't you give up; don't you _dare_ give up."

Tony kissed her. He kissed her and Pepper used all her strength to return it as she closed her eyes as she felt his tears on her face. She opened her eyes for a brief moment to see Sinthea standing in a doorway with sorrow written on her face and a canteen of water in her hand.

Then, all at once, everything vanished. Tony was gone, Sinthea was gone, even the room with the desk chair was gone. Pepper was still lying on the concrete only a mile or two away from where the bloodbath took place. Her hand was still on the place Cletus had sliced her, and her blood was in a puddle around her. She hadn't moved.

Tony had never been here.

Sinthea had never been here.

It had all been a hallucination, and she could hear her murderer's footsteps as he returned from whatever he had been doing, as he waited for her to die, or worse, came back to finish her off.

A single tear rolled down Pepper's face as she took her last breath, alone, as she had been all along.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	45. Chapter 44: Free Flight

**(A/N) We're back with our Tuesday update, as we return to Bruce Banner and Miran Anders, to see what he's been getting up to in the arena. I think it's fair to guess that he hasn't exactly been living the highlife.**

**A big thanks to musicalocelot and Idalove2read, who both seemed to have been pretty shocked by that last chapter, though I have to say that I'm very glad that we managed to provoke such reactions from you both. Brenda did a wonderful job with Pepper's final chapter, I think we can all agree.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four – Free Flight**

**First Day**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"I will not trust you, I,__Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,__My legs are longer though, to run away."_

William Shakespeare, _A __Midsummer Night's Dream_

* * *

The young man scrambled over broken concrete, pushing past the thorny suckers of a blackberry bramble that grew, incongruously, out of the centre of what must have been one of the busiest streets in the world. His breathing was rough; strange sounds strangled out of him, his mind fighting the urge to scream as he ducked for no reason, spasmodically, fearing the stone or arrow that might suddenly end his life.

As he glanced back in abject terror toward the far-off glow of the Tesseract, his foot caught in a vine and he tumbled in an imperfect somersault over the remains of a concrete brick monolith, knocked his ribs hard against the flat surface and lay there panting, trying to catch his breath. He was fortunate that the knapsack he didn't remember slinging over his shoulders had flown up when he flipped, as it kept him from cracking his skull on what appeared to be the broken bronze remains of a stylized horse head. For a few minutes he lay there staring at the gaping mouth, trying to convince his body that it could actually breathe, and trying to convince his mind that it didn't need to panic.

At least, not at this moment.

He didn't know how long he had been running and pushing his way through the rubble and brush, but he was vaguely aware that when he bolted from the square, no one seemed to be heading in the same direction. Apart from the Career pack that had indeed taken possession of the cube, it seemed almost as if the square had spun, and all the remaining tributes had flown off in different directions.

Slowly, his breath steadied, and he carefully sat up. A quick mental inventory told him his ribs were fine, just the wind knocked out of them, and that the ankle that caught the vine had been saved by the sturdy grey leather boots all the tributes were fitted with. _Okay. You were studying survival techniques all week.__What first?_ He struggled to make his mind work properly. "Come on, Banner," he growled quietly, his fists clenching. "You can do this. You _know_ this. What's first?"

He looked around, and realized that he had come into a part of the arena that had far less building debris than what he had been running through closer to the Tesseract. A curiously logical, scientific part of his brain observed that the crumbled remains of the monolith that he now sat on might have been the gate entrance to a park, or a forest. Maybe a city this big had to have farmland to support itself, or they were concerned with fresh air. Whatever the case, he preferred it to the menacing, crumbling bulks of the buildings.

"Okay. Right. First things. High shelter. Inventory. _Water_." Getting to his feet, he adjusted the backpack, put the sun on his right cheek and looked north.

The forest grew thicker but there were places where clearly, sometime in a tortured past, bombs had fallen. To his left a large expanse of bedrock was stripped bare, and huge veins of boulders showed like the bones of the earth with little more than the occasional patch of moss growing on them. As he paused at the edge of a rough crater, it looked like there might be some caves deeper in, too. He considered climbing down to investigate, but common sense kicked in and he decided to head farther along into the forest. This was still too close to the square. To the Tesseract. To the bloodbath.

Even in the sunlight, he shuddered as he began walking farther north, trying to literally put the morning behind him. He kept going, moving into the shadows of the trees, but still processing the events of the last couple hours in his mind.

* * *

_Bruce Banner. Seventeen years old, the male tribute of District Six. He stood on the too small circular platform that was the extent of his freedom at the moment, and felt like he might, just possibly and for all the good it would do, scream._

_To his right was his District partner, Sin, with an oddly exuberant look on her face. The gray and rust of their arena outfits suited her, and for just a moment he saw a face from home – a friend – one that he knew he could never call that again. Without thinking, he called over to her._

_"Hey."_

_Frowning, she turned and glared at him. He lifted his hands in a conciliatory way._

_"I just…well…" He sighed. "Good luck, Gang-girl."_

_Momentarily her frown deepened. Then, with a rueful shake of her head and the barest hint of an exasperated grin, she called back to him, "You too, Schoolboy."_

_After that her focus was on the Tesseract in the centre of the square. He could imagine, as her head tilted and her lips moved lightly, that she was ducking and weaving her way toward it, determining the best route. Admiring her single-mindedness, Bruce cracked his neck._

_This is really happening._

* * *

Although the tension between Sin and her father sometimes made it difficult, Bruce had tried to listen to the Red Skull's advice. Most of Schmidt's plans involved attack, rather than defence, and Bruce had slowly been convinced to begin the Games by heading for the Tesseract, getting some supplies and a decent weapon – a sword would be nice – and then duck out toward one of the more stable looking buildings. They had discussed it so often that it seemed almost like a good idea now.

* * *

_A warning alarm sounded. The klaxon could go any time. If anyone got overanxious and took a leap from the platform before then, they would be blown to bits by the pressure sensitive bombs. Bruce bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, made sure his rust brown hooded sweatshirt was zipped and that he had no loose ends to be caught. He stretched his arms and his back, his quads –_

_BLAAAAAAT._

_Bruce hesitated for just a second before he leapt from the platform, noticing peripherally that Sin was a good ten feet ahead of him already. Moving as quickly as he could, he ran straight for the Tesseract._

_It seemed, impossibly, that twenty-three young people all had the same idea. The spread out tributes became a swarm, all heading for the hive at the centre of the square. A bare moment of indecision made Banner slip, crushed flowers on a rare piece of asphalt suddenly making it as slick as oil. He caught himself, looked around quickly, and was ready to lunge forward again when he saw her._

_The streaky kid, with the white in her bangs. Heading up behind Steve's partner from Five, the girl. A totally irrational impulse made him nearly cry out, but his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat._

_The archer, Barton, was standing in the Tesseract proper, drawing an arrow back. At this range there was no doubt that he could put it through the blond girl as she climbed onto the cube. Bruce stood, his mouth open, as the arrow flew, faster than the eye could follow – but not faster than Carol Danvers was falling._

_From where he stood staring in horror, Bruce couldn't tell if she had started slipping or was just dropping that naturally as she saw Barton loose the arrow. What he did see was Streaky – the one who called herself Rogue – lifting something over her head to strike Danvers with. The arrow missed Danvers as she dropped and rolled, instead striking Rogue dead in the centre of her chest._

_The girl's body fell backwards, the weight in her hands pulling her faster, her head hitting the broken pavement with a sick crunching sound. Her body shook for a moment and then stilled as blood began to pool on her chest, through her hair, staining the white streak with crimson._

_He could see it. He swore he could smell it from where he stood._

_Bruce heard the screaming cry, and didn't realize he was the one screaming. The sound caught Barton's attention and Bruce knew he had to run, had to get out of there. There was no way he was going any nearer to the cube, or toward the broken body of the second woman he had ever seen killed. He turned so fast that his feet slipped again and his hands landed on a knapsack, one of several lesser items that were scattered at a distance from the Tesseract. His hands closed on it with blind instinct, and he was running again, running as far and fast as he could._

* * *

Now, standing in the cool of the shadows of trees, he could still feel the horror of the moment. Rubbing his hands hard into his eyes, he took a couple breaths and headed forward once more. _Move on.__It's really my only choice, until they force me back. I may as well survive._

He continued northeast on what appeared to be an old roadway, largely overgrown but still providing a bit easier walk than the dense brush on either side. It was bordered with the occasional crater, but still overhung with old growth trees. Some of them were huge, and it was amazing to think that so many of these trees survived _–__but then, even in a nuclear war, I guess most of the shelling is just destructive, not radioactive._

A noise from off to the right made him freeze in his tracks. If it was a human, he knew he was in danger. If an animal, he had a better chance. _Great. I'm less afraid of a wild animal than a wild human…_

The noise rustled again, and he thought he heard a distinctly animal sound. Instantly, he was running to the right, away from the noise, away from the open road. _Gotta find height, gotta be able to guard it –_

He ran through a smaller clearing where the ground was boggy, ducked and wove through a copse of smaller trees, turned and saw, towering in small but stately majesty –

A castle. Or the model of one. It was partly demolished with one tall tower remaining, but could never have been more than a scale size.

"What the hell?" He stared at the structure, made of grey stone and totally incongruous. "Why the hell is there –" Another noise, this time closer, overrode his observations. He ran, two steps at a time, up the winding stairs that led to a tower platform. As he stood at the stone wall, panting, he watched the brush near the bottom of the stairs move with some determination, and held his breath as something pushed out, blinking in the sun.

His lips tightened as he watched. Then he looked down at his feet, shook his head, and exhaled a breath he had been holding, he realized, for far too long.

A small fawn looked up at him, blinked long lashes, and then nibbled some grass before moving back into the woods. Bruce could see from his perch that it was heading toward some open, brackish looking water. Banner put his hand on his chest, willing his heart to slow.

"Great."

Once he caught his breath, he began looking around his little tower. It was on the highest point of ground for some distance around, and he could see farther off to the north east was more water, or wetlands, anyway. To the east he could see some buildings that had nearly been eaten by the forest, but from what he could still make out must have been huge, sprawling things in their time. _Maybe I should check over there for shelter for the night._

Then he looked in through the broken windows of the tower and saw that there was some kind of inside room, albeit small, and partly in ruins. _This must have been a park, then. Some kind of a castle display here, or maybe it was just for decoration?_ Circling the tower he found a door that gave to a solid kick and went inside, disturbing several birds in the process. He grabbed a piece of fallen stone and used it to scrape the top of a stone slab clean, then sat down and took off his knapsack. He stared at it for a few minutes without opening it.

_This could have really good things in it. Weapons. Tools. Or it could have nothing._ "Well, only one way to find out. And if it's nothing, we use it to hold what we find along the way."

The observational part of his brain wondered if he were going to continue using the royal 'we', and if he'd turn out like Wilson, from One. The survival part suggested checking to see if the water he saw to the north was drinkable. And the part that thought his mind was acting very much like an overworked computer at the moment held the knapsack close and leaned over, closing his eyes, and not so much falling asleep as passing out in the hopes of resetting the operating system.

_And maybe I'll wake up, and it'll all be gone..._

* * *

The soft brown leather under his cheek was damp when his eyes opened. He sat up with a start, looked around, and realized not more than an hour had passed, given the position of the sun_.__It can't be much past one__._ For the moment he left the knapsack on the stone and stood to stretch, looking out over the still horizon as he did so. The swampy area to the north, on further inspection, seemed to have some clear water beyond it. _Worth a shot, anyway. It's still early._ Then he looked eastward and stared for quite a while, letting his mind file away details of the terrain for when he didn't have this bird's eye view.

Then, not able to put it off any longer, he sat down and opened the knapsack, laying out the contents methodically.

"Okay, sack," he mumbled quietly. "What can you do for me?" He reached in and pulled out what seemed to be a folded sheet of thick, clear plastic – but when he unfolded it and removed a layer of tissue, it turned out to be a collapsible bottle, complete with a screw on lid and pull top. "Okay… when I find water, I have something to put it in, that's good." There were several small, empty bags that had a zipper style top, also separated with tissue. "Someone up there thinks I can find things. Great."

He carefully folded the tissue packing and put it all in one of the bags. As he laid out the rest of the items he found a roll of heavy, cloth reinforced metallic tape; a three-inch pocketknife that was clearly no weapon, but was sharp enough to be good for cutting fruit or vegetables; and a triangle of thick leather about a foot and a half on each side. It was rolled around three slender metal sticks, and fit nicely down one side of the sack. It took him a second. _Oh, right. That'll be handy, if I have time._

In the bottom of the bag was a rather small leather sack. He loosened the cord on the top of it and shook out a foot-long piece of fine chain connecting a rectangle of metal, about one by two inches and heavily engraved on one side, and a thicker dull-coloured rock that was half smooth with a sharp, broken off edge.

Bruce picked the last item up and stared at it, turning the metal and rock over in his hands. He sniffed the rock, touched his thumb to his tongue and rubbed the moisture over the smooth surface. It didn't look familiar. _Think, Banner! Analyze!_"Okay. What we have here is a piece of steel." He sighed heavily. "Wow. No kidding. You're _brilliant_, Bruce." He let the metal end swing free and looked at the rock. "Right. And what we have here is a clearly a silicate, probably quartz family." He tried, unsuccessfully, to scratch it with the metal fob. "Pretty hard, maybe a seven, seven and a half on the Mohs scale – Oh, God, I'm an idiot."

With a grin he took the metal in his left hand and the rock in his right, and struck the edge of the metal plate a glancing blow with the rock. A few tries, and sparks burst like stars against the stone floor. "Thought you could fool me by giving me the steel and flint in a style I've never seen, eh? Just because in training you had us using a knife-edge and a carved flint? Well, look who's laughing now." He let out a quiet cackle and nodded his head, reaching for the bag of tissue paper – and then stopped. "Come on, Banner. You have nothing to cook and it's not dark yet. You know you can do it, that's all that matters. And the tissue will be good for fast tinder, if you can't find any. Just be glad you got the cooking kit." _Because if I got a kit full of weapons, I'd want to throw it in the swamp. I wouldn't, but I'd want to__._ He picked up the bag and one more item tumbled from an outside pocket.

It was a pinkish, translucent stone half the size of his fist. At first he thought it was back up quartz for the fire starter – but he could scratch it easily with his knife. "Too soft for rose quartz, although you sure look like it. What the heck are you?" He stared at it for a minute before a thought occurred to him. He scraped at it with the pocketknife, and tasted the dust. He had to smile.

_Salt! Perfect. And pretty clever, too. Don't have to worry about it leaking, just shave off what you need and throw the rock back in the bag._

Before he left he took one more look around the little tower room, to see if there was anything worth taking. Some big plastic boxes peeked out from under some rubble, and he carefully dislodged one. It was cracked, but inside were bags that each held a notebook and pencil. _Classroom? Maybe__._ Under them was a poster of various birds. He shrugged, grabbed one of the bags and opened it.

The paper was, surprisingly, still sturdy. He wondered if it had been added by the Gamemakers, or if it actually had survived the years because it was vacuum-sealed. Opening the notebook, he paused for a moment, then began a small sketch that slowly rambled across the page. A cube, a circle of smaller circles. Near the cube he wrote in small figures, **'8F'.** Then a dotted line leading upwards on the page. With a few deft lines he included the road he took through the park, the swamp, and drew a small stick fawn. Off to the right he put in the sprawling building he was going to try to make for after he found water. He drew a tiny tower, hesitated, and chuckled to himself as he labelled it.

_Banner Manor._

Somehow drawing a map made the scientist in him feel a bit more in control. He packed it away, feeling more steady than he had, even as he wondered how many of the people he had met this week besides the girl from Eight were already dead.

Shaking off his thoughts, he checked through the bag one more time, and packed everything carefully back into it. It was still pretty empty. _Plenty of room for things I find. Let's go look for water, Bruce._

As he adjusted the straps on the knapsack to make it fit more comfortably, he wondered when Wilson had started talking to himself, and if he was still out here somewhere, making conversation.

Surveying the surrounding land once more, he headed down from his castle tower and struck out toward the swampland about half a mile northeast. Or tried to.

Pushing through the trees, the ground abruptly became softer and more mushy, until Bruce had to grab some hanging vines to pull his boots up out of the muck. As he hung there staring at the dark muddy water, something breached, and he briefly saw a hide rough as tree bark, not to mention an incredible number of _teeth_. Bruce stared for a minute, and exhaled loudly. "Well, this is… horrible." He swung his legs sideways toward a tree trunk, and managed to find some solid ground. And something that moved, rather surprisingly, under his feet. He juggled his feet across to the roots of the tree, and got his balance back. "What the –"

He reached to scoop up the slimy dome that his boots had been sliding over. A turtle, about ten inches across.

He picked it up, shaking his head as it snapped at him. "Well, hello, little green guy. I think I'll call you… Dinner." He shook the trailing vegetation and mud off the animal, which caused it to pull in on itself, and put it in his knapsack.

An hour of rather complicated walking got him past the first, small bog, over some more rocky terrain, and into the more serious wetlands. He found a stand of cattails and pulled up roots, keeping a bagful of the fluffy fibres for fire starting. The wetland area had a wealth of little herbs that he recognized from the survival classes, and he proceeded to lose himself entirely in the process of gathering. Then he hiked toward where the water was more open, and took a good look at it.

It was open, but stagnant. _Asking for dysentery, Banner. But something's got to feed this from somewhere…_

Sure enough, a wet area on the bank led back into a tiny stream. It didn't look much better, but at least it was moving. Slipping off his pack, Bruce pulled out the triangle of leather, unrolled it and left it weighted with a rock to soak in the water while he rummaged around for tinder and firewood.

This part of the park, or whatever it was, had more mountainous veins of bedrock showing. He found the leeward side of a protective overhang and managed to get a small fire going in only half an hour, breaking his training record by fifteen minutes. Bits of tissue got dried leaves going, and soon he had a small blaze. He very pointedly reached over his shoulder and patted himself on the back.

Putting a few larger pieces of wood on, he went back to where the leather was soaking and gathered it up, along with a bag of water. When he got back to the fire he set up the leather on its three metal legs that crossed over each other like a folding stool. It was a moment's work to find the small slits in each point of the triangle that fit snugly over the metal frame. "That should do it. Let's hope it actually works." He put the frame with the wet leather over the fire, and slowly poured the water into the basin that formed.

Sure enough, in not too long he had water boiling, as the moisture kept the leather from catching fire, but allowed it to get hot. He let it boil for a while to kill anything that might be in it, then poured it into his collapsible bottle and let it cool. "At least you shouldn't kill me. Probably taste like…well, boiled puddles, but not kill me…"

He repeated the process, and while the water heated, he dispatched his little green passenger. "Okay, Dinner…let's not make this difficult." He poked at the turtle's head with a stick, and when it bit down on it, he pulled its head forward and whacked it, hard, with a sharp rock.

Bruce looked at it and shook his head. "Yuck."

He distracted himself by butchering it carefully, almost like a dissection for class – although he would have appreciated a more elegant tool than a rock to pry the shell open. He cut the meat as best he could and added it to the leather cauldron, along with cut up cattail roots. A little searching found both wild onions and garlic, and along with the other herbs, the smell of the cooking stew was amazing. He was so busy with his work that for a blessed hour he was completely distracted. He put more wood on, topped off the water in the basin, and decided to go wash his hands before having Dinner.

Leaning over the little stream, he looked down at his palms. They were smeared with green, and as he rinsed them he saw that his left palm still had a little green left…

* * *

_Bruce closed the door of his room behind him and let out a breath. Today had been the third, last day of training, and he was exhausted. Not so much physically, but mentally and emotionally. He tapped the notebook he had been scribbling survival studies in, and tossed it onto the bed. He knew they wouldn't let him take it, but he always remembered better if he could write things down, put them in an order that made sense to him._

_He sat down heavily, and stared at nothing. A knock on his door startled him._

_"Yeah?"_

_It opened slowly, revealing his beautifully green-skinned stylist, Jarella. Her long yellow hair was pulled back, and she was dressed in a surprisingly neutral outfit, slim black pants and a tank top. "Hi. You have a minute?"_

_He groaned in spite of himself. "Jarella, I don't think I can handle any more styling today. I just want to take a shower and –"_

_"I'm not here as your stylist."_

_Bruce frowned blankly at her. "No?"_

_She looked around his room, and seemed almost nervous. "Want to go down to the lounge and have something to drink?"_

_He waved a hand dismissively. "The big kids usually take it over at this hour. I don't care for the atmosphere."_

_"Not tonight. They've got some kind of pow-wow going on up on the roof."_

_He frowned again. "Weird." His eyes found hers. "Why?"_

_"Oh, probably plotting and scheming. Or maybe poisoning each other. Who knows? I hear it happens every year."_

_"Oh."_

_Jarella stood, waiting, and finally asked again. "So?"_

_Bruce blinked out of his stupor, shook his head and nodded almost simultaneously. "Sure. Yeah. Why not. I'm not sure I'm very good company right now…"_

_She smiled at him, and he felt a little more awake. "I'm sure you're excellent company. Come on."_

_They walked down to the lounge and sure enough, the only kids in attendance were non-Careers. Jarella motioned for him to sit at a table in the corner and opened the large black leather bag she was carrying, pulling out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Bruce's eyebrows lifted._

_"I'm not sure we're allowed –"_

_"Let 'em fire me. I'm not a tribute, anyway. And as your stylist, I think this is necessary."_

_She opened it deftly and poured. "Besides, what are they going to do? Kill you?"_

_He looked at her for a long moment, and felt a grin growing on his face. "Okay." He looked around the room, and several of the tributes were glaring or frowning in their direction. He lifted his glass. "Here's to the class of twenty-four." Sipping lightly, he noticed that a couple laughed, and a few just shook their heads and looked away._

_"You know, we could just take this back to your room, instead," she said, her finger running around the rim of the glass._

_Bruce sipped again and shrugged. "Oh, I don't know –" A noise made him stop and turn his head. Sitting on a couch in the corner, Logan, the lumberjack, was staring at him incredulously. The noise had evidently been the glass in his hand slamming down on the side table. "I mean, it's kind of late, if-"_

_The look from across the room became more intense. Jarella shrugged, not seeing it. "Well, I just thought –" she gestured with her glass and a bit of wine slopped onto the table. " Oh, darn, I need a towel. Be right back."_

_Bruce looked at the table, where she had spilled a few drops of wine. He was still staring at it when he realized that there was someone standing next to him. Looking up, he was only slightly surprised to see Logan. Bruce cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"_

_"Don't be an idiot."_

_"I beg your –"_

_"Banner, for the love of – there's a beautiful woman who brings you a bottle of wine and wants to go back to your room. You're supposed to be smart, yeah? What the blazes do you think is going on?"_

_Bruce blinked at him. "Wait. No. You mean, you think she –"_

_The lumberjack reached over and smacked Bruce on the back of the head._

_"Ow."_

_"Come on, kid. Pull your head outta your ass."_

_"My what?"_

_Logan stared at him, his head tipping slightly to one side. "Banner –" He took a deep breath and exhaled, the muscles across his chest rippling. "Don't ever let a lady down. You may not get another chance."_

_Bruce's eyes widened as Logan walked away and Jarella came back with a towel. "I hate being sloppy. I guess I'm just a little nervous –"_

_"Ella?" She looked startled as he interrupted her with a pet name, his dark eyes searching hers._

_"Yes?"_

_"Ah…let's go back to my room. We can make all the mess we want, there."_

* * *

He smiled, remembering, and rubbed the kiss on his palm. He could still see her eyes, feel her skin. He could hear her voice, telling him to come back to her.

He noticed something move in the water. "Crawdads. Nice. That would round out the stew." As he leaned over to pick one up, his mood was abruptly broken when the locket he wore tumbled out of his sweatshirt, catching on the zipper and glinting accusingly at him.

"Okay. Fair enough." He carefully removed the locket and tucked it into one of the outside pockets of his knapsack. Knowing that there was probably a camera somewhere, he took his left palm and rested it on his heart, smiling.

Then he leaned over, pulled a pair of crayfish out of the stream and added them to the pot. They were done long before the turtle was tender, so he pulled one out and ate it, cheerfully burning his fingers as he sucked on it. A little water mint in his now cool water made it much more palatable, and he relaxed under a tree for a bit before rinsing out the leather cauldron, packing up his kit, and heading east toward the bigger buildings. Knowing that this was most certainly a lull before the pack of Careers started hunting the rest down, and hoping that he was entertaining enough for people in the Capitol to keep wanting to watch him.

He had to admit, Dinner was delicious.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	46. Chapter 45: Shelter in the Dark

**(A/N) And we're back, right on schedule, for the Thursday update – welcoming Silz and Sinthea Schmidt to the Avenger Games! We've just seen how her district partner's doing; now it's her turn. Gonna keep this short and sweet – we'll be back on Sunday, so keep an eye out.**

**Thanks to sailorraven34 and musicalocelot for their reviews – honestly, reading your reactions is half the fun of this fic, with the other half being getting to work with so many amazing writers. Really has been a great time so far, and we've got some great things coming soon. I think you guys are going to enjoy them – in the meantime, please keep reviewing!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five – Shelter in the Dark**

**Day One**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silzmarilz1701**

* * *

_"Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success." _\- Henry Ford

* * *

The drive to kill. The pounding of blood. That's what Sin sensed now.

Sinthea struggled to keep her grip on the knife as firm as was needed. She had seen Kate going in for something at the Tesseract, and decided it was time to make a statement to the Games' patrons. She was in this to win, and to win in the most memorable way possible. She would kill to win – literally.

Somewhere around her, something whizzed through the air and struck flesh, sending a body dropping to the ground with a dull thud, but Sinthea was far too focused on the tribute within her grip to even register the potential danger.

Sinthea grinned maniacally down at Kate's face, ready to try to plunge the knife into her neck, when suddenly she heard another object flying through the air and felt a searing pain explode in her shoulder.

"Gah!"

Some kind of gasp or exclamation came from her mouth as she realized an arrow had struck her. Must've been that damn boy from District Two. Whatever the case, Kate had gotten free when Sinthea pulled back, falling to the ground. Things went black for a little while. All she felt was a vicious, burning, debilitating pain. In the midst of her pain, she was reminded of the first time she'd lost a fight.

* * *

_"You're nothing but a little bitch," Dirk Garthwaite snarled at her as he stood above the ten year old._

_Sinthea knew this kid. He was in her class at school and was looking to become a member of the Wrecking Crew gang. Sin barred her fists and growled at the bully._

_"Come at me, Dirk," she snarled at him, puffing out her chest to look bigger._

_Dirk didn't hold back. Jumping on the lithe red-head, the boy punched her in the stomach after she dodged a blow to the head. That stunned her, leaving her open to even more hits. He slammed his fist down onto her back, knocking her down to the ground. Dirk kicked her in the side. She refused to scream or cry. She bit her lip, biding her time. _

_Playing dead, she didn't move and pretended to be unconscious. Her sight was blurry and she saw black circles in her vision as a gash in her forehead bled. The pain was searing. But finally Dirk left her alone after spitting on her, and Sinthea managed to push herself up to her knees and, finally, to her feet._

* * *

Sinthea knew she had to get up before someone saw her as an easy target. She still had an arrow sticking out of her shoulder, but that didn't matter right now. In fact, it was halting much of the bleeding. So she didn't remove it, not that she could've on her own, instead, she clutched her knife tighter in her good hand and fled the scene as best she could.

Looking at the sun, she decided to head east. That had been the plan when she'd spoken to Pepper and solidified their alliance. Sprinting as fast as she could with an arrow in her shoulder, she weaved in and out of view. No one was in sight, and she began to slow down as the pain became too much to bear. It was pounding in her brain, the pain was. She could feel her heart beating fast.

To distract herself, she looked around at her surroundings. At the moment she was in a street, leaning up against an eroding brick wall of a store or a house of some sort. Whatever it was, it was ancient. Sinthea looked around her, and realized for the first time that she was definitely in a city of some sort. A _real_ city, not a small one like what she was used to seeing in District Six. This was more like the stories she'd read in the occasional history class she'd taken. Or perhaps even the cities in District One and District Two. The road was paved, but due to the wear and tear of time, the many cracks were bursting with weeds. Broken glass littered the ground near the structures, no doubt from times long ago.

_Time to get moving again._ Suddenly she thought she heard a noise and whipped her head to the left. The arrow scraped her cheek, causing her to bleed from the long, thin cut now on her cheekbone. _Shit._

Shuffling along the road, her knife in her right hand with the blade still red from Kate's blood, she was ready to fight anything that jumped out at her. Well, ready except for the big arrow that was sticking out of her left shoulder. But she couldn't think about that right now. For now she had to find Pepper and Stark.

Sinthea didn't particularly like Tony Stark. He was stuck up and weak physically, not much use to her. He _was_ smart though, she'd give him that. Smart academically, almost like Bruce Banner, but he wasn't too observant. Any fool could see that he liked Pepper, like _like_ liked her. However, the feeling wasn't mutual, at least not from what Sinthea could tell.

Birds suddenly flew up into the sky from where Sinthea startled them on the ground. Honestly she could care less about birds or love or Tony Stark. For now, she just wanted to focus on finding her teammates.

Teammates. What a strange concept. The only person who she'd ever had on her 'team' had been Crossbones. Sinthea hadn't thought, going into the Games, that she'd have struck up an alliance with a weak, lanky girl from Three. But Pepper had a fire in her, something that Sin saw in herself. While she knew that if it came down to just the two of them, Sinthea wouldn't hesitate to stab Pepper in the back, for now she was happy to align herself with the strawberry blonde girl. She thought back to the night when they'd spoken together about forming an alliance.

* * *

_Sinthea knew by now that some kids liked to head up to the roof in the evenings and decided to try it out for herself tonight. She'd been up there before of course, but she wondered just how many kids would be there tonight. After all, it was the last night. Their last moments before the proverbial shotgun went off and they started killing one another._

_Maybe Sinthea was a little messed up (she didn't consider herself to be), but she was actually looking forward to tomorrow. Sure, she was nervous. But at the same time, she couldn't wait to get her hands on some weapons and prove herself._

_Finally the elevator opened up on the roof and she walked out. Kids stood around in small circles or by themselves. She saw Bruce Banner sitting by himself reading a book. She thought about heading over to him, but then she caught sight of Pepper._

_Sinthea walked over to her and tapped her on the shoulder. Sin nodded at her._

_"How'd your day go?" Sinthea asked her._

_Pepper shrugged. "It went fine. You?"_

_"Spent most of the day annoying Darcy and Daz. Other than that I did some stretches and watched previous Games footage."_

_"Daz?" Pepper asked her in confusion._

_Sinthea smirked. "It's what I call my stylist. Her nickname in the Capitol is Dazzler, so, you know, Daz."_

_The moon was shining high in the sky, but they couldn't see any stars because of the light pollution of the Capitol. It made Sinthea miss her home in District Six just a little bit._

_"So, what are your plans for the Games tomorrow?" Sinthea asked her quietly. "I'd like to help you, you know, get revenge on whoever it is you want revenge on."_

_Pepper looked at her in surprise._

_"Why do you want to help me?" she asked suspiciously._

_Sinthea smirked. "Why not? I know what it's like to want revenge."_

_Pepper looked her up and down long and hard. Could she trust Sinthea? Sinthea looked at her in determination. She wanted to help Pepper._

_"Fine. I plan to head East from wherever the Tesseract is. Meet up with me if you really want to."_

_"Why East?" Sinthea asked her._

_Pepper shrugged. "I don't know. Sounds right."_

_"Cool."_

_Pepper nodded before suddenly remembering something. "Oh! And Tony will be there too."_

_Groaning, Sinthea nodded. "Very well."_

* * *

Sinthea struggled down the road. Her shoulder hurt like hell. She was beginning to lose feeling in her left arm and hand, and she could barely move her fingers. Subconsciously, she wished she was at home, curled up in her ratty bed, ready to face the school day with Brock Rumlow before work that night. School was for all the kids in District Six, but then there was the _School_, which was a very different story. The School for the Gifted. Those kids, like Bruce Banner, were picked out at an early age. She wondered if Bruce had escaped the bloodbath. She kind of hoped so, as he was one of the few tributes she didn't distinctly dislike.

As she turned a corner, she heard a scream that soon fizzled out. It caught her off guard, and for a moment she rushed under cover, gripping her knife tightly and in front of her for protection in case something came towards her. When nothing surfaced, she began moving again. Sinthea wasn't sure why she ran towards the noise, but she did. Because of her injury, the going was tough, and it took her almost twenty minutes to reach the source of the sound. But when she did, she was horrified. She hid it well, though, beneath a mask of sullen sorrow.

Before her on the ground surround by a pool of liquid scarlet was the body of Pepper Potts. If that wasn't bad enough, her two arms had been sawed off by someone, leaving hanging flaps of skin and muscle from where it was disconnected.

Tony Stark knelt behind her, holding her lifeless head. Sinthea, beginning to be overcome by grief and guilt and pain, felt tears stinging her eyes. She walked forward, not even bothering to acknowledge Tony's presence. Dropping to her knees beside the body of her friend, she tried to count the number of slash wounds in Pepper's poor body, but found she could not. There were too many.

"We were supposed to be a team," Sinthea said numbly, coughing out as tears filled her eyes and she began to sway from blood loss and grief. "I was going to protect her."

The pain finally overwhelmed her and it all went black as she fell onto her side.

When she came too, it took a long time for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She wondered where she was, and didn't dare move for fear that someone would jump her. Instead she opened her eyes just barely, allowing them to adjust to the lack of light. She took in the smells around her and almost coughed. There was a musty scent in the air and she thought she heard water flowing somewhere. But where could she possibly be? Then she realized someone was standing over her.

"You awake, Sin?"

The voice sounded weary and sorrowful. It was not at all what Sinthea had been expecting to hear. She had been expecting a maniacal, angry, vicious voice. Someone who would not hesitate to kill her, bit by bit – like what had, no doubt, been done to Pepper. Her arms had been missing! Someone had cut them off!

Sinthea shot up quickly and scooted back, feeling for her knife. When she found it, she held it out in front of her. Sin felt the blood rush to her head and felt slightly dizzy, but she refused to show it.

"Woah," the figure said, holding his palms out. "Calm down. It's me, Tony."

"Where's…?"

"I left her body there," Tony said wearily. "Took you down here instead."

"Where are we?" Sinthea asked cautiously, beginning to let her guard down.

She looked around as Tony replied, "We're down in some kind of sewer system. I found an entrance not far from where she was killed."

Around her Sinthea indeed found the source of the noise she'd been hearing. The water was flowing through the sewer quickly. It was rushing, tossing, turbulent. The smell wasn't oppressive, no doubt because no one had used the sewage system in hundreds of years. Instead it had become a haven for mosses and mushrooms. No doubt there were rats here too. Maybe even bigger animals like feral cats.

"I need to tend to your wound," he said grimly, snapping Sin's attention back to him.

Suddenly an overwhelming sensation of pain rushed through her body as she became aware once again of the arrow wound in her shoulder. She noted quickly that the arrow had been removed, and blood was streaming down her shoulder onto her chest and to the floor. No wonder Tony looked concerned.

"Here," he said. "I was in the middle of wiping it clean when you woke up."

Sin allowed herself to be coaxed back against the wall and relaxed (slightly). She was beginning to feel light-headed again and was worried she'd pass out.

"Talk to me," Tony ordered. "Don't pass out!"

Sinthea rolled her eyes, "I'll do my best, Tech Boy."

Tony reached into the first aid kit he'd gotten from the Tesseract and took out some cloths. He began to wipe Sin's wound. She gasped in pain before biting her lip.

"Tell me something about life in District Six," he prompted her.

Sinthea rolled her eyes, again.

"Nothing's special about Six," she shrugged, causing more pain in her shoulder. "Six is ripe with child labour. Most kids work after school in the factory until nine each night, and on weekends all day."

"Where'd you work?"

"I worked in the biggest transportation factory," she said, nodding. "Started when I was seven."

Tony was intently pressing the cloths to the wound as he reached inside the kit for a needle and thread. Eventually he found what he was looking for.

"I'm going to have to sew it up," he sighed to her.

Sinthea nodded, thinking back to when Crossbones and Sinthea would mend each other's wounds. Sinthea especially got in scrapes that needed repair.

* * *

_"Close your eyes," Crossbones insisted. "It won't hurt as much."_

_"That's bullshit," Sinthea snapped. "It's gonna hurt just as much either way and you know it!"_

_Crossbones rolled his eyes. "Fine, suit yourself."_

_He plunged the needle into the skin along her thigh. She'd gotten a large cut after tripping on some equipment in the factory. Fortunately Brock knew some first aid and they had gone to a small side room to patch her up._

_"Ouch!" Sinthea screamed at him in anger as he drew the needle out and the string through her skin across the cut. _

_Each time the needle went in, she gritted her teeth and refused to say anything. She was a big girl, almost sixteen. It had been a _long_ time since she'd cried, and she didn't plan on starting today. No, she would not cry. She _wouldn't_._

_As Crossbones continued to stitch closed the wound, she bit her lip. It was very painful, every time he would draw on the string it would sting sharply. String wasn't naturally supposed to go through skin. Sinthea reminded Brock of this._

_"Fine," he threw his hands up. "You want me to stop and you bleed to death?!"_

_Sinthea glared at him. "Keep going, idiot."_

_"That's what I thought," Brock nodded._

* * *

"Ready?" Tony asked her hesitantly after he'd cleaned the needle in antiseptic.

Sinthea nodded, closing her eyes this time around. Slowly the needle poked into her skin and she felt the threading floss pull through it. Again, the poke of the needle, and again the pull of the floss rushed through her. And again, and again, until finally Tony had finished patching up the hole. He had to do the other side of her wound afterwards.

Sinthea observed Tony as he cleaned the blood off her shoulder using a wet cloth he'd dipped in the flowing water. The touch of the cool cloth on her heated wound was soothing, and she relaxed ever so slightly at its touch.

"So…" Sinthea ventured as he cleaned up her wound after the sutures. "How did you and Pepper know each other?"

Tony Stark sighed. "I'd known her for a very long time. We used to be best friends."

Sinthea wondered what had gone wrong. She couldn't recall Pepper leaving many hints about what had ended her and Tony's friendship. _Wait…that wasn't entirely true_, she realized. She thought back to the conversation she had shared with Pepper during training.

* * *

_"How about you, did you have simply_ wonderful _parents?"_

_Sin noted that Pepper's eyes grew hard. Her face went cold, covering up a deep sadness inside. Sinthea wondered what that was all about._

_"They were fine."_

* * *

They _were_ fine. Pepper had used past tense. Sinthea had wondered why at the time, and now she wondered if it had something to do with Tony Stark. Of course she had no evidence of this, but it would make sense. After all, the only person she could've known going into the Games would've been Tony Stark. She had volunteered. She wanted revenge.

Revenge on Tony? Maybe…

Tony reached into the first aid kid and took out a cream. Unscrewing the top, he dipped a couple fingers into the white paste and swirled it around. He scooped some out and slowly placed it on Sinthea's skin. She sat shirtless before him with only her bra on to give him better access to her shoulder wound.

She really didn't care about sitting there without her shirt on. After all, either she would die and wouldn't have to worry about it, or, more likely of course, the guy seeing her like this would die, and again, she wouldn't have to worry about it.

The paste was cold to the touch when it was placed on her wound. It tingled, causing her to jump in her seat slightly and she squirmed. Tony pressed harder to keep her still as she let out a shiver involuntarily. Sinthea allowed herself to relax a little more.

Putting away the cream and wiping it off on his clothes from his fingers, he found some clean bandage wraps in the kit. Taking them out, he began to wrap Sinthea's shoulder.

"Why'd you say you _were_ best friends?" Sinthea brought up that topic again as he wrapped her wound.

Tony glared at her but relented. "I did something stupid. That's all."

Sinthea smirked. "Whatever you say, Stark."

It made a lot of sense now. He'd done "something stupid." What could that mean? Could he have contributed to the loss of Pepper's parents? Maybe her parents were still alive but just liked Tony better than Pepper?

_No,_ Sinthea inwardly grinned, _that can't be it. Tony's a stuck up son of a bitch too often._

But maybe something he did had caused a wedge between Pepper and her parents. It was very possible, she supposed. But then Sinthea wondered why he was helping her? Probably out of guilt over Pepper. He most likely felt guilty for whatever it was he had done to her to Pepper herself, or to her parents. After all, guys didn't just help girls – especially not ones they've just met. Even more especially if that girl was Sinthea Schmidt.

Sinthea was not unaware that she was brash, abrasive, borderline abusive, and downright mean. But she was also a clever girl who knew how to get what she wanted. But not around boys. Boys were a mystery to her, really. Too unpredictable.

Like Tony Stark.

"Why'd you help me?" she finally asked him out loud.

Tony shrugged. "I'm not really sure."

Whatever the case may be, Sinthea was now convinced that Tony was the person Pepper had wanted revenge on. It made total sense, really. And Sinthea knew that meant only one thing; Sinthea would need to exact that revenge for her. But for now, for now she would sit and wait, get to know Tony a bit better. Use him as she healed.

After all, if backstabbing a good ally and friend didn't endear her to Thanos and the Games' patrons, she didn't know what would.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	47. Chapter 46: The Puppet Master

**(A/N) Hey all, it's Sunday, and you know what that means – it means a new update for In the End, You Always Kneel! This time, we see the return of everyone's favourite trickster, as Loki and Taila make themselves known. **

**Thanks go out to musicalocelot, sailorraven34 and VengefulVixens for their reviews, and an apology for the errors VengefulVixens pointed out – thanks for letting us know, as they had escaped my attention in the initial edits, but I've rectified them since. Typos and the odd continuity error happen, alas, but we try our best to keep them to a minimum – we'll just be that little bit more vigilant in the future!**

**And now, without further ado, read on!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six – ****The Puppet Master**

**Evening, Day One**

**Loki Odinson of District Twelve**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

"_The basic tool for the manipulation of reality is the manipulation of words. If you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words"__  
_– Philip K. Dick

* * *

Loki was a boy of many talents.

His tutors discovered it when he was a young boy; they witnessed the sharp intelligence hiding behind innocent emerald eyes. They saw the way he harboured secrets, the way he watched and learned before carefully cataloguing everything in the maze of his mind. His father and brother were the next to learn. They learnt in the way he closed off, assessing the situation before showing true colours or – in more cases than one – false colours that swirled and shined to distract you from the lies weaved beneath them.

Of course, Loki was only vaguely guessing his brother had learnt that his sibling was manipulative. Thor wasn't a man of very many words, or brain cells, for that matter.

But the point of the matter was that Loki was near impenetrable. He was a fortress of lies and prettily dangerous words that could knock you down in a moment's notice. He could, and would, take anything life threw at him and he knew it.

Well, he knew it until life threw him Wade Wilson.

"Loki, man, I am not kidding," the teen slurred with a lopsided smile. "There is a wasp on your shoulder."

Sighing, Loki moved to crouch before the sitting boy, smiling at him gently. "There is no such thing on my shoulder Wade," he told him, resisting the urge to frown. "I've all but checked a hundred times."

Wade snorted quietly, looking a little off to the left of Loki's shoulder, muttering under his breath. "Why is it that they never believe me?" he questioned no one, cocking his head as he listened for a reply. "I guess you're right," he conceded before suddenly grinning widely.

Loki cocked a brow before shaking his head shortly, reaching out to peel back dirtied bandages from the delirious teens shoulder. "Hmm," he poked cautiously around the festering wound, wincing in sympathy. "Wade? Does your shoulder hurt?"

Loki spared the teen another look, frowning when the masked boy looked to be glaring behind him. "Wade?"

"The bloody bunnies are back."

"Oh gods, help me," Loki muttered under his breath, lifting a hand to wipe his brow. "Are they now? Perhaps if you sit still for me, I'll give you your swords and you can go catch a few."

The masked teenager considered the offer before looking around. "What do you think..?"

Loki blinked once. "Right," he murmured, effectively deciding to leave the boy to his mind and instead focus on the wound before him.

The injury was oozing bright red blood and yellow pus, looking damn near revolting and more or less infected. Loki then decided that removing the bandage may have been one of his more regretted decisions as of late; right up there with convincing Wade to shed his outer layers.

Now _that_ had been an adventure into the land of the enlighteningly terrifying. Wade, it seemed, had quite the past hidden behind that mask because his body was burnt and scarred to varying degrees. And while each scar piqued Loki's curiosity, he'd been unable to get a straight answer from the feverish boy instead only hearing the boy demand to speak to his manager before giggling deliriously.

Loki was still trying to decide if he liked the boy or not.

"Elektra?" he questioned softly, looking behind him with a practised smile. "Could you please dampen a cloth for me? I might just attempt cleaning this wound," he breathed, wincing at the dribbling blood and the small flash of bone visible whenever Wade moved.

The red headed woman hesitated before nodding shortly, moving further into the Tesseract and hunting down the items requested. Loki watched her move with sharp eyes, studying the body and the mind beneath it while cursing his lucky stars under his breath.

He had learnt quickly that Elektra was more than a little closed off, but it hadn't taken long to learn a rough background for the beautiful fire headed teenager. He wasn't sure if he was correct or not, but murder laced his thoughts whenever his mind drifted to her, the image of her bloody and panting; a body at her feet.

_She's killed once, but can she do it again?_

"Loki," Elektra thrust out the cloth he'd requested, meeting his eyes before grunting quietly and shaking the rag.

Loki smiled back. "Thank you," he nodded once before biting his lower lip as he faced his patient once again.

Hesitantly he pressed the cooled scrap of material against the injury, eyes snapping to Wade's face and studying the expression written over it. He seemed out of it, not paying attention to the real world and instead down in his own. Loki repressed another sigh, beginning to run the rag over the wound and wipe away the fluids gathering in the crook of his shoulder.

"It's infected isn't it?" Elektra's voice broke the silence, hauntingly loud.

Loki blinked at her over his shoulder, another sigh rattling his chest. "Yes, I suppose it is," he murmured, frowning deeply. "His wound is all but festering and he has a fever."

"Is he going to die?"

Loki managed a chuckle – albeit a weak one – as he dropped the towel, leaning back. "Do I look like a doctor?" he asked back, cocking a brow. "It seems most likely, but it will be slow and relatively painless for him in the state he's in... For us on the other hand," he whispered.

Elektra heard the stage whisper, moving closer. "What do you mean? It will be painless for him, but not for us?" she repeated. "How is that possible?"

"Ever heard of a burden, my dear?" Loki asked bitterly, feigning slight shock at being heard. Really, sometimes it was all too easy. "If you haven't, I have an example sitting not three feet from you."

Following his slim finger, Elektra's eyes landed on her delirious district partner. "It will heal though, won't it?" she questioned curiously, peering closer at the wound. Seeing the leaking fluids and reddening flesh only caused her to lean back, swallowing back what was – no doubt – bile.

"It will heal if we manage to not only fight off the infection, but also clean the wound satisfactorily before it escalates," Loki informed her, lips drawing back in slight disgust. "As you can see, neither of those two fronts are going well."

Elektra spoke again, but her voice was expressionless; not sad but not happy either. "So he'll die then?"

Loki forced an apologetic expression onto his youthful features. "You have my condolences," he murmured instead, hoping the woman found his sympathy to be genuine. "I'm sorry that you have to watch this."

The woman snorted, not seeming as sorry as he was. "I barely knew him, and even when we did talk all I wanted to do was rip his tongue out," she hissed, feathers ruffled. "Now, he proves to continue being a problem for me."

Loki only nodded. "I suppose that problem is an apt description," he allowed before throwing the rag onto the mumbling boys lap. "I will just re-bandage this, cleaning it is disgustingly messy." He absently wiped his hands on his pants as he spoke, moving to pour some water over his hands to act as disinfectant.

His hands moved to grab the white roll from the pack to his side, mind going elsewhere as his hands went through the motions of wrapping the shoulder. The others were long gone, hunting through the rubble and half crumbled buildings for innocent people to murder and laugh over, leaving the three behind. Loki wasn't complaining at all, going with them risked an injury to his being and his throat and head were already sore from the red headed boy. Besides, staying here allowed him ample time to weave his way into the mind of the beauty at his side.

Elektra was, as the saying went, a hard nut to crack. When Loki thought he had her cornered, had her weakness in the palm of his hand, she turned the tables on him, spitting up information that confused and confounded him. One thing he knew for certain though was she wanted what his brother had.

The title of Alpha wolf in their little pack.

A small snort brought him back to reality, his companion relaxing more and shooting him a small look. "And you're all about cleanliness, aren't you?" she questioned, gesturing to the white bandages.

"I like _order_," Loki corrected, moving to continue his task. "Organized chaos, you could say."

Elektra smiled, although it was tainted with a bitter edge. "You sound like a benevolent God," she mused before looking away, following the ran-sacked buildings with her eyes. "Always in a form of control even when it seems that you're not..."

Cocking a brow, Loki chuckled under his breath. "Is that so?"

"It is," Elektra confirmed before blinking back her thoughts. "So you don't think his shoulder will heal?"

Loki stopped his absent minded wrapping, studying the wound that was barely visible through the white. The injury beneath was festering, infected and raw... "No. He's a dead weight, but have fun convincing my pig headed brother that he is worth being shed."

Elektra stiffened almost unnoticeably, her shoulders straightening. "He shouldn't be the leader," she murmured quietly, seemingly lost in her own mind.

"No," Loki agreed with an internal smirk. "But who would take charge if not him? We all know Natasha would be more than agreeable with the ranking, but that is because in her own mind she is better than the rest of us. She believes she will win..." Loki smiled blandly when Elektra looked up with curious eyes. "You do not agree?"

She shook her head. "No, you're right," she confessed. "Natasha is a threat to everyone, even herself. She shouldn't be the leader; her heart isn't in the right place."

Loki settled, staring at the wrapped injury on his pack mate's shoulder. "Who then? The man with the bow? Clint perhaps?"

Once again she was wildly shaking her head. "No, he's far too kind...He had the chance to take down Bishop during the bloodbath, and he let her go. Sin had been strangling her, and he took _Sin _down, alright, but just watched Bishop run off."

Loki hummed under his breath. "Like his district partner is harsh, he is kind. Yin and Yang..." he mused carefully. "Brunhilde," he suddenly spoke. "What are her flaws then? She is quite like my brother; a worthy opponent but one designed to follow not lead."

Elektra nodded her agreement, picking at the sole of her boots. "What about you?"

Feigning shock yet again, Loki stuttered. "Oh no, I am not worthy of leadership any more than my brother," he defended. "I may not be built to follow, but I was not made to lead either."

Loki was shocked to receive a small laugh – albeit a non-existent one – from the red head. "No, you were made to watch from the sidelines and take us out in our sleep," she mocked, raising her brows in challenge.

"And now you know why I am not given a watch during the night," he answered seriously, keeping a straight face before grunting as a fist collided with his arm. "Wade," he hissed, narrowing his eyes. "What is it?"

Wade shrugged. "He told me to do it," the boy defended.

Loki resisted the urge to rub at the abused flesh on his upper arm, instead adopting a smooth expression. "Who did?"

"_He_ did."

"And who's he," Loki countered quickly, lifting a brow silently and waiting for his answer. "Well?" But the boy was once again no longer paying attention, instead rambling to himself about bunnies and mutts.

Elektra was watching him carefully. "That looked painful," she spoke, shifting in place. "He didn't exactly hold anything back."

Loki forced a smile onto his features. "I am just counting myself lucky he did not have a blade as you do," he sighed. "Wade is a danger..."

"I know."

Loki looked up at the sharp voice, witnessing the harsh look in dark eyes. "Hmm, then you are the only one in this pack of dogs to show any common sense," he decided, quickly looking to the ground when her eyes shot to him. "Should you... If you should attempt to take the ranking of command from Thor, I would," Loki chewed over his words, feeling her burning gaze. "I would stand behind you, although I doubt that means much."

Holding up a hand, Elektra adopted an almost soft expression. "No, thank you. It's nice to know you believe I would do a better job than your brother."

Hearing footsteps, Loki peered around the delirious boy to his side, watching as multiple figures stalked towards them. "I believe many people are better than that oaf," he mumbled, unsure if his companion heard him or not.

"Loki," Thor called, the others close behind. "You all are well?"

Standing, Loki brushed himself off, careful to avoid the bruise blossoming on his upper arm. "Yes, we're fine," he informed the returning group. "Can you say the same about any of your victims?"

Hearing a sharp snort, he turned, green eyes narrowing on the second red head in their group. "What victims?" Natasha demanded. "Apparently we all played a giant game of hide and seek, and guess who lost?" she hissed, hands tightening on the weapons in her hands.

Feeling malicious, the young Odinson smiled. "You, I'm guessing," he purred, enjoying watching dark eyes light up in anger. "Am I supposed to be surprised?"

"Brother," Thor warned, shaking his head tiredly. "Not now, we are all tired and our nerves are frayed, we need to rest and regain our footing in this world."

The team moved in a disorganized fashion, each milling to surround their weak member while purposefully taking care of themselves first. Loki watched as they all sat down, their backs not bared and their weapons still at their sides despite the _relaxed_ atmosphere. With a raised brow, the green eyed boy noted the archer clinging to Natasha, seeming more worried with her well-being than with his own.

_Interesting_.

Loki dropped himself next to his brother, trying his hardest not to stiffen when the man patted his shoulder comfortingly. "So," he began slowly, blinking lazily. "I take it our kill count isn't exactly something worth writing poems over?" he inquired innocently.

Thor managed a weak chuckle, but something glittered in his eyes. "Not exactly," he admitted.

Humming lowly, Loki looked around the silent group again, cocking his head. "And don't we all seem chipper about that," he noted, once again internally smirking when shoulders tensed and mouths drew in hard lines. "Last year's bloodbath was exactly that, wasn't it? Over half the tributes died within minutes. But we got two, so I suppose all is well."

"All is _not_ well, you little twerp," Natasha growled. "There are still tributes out there with weapons that could be used to slit your pretty little neck."

Thor was tightening his grip on the blunt hammer he'd acquired in a silent threat. Loki saw it all out of the corner of his eye, but leaned forward, smiling brightly. "You think I'm pretty?" he asked, eyes twinkling in mirth as the girl hissed in response.

"Watch it, Odinson," she bit out. "Thor isn't always going to be around."

Loki's lip twitched when his brother stiffened, understanding the threat. "And neither will you," Loki countered smoothly, relaxing and leaning back on his arms calmly.

It was the archer who tensed defensively next, his eyes flicking between Loki and his district partner uneasily. "What happened to the camaraderie of a pack?" he asked slowly. "Aren't we all meant to be singing around the campfire, and roasting marshmallows?"

Loki sighed. "While telling ghost stories and the like?" he finished, rolling his eyes in slight disgust. "It sounds riveting, let me fetch my slippers."

"Hey," Clint narrowed his eyes. "I'm trying to lighten the mood here, you're not really helping," he snapped.

Chuckling, Loki held up his hands in surrender. "Oh forgive me," he breathed. "But marshmallows and singing sounds like a celebratory event to me, and as you can see, we don't have much to celebrate. Unless you count the truly inspiring kills that have occurred to be the cause."

A low growl echoed, and Loki pursed his lips, cocking a brow at the red headed assassin. "Hmm, pull your claws back in kitty, we can sing if you really want too. But I don't think marshmallows will do much for your figure."

"Brother," Thor cried exasperatedly. "Do you enjoy riling others up?"

Loki turned and innocently batted large green eyes. "Riling others up?" he echoed. "I don't understand."

Persuaded by his younger brothers feigned ignorance, Thor ended the conversation with a barked order. "We all need our rest, and pointing the finger at others won't fix what has happened," he reminded them all. "Now, let us eat and relax."

Relax seemed unlikely, Loki's words and smooth threats worrying most. Natasha – bless her heart – was still glaring across at the younger boy, looking ready to tear his throat out with her bare hands. While the notion seemed like a bucket load of fun, Loki wasn't keen to be the source of the next cannon, not while he still had a job to do.

"Do you see anyone at all today?" he voiced. "Or did you encounter no one?"

It was honest curiosity and Brunhilde answered, her voice weary. "No one, it's like a ghost town out there," she shuddered. "It's pretty damned frightening, to speak freely."

Loki cocked a brow, nodding in understanding. "Hmm, it would be," he allowed. "Many of the people out there got high scores did they not? They could prove to be quite dangerous."

Natasha zeroed in on that. "And what, Loki, was your score again?"

"Four, I believe," he smiled brightly. "I am aware yours was higher than my own, so you need not brag. Mine is the lowest is it not? Brunhilde is above me, albeit by merely a few numbers." The girl in question stiffened, her features tightening.

_Bull's eye. Oh the minds of the weak._

"The scores don't mean the world, Loki," she argued weakly. "They're only numbers."

"Numbers that portray your worth," Loki murmured in response, knowing it was setting himself up along with the blonde female. "From where I'm sitting, they seem to mean much more than you assume."

Natasha smirked, the action drawing attention. "You're sitting on a low four," she reminded him.

Turning, he allowed his eyes to meet hers, showing he felt no fear in the situation. "A king sits on his throne by choice," he said cryptically, the corner of his lip twitching up. "I have no quarrel with my score."

"A king..." Natasha mumbled, looking down to the dirt beneath her.

Loki left her to her thoughts, instead turning to smile at his brother. "I must say that hammer of yours has proven useful," he said in an almost friendly matter. "You killed the dark-skinned one with that did you not? After he hurt Wade?"

"I did," Thor announced proudly, the banter between brothers quickly losing the others' attention. "Once I saw our fellow teammate injured I stepped in immediately, slaying the foe."

Loki blinked. "But Wade was still injured."

"Well, yes, brother he was. But I got revenge!" Thor patted the hammer smugly, radiating his pride.

"Huh," Loki muttered before leaning around his brother. "Brunhilde, how many have you killed?" he inquired innocently, large eyes coming into play once again. The blonde may not have been as gullible as his brother, but she had grown up with him and fell victim to his emerald eyes on many occasions.

Natasha spoke up, cutting in with a scathing voice. "She has no kill count."

Loki turned to face the red head, cocking his head curiously. "What about yourself then? I saw you tussling with the Howlett boy; I assume you won, seeing as you stand before me?"

He could practically see her pride crumble slightly, like a decaying wall being prodded. "No. He's alive."

"He won and he let you live?" Loki questioned. "How interesting, perhaps he did not see you as a threat? Or maybe it was Thor who frightened him off?" He shrugged absently, acting as though the conversation meant nothing to him, and his words were not designed to cut deeper than swords.

Standing, Loki preformed a languid stretch. "I take it the food supplies are in the Tesseract? I shall fetch them; is anyone looking to feast on anything particular?" he asked, genuinely intent on ensuring they ate well. "Or perhaps they cannot dine on something else?"

Silence rang back, and Loki frowned, moving to continue on his way. "Wait up, I'll help you," Clint offered, standing and stumbling behind the tall boy. "You're too little to carry enough food for all of us," he teased.

Loki nodded his thanks, wandering away from the group and into the building holding their food supplies. "Or perhaps you simply have a request you did not wish to voice," he offered instead. "I regret to inform you, but we don't appear to have any marshmallows."

"Shame that," Clint noted, moving into the building and digging through the supplies.

They both fell into silence, going through the food supplies and absently pulling out protein and fresh fruit. Loki spared the tanned man beside him a few looks, knowing the boy had come for a reason and just waiting for the red headed woman to be mentioned. It was only a matter of time...

"Hey, Loki, can I ask you something?" Clint finally voiced.

_At least I would be more subtle about it._

Feigning confusion, Loki turned and nodded. "Yes, of course you may. Ask away," he offered pleasantly, picking up a pack of bright red apples.

Clint shifted on his feet. "Natasha is having a bit of a hard time," he managed. "I mean, all of this happening? She's a little confused and frightened, you know?" Sighing, Clint just shrugged helplessly. "I was wondering if you could go a little easier on her. I get that you're just as stressed as she is, but she's having a little trouble coping..."

Loki furrowed his brow, forcing a smile on his face. "I didn't even...You have my sincerest apologies," he offered blandly, hefting his luggage and beginning to move back towards the others. "Come on, we need to feed the pack."

Clint chuckled, moving to follow behind the teenager with food of his own. "Yeah, otherwise they might get a little rowdy," he joked, smiling at the red headed girl as they wandered back into the company of others. "Here, dinner is served guys, eat up."

Loki passed his brother a helping of protein and his choice of fruit before taking some for himself and placing the rest between the others. Once again, silence was the only sound between them, each person busy with filling their stomachs and energizing their actions.

As he ate, Loki caught the less than confidence stance Brunhilde and even his brother were sporting, internally cheering that his tricks had worked. Across from him Natasha was tense, as though more aware of herself and her surrounding than usual while Clint at her side seemed only aware of her.

"If you don't mind me asking," Loki spoke softly, biting into the flesh of a blood red apple. "How long have the two of you been together?"

Clint jerked up, staring at the younger boy with slightly horrified eyes. "What?" he squeaked.

Natasha only stared.

Loki cocked his head once again. "I asked how long the two of you – referring to yourself and Natasha of course – have been together," he rehashed.

"We're not together," Clint muttered, paling slightly as he looked down. His eyes were downcast, and his cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Oh I assumed from the way you were looking..." Loki winced in faux sympathy. "My apologies."

Natasha continued to stare without sound, blinking over at the teenage boy with a knowing look. Embarrassed silence fell once again, but this time everyone avoided each other's eyes, seemingly intent on their own bellybuttons. Loki grinned down into the flesh of his apple, licking his lips before looking up.

_I win._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler , District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	48. Chapter 47: Repeating History

**(A/N) Apologies for the delay guys – Fanfiction picked a wonderful time to crash and make it impossible to log in to update or send out PMs, meaning I couldn't get through my workload at all! However, we're back with what should have been Tuesday's update, so keep an eye out tomorrow for an extra update to make it up to you all. At least we have a great chapter for you here, with **_**plenty **_**for you to sink your teeth into, as Deep and Ororo make their return.**

**Our thanks go out to musicalocelot, Idalove2read and sailorraven34 for their reviews – as I've said many times before, we write in order for our work to be read. That you guys are reading it, and what's more, enjoying it too…well that's pretty much everything to us.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven – Repeating History**

**Night, Day One **

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

_"Most people don't believe something can happen until it already has. That's not stupidity or weakness, that's just human nature."_

– Max Brooks,_ World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War_

* * *

She wasn't supposed to be alive.

And yet, here she was, sitting precariously on the first floor ledge of a building that made old-man creaking noises without any assistance, and noticeably groaned when a foot was wrongly placed. There were no panes of glass gracing the ledges of the building, but the cool night air slid past the boards that had been carefully placed haphazardly across the open space. From the ground, it was difficult to see into the building, though Ororo could see right down the end of the road from her perch.

_A murder hole,_ she thought, her arms wrapped around her knees as she leaned against the wall of the building, careful not to place any weight on the wooden boards. _That'd be a way to go,_ she growled in her head. "Eleven's tribute too stupid to survive against wood."

"Everything okay over there?"

The girl jolted in her seat, the building giving a little warning groan, and she snapped her head over to where _he_ was. She hadn't realised she'd spoken aloud until he'd made a comment, and now she had no idea how to respond to his question. _Was_ everything okay over where she sat? Ororo turned her head down to the street, mostly dark and obscure and sinister, examining it for movement. She was good at spotting things, good at noticing hidden things in the shadows. Earlier on she'd seen animals, herding together down the back alleys that they'd past by, but she didn't think her companion had spotted them. It made her wary, wondering if he'd been able to spot tributes if he was on watch.

"No tributes around," she replied eventually. "Guess the Pack haven't started hunting yet." She kept her words deliberately on the side of the obvious 'okay', because Ororo would definitely assume that someone who was talking to themselves was on the side of 'not-okay'. The boy grunted in response, and she was glad that for the moment, he was content not to press her. As he turned back to what he had been doing – checking the closets and cupboards for any items – Ororo observed him with a critical eye.

Steve Rogers was tall, athletic and muscular in a way that made his clothes ripple when he moved and spoke of strength. Earlier in the day he'd shrugged off the outer jacket of their outfits, and Ororo had given a small, indiscernible nod of appreciation. That had been about as far as that sort of appreciation extended in the girl's mind – since the younger had more important things to think about, like staying alive, than becoming a giggling mess over some white boy's muscles. She was _not_, after all, anything like Cecilia, who despite her blatant prejudice towards Forge, had definitely been caught more than once ogling her friend in the sun.

So instead of thinking about that sort of thing, she thought about Steve's reasons for saving her earlier on in the day, when she should have come twenty-fourth in this year's Games, as she had predicted.

She failed to think of any sound, logical explanation.

She turned her head away from her ally, back down onto the street, and drew her legs closer to her chin as the shadows lengthened on the ground, and dusk began to fade into the murky blackness of night. She wasn't sure whether she should be grateful or not that there was no movement out on the streets outside. No movement, after all, meant that no one had followed their trail, which was a good thing, of course. No movement meant no Pack. _Or worse,_ a tiny voice in her head chipped in. _No Cletus either._ Ororo gave a small gulp at the thought, trying to laugh off the voice that was convincing her that _one_ young teenager was more frightening than a whole _pack_ of older tributes. The laugh in her head was hollow and empty, and left a pit in her stomach that carved out a greater hole than her hunger.

She was no stranger to hunger, and she could ignore the occasional gurgle her stomach gave. It was a feeble protest at best; she had heard it give far more spectacular growls back home in Eleven. She gave a small smile each time it happened, knowing that if the camera was pointing at her, and she complained, she would subject her Nanny to loud caterwauling and shouts at the television from her brothers and sisters. _She just got a whole _week_ of Capitol food,_ she thought, attempting a Jericho impersonation, her inner voice failing. _She needs to learn to suck it up,_ she agreed in Rambeau's voice, the smile slowly fading from her face as she struggled to recall the sounds of her family. She tried to think about how Chord sounded. _Firm,_ she told herself, _and strong. Distant, but caring._

"Do you have anyone at home?" she asked suddenly, flipping her head back around to Steve, trying to bring the smile back to her face and failing. It didn't really matter though, she conceded, since the light was fading so he probably wouldn't see it. "I mean, I know you have your friend –"

"Bucky," Steve supplied almost automatically, his body still in a mid-crouch.

"– Yeah, him. Well I guess he's enough," she continued with a nod to herself. "I was just wondering...can you tell me what he sounds like?"

"Uh..." The teen looked a little confused by the question, which she thought was appropriate, since in the reverse situation, she'd be a little perplexed as well.

"I have a person – Misty – and she always says things like; _Don't you know that your hair is funny looking, Wormy?_" She made her voice more high-pitched and cheerful, acting oblivious to the clear insult. Across from her, Steve's look had changed from confused to bemused.

"Wormy?" he asked, honing in on her words, and Ororo gave a few nods to show that he had indeed heard correctly.

"Yeah, Wormy, it's what they used to call me because of..." she trailed off, clamping her jaw shut deliberately, her eyes widening ever so slightly. She could picture Everett standing in front of her, hands on his hips and then throwing them into the air. _Ororo, you have just _ruined_ your image, blabbing out the wrong story,_ he'd say. She had forgotten what she was supposed to say when it came to her eye, but there was no T'Challa around to remind her gently. There was just her, and Steve, and he was no good at telling her the cameras were watching. "Never mind, it's your turn. Who've you got?"

"Let's see." Steve seemed content to let her unfinished sentence remain in the past, and she watched him rack his brains for a long moment. Then he gave a small smile to the younger, and dipped his head. "_Why, you must be Miss Ororo; my, aren't you looking lovely in rust?_" The girl cocked her head to one side, biting her lower lip in attempt to stop the smile curling up.

"That...That was...umm...very good..." A small giggle escaped her. "Were you...umm...were you trying to be a girl?" Steve gave a little nod, his eyes a bit uncertain. "Oh! Then..." Ororo paused, wondering if he had ever tried to mimic people before, since he was especially awful at it, then flashed him a smile. "I guess you win then – I could never do a boy."

"My ma always calls the nice ones 'Miss'," he said, looking almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. Ororo nodded in a knowing way, definitely not guessing the correct owner of the mimicked voice, and swung her legs around, hopping off the ledge and surveying the room critically.

"Well, you win a prize. Let's see, what would be fitting for a District Five trib –"

_Boom._

Ororo froze as the cannon rang out in the arena, and everything that had been so carefully held at bay came flooding back into her head and her calm island was washed away.

* * *

"_What are you doing?" she asked, as her companion bent down for another time to pick up bits of rubble and stones and scatter them in a seemingly random fashion. Steve was silent while he worked, and Ororo cast a look back the way they had come. It was quiet behind them now; they had been walking for what she thought was hours, and the rush of fear-fuelled adrenaline had long since faded from her body, leaving her drained. It wasn't the physical tiredness she felt from her work in the orchards, or the long walk from school home, but the mental fatigue that she had experienced previously after the Reaping, or when she had been left alone in the orchards for the night. Her mind ached, if not her body. She wanted to stop, now that it was quiet, now that they could no longer hear the shouts from the Tesseract, now that there was no one around them that was dying._

_Aside from some scratches and a pain in her arm from where Steve's shield had glanced off her, Ororo was unscathed. _Better the glancing blow than what was coming,_ she told herself firmly, her heart making a weak attempt to speed up, and she turned away from the Tesseract's direction, and back to Steve, who had straightened up, gesturing with his hands at his handiwork._

"_It's a signal," he explained finally. "Take a step back, and have a look." The girl had been too wound up to ask before, but now she shuffled back a few paces, and tilted her head to view the stones with a different perspective. It took her a moment, like when she was trying to pick out the stars at night, or the knots in the ceiling of her room; a few seconds for her eye to adjust from seeing nothing to suddenly everything falling into place. A constellation...a Steve pattern...it was a crude representation, but the patterns the stars made could hardly be called detailed by Ororo, so she could appreciate the rough beak and the rigid wings of S.H.I.E.L.D's emblem. In amongst the street litter though, it was subtle and any other tribute would most likely just walk past it._

"_Oh! Is this for Carol?" Steve gave a small nod in affirmation; the little conversation that had past between them before had informed Ororo that the other District Five tribute was supposed to be part of their alliance. Not that Ororo had known that she was _in _an alliance. _Bet this was Sam's idea,_ she grumbled to herself. _Thinking the Five-Eleven combination will have a good outcome again._ She wasn't sure if Quill had had to be cajoled into it, and she didn't want to ask Steve. She had liked Peter in Eric's Games – not enough to want him home instead of her brother, but enough to smile at his jokes – and she thought – no, knew – that Peter had liked Eric. So it would stand to reason that he had approved the match, even if it was throwing the youngest tribute in._

"_We decided before the launch, last night," her ally said. "We'd head east, and leave these along the way, whoever got away first. I've been looking out to make sure she's not ahead of us, but it doesn't seem to be the case." Ororo's eyes widened at the words._

"_I didn't say anything like that to T'Challa!" she exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth to quiet herself. "I didn't think we'd get separated. I thought we'd be together, and the arena's so big..." She trailed off, thinking about earlier, when she'd looked back on Steve's shoulders to see her district partner glance her way before squaring off against the two Careers, buying them some time. "He saw us leave though...do you think he'll remember which way we went?"_

"_I...he'll know which way we went," Steve said, his voice the calm and quiet tone she remembered from their brief conversations. "He'll know you're safe." He began to walk again, always away from the Tesseract, leading the way. After a moment, Ororo followed, adjusting the backpack on her shoulders, content to walk in his shadow._

"_I wish I knew if he was safe."_

* * *

_He _has_ to be safe,_ she thought to herself, as another resounding _boom_ rolled across the Arena, unfreezing the girl from her position. She felt as though a wind had caught her from underneath, propelling her forward, and she dashed towards the stairs, the creaking and groaning of the building around her lost in the fading cannon echo. She almost reached the stairs, and even had her hand stretched out to grasp the long-decayed banister, when her ally appeared, blocking her way through sheer mass.

"Steve, _move_."

"Where are you going, Ororo? You can't go onto the streets, it's too dangerous." Steve crossed his arms, intensifying his intimidating look. Ororo twisted her head back to where the stairs to the next level used to be; even with her astounding climbing skills – that impressed the Gamemakers _so_ much – she wouldn't make the spring.

"Gotta go," she said brusquely, trying to sidestep around Steve, who only had to move about a millimetre to bar the path again.

_Boom._

"Steve, you can't see the sky from here," she growled, struggling to keep her temper under control, and not launch it into the boy who saved her life. _That's three,_ she thought, as the cannon sound faded. She wasn't sure how many more there'd be, but she had to see the faces; she had to know who hadn't made it. She had to know if T'Challa was still alive.

"You're not going out," he stated firmly, and Ororo fixed him a glare with both good and bad eye.

"Try and stop me," she hissed, feinting to the right and launching herself at the stairs on Steve's left. The boy caught her mid-jump, hooking his arms around her like a straight-jacket, and for the briefest moment, Ororo panicked, and thought he was going to squeeze her tight enough to pass out. Then she'd have to spend all night wondering and waiting. She took a breath. _Not going to happen._ The failed leap gave her a bit of momentum, and she swung upwards, bringing her arms sharply out, loosening his vice grip on her torso. Steve made a small noise of surprise as her elbows drove back into his gut, and dropped her onto the lower step. She sprang away from him, her feet light on the stairs as her ally attempted to figure out what had just happened and buying Ororo a few seconds to get ahead. _Thank you, Forge._

_Boom._

The cannon sound rolled off into the distance as Ororo burst from the ground floor and out onto the streets of the Arena, and from unseen speakers, the Marvel anthem began, signalling the end of the death toll. She looked up into the sky, breathing a sigh. She thought it might have been from relief, which was an incredibly stupid thing to feel, since the images hadn't even played yet. _Almost as stupid as death-by-wood,_ she thought, the brief rush of adrenaline making her giggle slightly. There were only four. Only four people gone and snuffed out in the blink of an eye. As the anthem blared, Ororo made a quick wish to whatever Gods Nanny had wanted to be the perpetrators of her eye; _Cletus, Thor, Sin...Eight. Cletus, Thor, Sin, Eight. Cletus. Tho – _

The red-headed girl that appeared in the sky was not one of the people on her list in her head. Ororo craned her neck to get a better view as the words **'Pepper Potts, District Three' **appeared underneath the girl. Beside her, she heard Steve's boots crunch up beside her, doing a terrible job of keeping quiet; not that quietness would help them if someone were to stumble across them, since the lights that focused on Pepper's face lit the whole street up, more than any of the lamplights combined. They were sitting ducks, if someone found them. _Poor Tony,_ she thought, as the determined features of the fiery red-head faded from the sky. She had only spoken to Pepper once, she thought. Her nose scrunched up a little as she took a moment to process that. _Had_ she spoken to Pepper, or had she only eavesdropped on conversations, and pretended to be a part of them to anyone who looked over? That latter seemed more likely.

But she had spoken to Tony. She _liked_ Tony. She liked the boy from Three who had helped her with electrics, something which would be far, far more helpful than everything she had told him about poisonous and edible plants. So she felt bad for him, wherever he was in the Arena, and hoped that he hadn't been looking up at the sky to see the face of the girl whom he loved, and she seemed to hate right back. _Poor Tony,_ she thought again, as another face began to materialise. Beside her, Steve was silent, but his whole body was rigid with tension. Ororo felt a small pang of regret for her unprovoked attack toward him, knowing that he was only trying to help her. The pang quickly faded away as Steve relaxed, the face appearing not that of Carol, but of the Eight girl that Ororo couldn't put a name to.

She didn't feel like sticking her tongue out at the white streak of hair anymore.

The pang replaced itself with a growing anxiety in her stomach as **'Anna-Marie Adler, District Eight'** began to fade from the sky. None of the Careers had died in the Bloodbath. Two tributes from the remaining four districts hadn't made it, and the list dwindled ever so slightly when Ororo took herself out, knowing that she was alive. She didn't want one of the faces up there to be Kate either; Kate had been nice. She _liked_ Kate, just like she liked Tony; perhaps not enough to want T'Challa dead over the two of them, but enough that she didn't want them dead just yet. _Don't be T'Challa. Please. Please don't._

"Don't be T'Challa," she whispered out loud, repeating it over and over as another girl appeared in the sky, the second red-head, her blue tattoos even more stark against the night sky and the blinding lights. **'Raven Darkholme, District Ten'** was written underneath; Ororo wished it had been the other Ten tribute, that she could point and laugh at Cletus' dead face in the sky, and be able to do that every night until the day she died and went and joined him in the death list. She could laugh at him and stick out her tongue and say '_No dark meat for Cleeeeeeetusususus'_. She couldn't do that with Raven. _What a waste,_ she thought, sighing as Steve put a hand on her shoulder, not having to reach very far.

Raven faded from the sky, and the final person appeared.

_No._

"No. No, no, no, no, no."

T'Challa stared out into the distance, his eyes slightly downward as though he was looking at Ororo and Steve standing in the street, the younger whispering the same word repeatedly as she gazed transfixed on her district partner's face. Steve's hand squeezed her shoulder gently as her face scrunched up and grew hot and bothered, and her shoulders sagged. Somewhere in her head she thought that T'Chaka would probably be proud of the portrait and how his son carried himself; even in stillness the Black Panther held a certain prowess, befitting one of his stature in the districts. She stared at the portrait, swaying slightly on the spot in illogical disbelief. It couldn't be T'Challa, dead on the first day, looking down at her with that small little half-smile that he used to disguise his true intentions and emotions.

As the portrait began to fade, Ororo took a step forward, as though it would help her see it better and for a longer time, tracing the look T'Challa wore. What had he been thinking, when they had taken the shot? Ororo knew she had probably not shown herself in a pretty light, a fierce scowl on her face, nostrils flared as the Capitolite made her anger apparently 'work'. T'Challa had no anger on his features, though she knew he could hide it well. He had hid his fear from her, his fear of the Games, his fear for her, his fear for his people. He could hide anger just as well most of the time. All Ororo saw as he disappeared from the sky was determination.

_We are Eleven, T'Challa. You will not be forgotten by our people._

"Ororo, we should go back inside." Steve's voice broke through her thoughts, and she realised she had long since stopped muttering under her breath, but was still staring at the spot in the sky stonily, her arms hanging at her sides. She was not supposed to be here. It should have been Steve speaking to T'Challa, and the roles reversed. T'Challa was _good_ with weapons, and silence and stealth. A candidate to root for by the Capitolites who liked an underdog – an underdog with a reasonable chance of earning them money, unlike Ororo. She gave a slow nod, and turned away from the sky which had grown from the bleeding dusk to velvety blackness while they had been standing in the street. It was well and truly night now.

_Red sky at night, shepherd's delight,_ Ororo thought to herself, leading the way back to their hideaway. _Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning._ Nanny's words came back to her, and she gave a small snort at it. _The shepherd is a psycho._ She climbed back up the stairs to their vantage point, zipping up her jacket as she went, the night bringing a sudden drop in temperature that was most certainly Gamemaker-induced. She moved back over to her little ledge, and returned to the same position she had been in before she had elbowed Steve and known that her partner was dead.

Only, it was difficult to think about anything else, now that she knew the truth. Ororo hugged her knees a little tighter to her chest, making it hard to breathe – but wasn't it supposed to be like that? She remembered watching Eric die, and the deep pain in her chest that came with the image. She didn't feel that at the moment, but if she didn't feel it, then she would be just like the shepherd, or Cletus, and a psychopath, so she forced herself to feel the pain of losing T'Challa, mimicking the pain of Eric. Inside it was a lie; her mind was clearly anchored to her calm island, and there was no storm to warrant elbowing people in guts or yelling at the night sky.

The Capitol though, loved a good show, and the poor little black girl from Eleven hyperventilating was definitely 'good'.

Steve had gone back to tinkering away at their supplies, which was a lot less sophisticated than Three's elegance, and mostly involved poking items with fingers and sticks. Ororo wondered what he was thinking about, and whether it was the same page of their crossover that she was on. She gave a small sigh in between the violent breaths. Steve didn't have to save her from the Careers. They had interacted at only brief intervals during their time at the Capitol, and even a mentor suggestion meant nothing once launch happened. The shield that protected her from the hammer she had seen coming, but had expected it to be too late; Thor had lumbered up on her blind side, and his awkward movements had only registered in her head when she'd reached the backpack. In a flat out race, she could have easily outstripped him.

She crunched lower to her knees, recalling the muscle spasms of fear that had rooted her to the spot for precious seconds that could have enabled her to get away. They had gone away as the blonde boy raised his weapon, and she had turned to face him, screaming, because she was going to die, and she had wanted him to see her face snarling at him, instead of cowardly killing her while she crouched on the ground. She was Eleven, and a Lost Girl, and none of the Lost Children went down in fear.

* * *

_She was trying to be very quiet, which was hard, because her breathing was a lot louder than necessary in such a place. Her feet crunched softly into the ground, caked in soil and dirt which helped the quiet footfall, and her heart hammered in her chest. She could feel her blood rushing around her body, hearing her heart in her head as she moved. She was familiar with the place, especially in the day time, from playing hide-and-seek with her family and helping during the harvest, but it was different at night, when the only source of light would mean death if she went near it. The Sentinels' rotating lights lit up occasional sections of the orchard, but she knew better than to go near them. It wasn't the lights she was worried about, though they didn't help._

_The lights threw up warped and twisted shadows, the shapes resembling clawing hands, and though she told herself that it was just tree branches, Ororo clamped her hand over her mouth more than once to stop herself from yelling out in fear. The orchards were not friendly or familiar at night with the rotating beams, but the quiet rustle of the trees was a far better noise to hear up close than the alternative._

_She flinched as the barking behind her grew louder, and turned to glance behind, to see how close they were to where she stood. The shadows didn't help, and she struggled to stay calm as she debated whether it was a rock or a hellhound behind her. Deciding on the latter just in case, Ororo took off, whatever reprieve she had earned lost almost immediately as her lungs clogged up with a lack of air. Her feet were light, but her breath was heavy, and she was tired. She didn't know what time it was, but it had felt like hours since Eric had left her alone with a shaking head and a few words of advice. _Run,_ she thought, repeating his words, _and climb.

_Well, she had been running for a long time now, and was starting to think the dogs looked like a pretty good way to go._

_But as soon as the barking started, and the howls, she had quickly dismissed the idea of 'Ororo dying at the paws of mutts'. So she ran, and had climbed initially until a small pack of them had surrounded the tree she'd been in, and looked dangerously close to making a tower to reach her. Then she ran through the trees, and once she'd lost them, ran on the ground, because the ground was far easier than the branches to run through. The orchards had long tracks between them, good for running and not getting snagged, but it meant it was good for the dogs too, so she had to keep running and listening for the barking. It was close now. _Too close, _she told herself, and a wave of fear crashed over her, but instead of telling her to run, it told her to freeze, and the precious few seconds it took for her to realise her mistake were enough for the barks to change to growls._

_She turned back to face them, the growling beasts that were better than any Sentinel for finding orchard thieves, because they had hunger to fuel them on. _No sudden movements,_ she thought, wondering if all they were going to find of her in the morning were bits and pieces. She took a slow step back towards the trees, flinching as the dogs mirrored her movement. She thought she could make it to the tree, to climb before they tore her apart and run away in the branches. So she made the mistake of breaking eye contact and glancing to judge the distance from her safety._

_The leader was on her before she fully looked back. She hit the ground screaming, dirt and saliva spraying into her face, and as she felt the hot breath, her fear melted away with the knowledge she was going to die. Without the fear, she had a moment of clarity; she had only a few seconds before the others tore her apart at the legs. On autopilot, her legs snapped up to her chest under the dog, and her arms reached up, hands clamping down on the muzzle. Another couple of seconds were bought, and Ororo twisted her head from side to side searching for a weapon of some sort while the dog was occupied briefly by the constriction. Her eye met a fallen piece of fruit and she took a breath. In one movement she released the muzzle, kicking her knees out at the underbelly of the dog and flinging her hand to one side, snatching the fruit from the ground. The dog lunged for her, hairy and huge and monstrous, and she shoved the apple and her hand into its jaws, wiggling out from under it as it started heaving. _

_The subordinates unsure of protocol hesitated, and Ororo took her chance and leaped for the tree, scaling it quickly as the leader coughed and spluttered and tried not to suffocate. She left her tree, moving from branch to branch, and with the movement, the fear of dying returned._

* * *

The blow she had received didn't feel like a hammer; it was body-encompassing, and part of it felt more metallic. Her eye was covered by a round heavy item, and the rest of her was wrapped awkwardly in the Five boy. It wasn't exactly an apple, since said boy heaved up and pushed Thor away, but as soon as T'Challa had raced over to the two, and Ororo had clambered onto Steve's back – the boy playing the role of both apple _and_ tree – the fear she had lost when staring at Thor had coming flooding back, and she had clung to the other tribute, looking back only once as two Careers advanced on her district partner and his blades.

Steve had been her saviour in this, and she owed him a debt that she wasn't sure how she could ever repay in the situation they were in.

Thor was the mangy dog who had survived the apple.

Ororo's hands clenched into fists at the thought. T'Challa was dead, which meant that the blonde boy was probably still very much alive. _I hope he got you in the gut,_ she thought fiercely. _I hope he got you good, so you don't die quick but real slow and sore._ She frowned to herself as the words appeared in her mind, dancing in front of her little island and blocking the way to its calm shores. She'd created a storm in her head, and she didn't like it. She wasn't the sort of person who went around wishing for slow and painful deaths. She was the kind of person who after a night being chased by dogs, she returned to the scene the next day to make sure she hadn't killed the animal.

_I hope he got you at least a little,_ she thought again, pushing away the hate speech. _But when you die, it's quick. _She was still allowed to blame him though. She had, she decided, a right to that. With the decision to be not too angry with Thor made, Ororo let out a slow breath, her fists uncurling, and her body easing into a more relaxed position. She peered out through the wooden planks, back down to the street.

"What do you think makes some of the lights work?" she asked suddenly, a small smile forming as Steve jerked slightly in surprise.

"Hmm?"

"Out there," she elaborated. "Some of them are still on. I don't think your district is powering them."

"No, I don't think so; Five might send me secret messages after all." Steve stood up gingerly, and stepped over the creaking floor to where she sat, bending down to look out the murder holes. Ororo watched his eyes flit from light to occasional light and then tilt up towards the left. "My guess is some of them are solar powered, so the heat from earlier gives them the energy for the night. Some of them are off because I don't think the Gamemakers would like us to see everything. Right?"

"Right," she answered slowly, not sure if his last question was directed at her or Nick Fury's minions. "It does cast some nasty shadows. T'Challa would have liked that." Steve opened his mouth like he was about to say something to her, but seemed to change his mind at the last second, and shut it tight, merely nodding. He moved back to the backpack and their pitiful supplies, and resumed his examination of the gear. The silence stretched out between them once more, Ororo's gaze moving from the street to Steve and back again, wondering if she should say something to break the quiet. She thought back to Eric's Games, struggling to remember his first night with Quill when they had formed an alliance. Had it been quiet? Had Eric been thinking about his district partner, like she was? Ororo was pretty sure it had been a talkative affair; Star Lord was not a shy man.

"Did you like District Eleven?" It was Steve that broke the silence this time, and Ororo to jump.

"It was hot," she said after a moment. "Around as hot as it is here, I guess. But there's lots of trees in Eleven, so you can get some shade. Everywhere outside the orchards is sandy and dry; desert country that you don't really see on television during the Victory Tours. And there can be a breeze that smells like oranges and lemons when it blows in just the right direction." She paused for a moment, breathing in the imaginary citrus fruits, and then turned to Steve. "Have you ever eaten a lemon?"

"No, but I'll put it on the list. We don't get a lot of fruit in Five." Ororo gave a nod of understanding, and then another small smile.

"We don't get a lot of power in Eleven. Do you know what to do with the battery?"

"Ororo, you're the one that wanted to carry the battery," Steve pointed out. "You didn't ask yourself why?"

"Well, I would know what to do with it, if you could figure out how to turn it on," she said in return. "_You're_ the power guy; I'm just the one with the plan...once you turn it on. Tony didn't show me _these_ kind of batteries." Steve gave a small sigh, shaking his head at her words.

"Well, I'm going to be honest, I've never seen one of these either. It's an old model. A _very _old model." His forehead creased up slightly, wrinkling his face, and the girl grinned at him.

"Older than you, you mean?" She nudged him with her elbow, this time less injury-inducing, and Steve shot her a dry look.

"Yes. If you can fathom that, Ro." He fell silent again, moving the battery around in his hands while Ororo processed what he had just said. As his thumb ran over one of the many raised parts with an odd looking symbol on it, he broke out into a grin. "Hey, I think I recognise this sign! It can make the battery register cur – What's wrong?" The grin faded from his face as he looked up at her, concern chasing it away along with other mixes of emotions, and he made to reach out to her, hovering his hand at the last second. "You okay?"

"You called me Ro," she said slowly, tilting her head like she was trying to get a better look into Steve's head. Confusion replaced concern on his face.

"Oh. Would you...prefer Ororo?" It was nice to be asked her opinion on a nickname for once. It wasn't as though she had to think about it all that much, but it made her like Steve just that little bit more than before. He was gentlemanly, and kind. _White T'Challa,_ she thought, recalling her earlier musings with a mound of sadness that she kept away from the surface. She shrugged instead.

"No. You can call me Ro. Beats Wormy anyways," she replied, watching the puzzlement slowly leave his face. "You figured out how to turn it on?" she continued, pointing at the battery and reverting back to their conversation. Steve nodded, fingering the oddly designed button.

"You switch this one, I think, and it creates the current that the power can feed through. We've nothing to make a current at the moment though, so I don't know if it even works anymore." Ororo nodded in vague understanding. "So, have you come up with the plan yet?" She crossed her arms at the question, unable to stop the scowl forming on her face.

"No, but I will. It takes a leader time to come up with a great plan." Steve raised his eyebrows at the words.

"You're the leader?" he asked, his forehead creasing again, this time in what she perceived to be scepticism.

"I could be a leader, if I wanted to be. But, I don't really want to be leader right now, so I guess I'll let you give the orders." She kept her arms crossed, but there was no bite in the words. She had never planned on being a leader in the Arena. She didn't mind following orders, or getting things delegated to her. T'Challa was supposed to be the leader in the Games though, not Steve. She gave another small sigh. "We can leave the battery behind if you want," she relented.

She had come across the battery hours ago when Steve had been making a S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol for Carol to follow, and she had been keeping watch, flitting in and around the rubbish bins and other hiding spots. She was supposed to be looking for tributes that wanted to kill them, but her eyes had been looking for dark skin, not light, so it hadn't been relief, but disappointment she had felt every time she reported back to Steve. As they'd moved further from the Tesseract, her watching had also transitioned into food-seeking.

She'd started checking bins carefully, staying out of the buildings just in case the Gamemakers had left them deadly surprises. If she _had_ found something to eat in them, she didn't think she'd tell the Five boy _where_ she'd found it; Steve didn't strike her as a bin-eater. Instead of food, however, one of the bins had yielded the battery. Ororo probably would have left it in the rubbish, and skipped back to Steve to report an 'all quiet' once more, but something made her pause. She hadn't been able to quite put her finger on what it was – something Tony might have said, perhaps, or an off-hand comment about the fruits of bins she remembered from her siblings – but when she'd touched it, a shock had gone through her like a little bolt of static lightning.

So she had half-clambered into the bin to fish it out whole, and lugged it back to Steve, and then he had carried it along in addition to the shield, while she resumed watching and invested in a small rusted bar she found in another alleyway.

"Naw, we can keep it," Steve said, breaking into her thoughts. "We'll figure out how to use it someway."

"We could always chuck it real hard at someone," she suggested with a shrug, eliciting a low laugh from the boy.

"Let's keep that as 'Plan B'. Or 'M', if possible." The silence stretched between them once more, and Ororo searched for things to do to keep herself occupied and away from dwelling on the loss of her district partner. It was better, she knew, not to think too hard on the empty space beside her where she expected T'Challa to be. It was better not to think too hard about the manner of his death, which based on previous bloodbaths could be swift and bloody, or slow and bloody. It was better to focus on the future, however small that was, and the present, where the darkness signalled the start of the hunt.

It was hard to think of things to do, though, when Steve had finished up with the battery and now moved to her murder holes, examining them as he had the battery. She knew that he hadn't exactly been happy when she suggested to stop in the rickety old building. Her defence had been that no one else would want to go in, so they'd be safe for the night. Steve had argued that no one else would want to go in since the building was a death trap. He had eventually fallen victim to pleading eyes, Ororo making her good eye as pitiful as her bad, and relented. Tomorrow – if they were alive – he would not fall for the same trick, and if they went up a level from the ground, she knew he'd definitely make sure it was secure.

Her eyes fell on the shield, where he had left it hollow-side up on the ground. She sank to the floor beside it, sitting cross-legged and pulling it onto her lap with the thick straps. She blew the small bit of dust that had already speckled it away, and rapped her knuckles against the metal. The pitch changed as she moved around the curve, the shield vibrating what she deemed a pleasant hum with each crack on the thinner outer rims, while the thicker inside yielded no sound at all, though the vibration continued.

"T'Challa knew what this was," she said aloud, continuing the rap either side of the shield, and a small smile formed.

"Hmm?" Steve crossed back over to her, and she looked up, gesturing to the shield with the smile still in place.

"You better hold on to this shield, Leader," she warned. "'Cause once the Pack figures out you got yourself a vibranium weapon, you're going up on their list of targets. And I would prefer _you_ with it, than _them._" She rapped her knuckles against the floor, and then the metal again to demonstrate. "See? No sound, like my bracelet."

"I see." Ororo wasn't sure if he _did_ see. Or hear.

"This shield is up there with that hammer. Must have been near the centre; T'Challa was _fast._" She gave an admiring whistle for her partner. "And that big whack that Thor gave it earlier? That's made it stronger. Forge says that's why your big power stations never blow up; all the sound they make strengthens the metal." She tapped the shield.

"Oh." She thought he might have understood now. "That'll be good defensively and offensively, Ro." The girl nodded at the words, hoping she would be on the defensive side of that statement. She wasn't sure if it was pure vibranium, since it did make a little sound, but she was glad she'd figured it out. The shield reminded her of home. She scrunched up her face a little, turning away from Steve as home floated around her head.

"You should get some sleep; use the blanket and the shield," she said, not looking at him but folding her hands onto her hips in an authoritative manner.

"Shouldn't _I _be the one saying that?"

"Nu-uh, Leader gets the first sleep. Don't worry, I promise I won't stab you in your sleep." She kept the smile on her face, going back to the murder holes and picking up the rusty iron.

"Not that you've anything to do that with," he filled in, continuing to hesitate.

"Look, something comes in, I'll holler. You heard me scream before; I think you'll wake, Leader." She tapped the iron against the flat of her free palm, staring at him pointedly. "Don't feel like sleeping yet, anyway."

"Alright." It clearly grieved him to say it, though Ororo had thought she'd have to do the pleading eyes with him again. "Wake me when the moon's high, Ro. And I don't think 'Leader' is all that great of a name."

"Fine. King? Sergeant? President..._Captain._" She flashed him a smile. "Goodnight, Steve."

It took him a long time before his deliberately slow breaths became the deep breathing of sleep. Ororo wondered what he was dreaming about, if he dreamed at all. She wasn't sure she'd be able to dream of home, though home was lurking very close to the forefront of her mind. She sighed to herself. Any time she thought about her district, it wasn't imagining herself back there, and she didn't think dreaming would yield a sweeter, more fanciful result. Steve though...She shook her head, dispelling any idea of what the victor of their Games would be.

_Nanny would say that's terrible bad luck,_ she thought, thinking of the woman's face that had long ago replaced the one of her mother's. _See a pin and let it lay; bad luck you'll have all the day._ Looking out the murder holes, Ororo couldn't see any people, let alone lucky items lying on the ground. She wasn't sure what Nanny would say regarding that, but it would probably be unlucky, seeing nothing. She'd said that before, returning from school empty-handed with nothing and no one in tow to present to Nanny. Peter always brought something home for Nanny, before he grew up and had to leave. No one had ever matched Peter.

"Nothing is unlucky," she whispered aloud.

The door below her creaked.

Ororo clapped her hands over her mouth, nearly dropping the iron bar in the process, and her eyes snapped down to the street below, where the shadows were suddenly rabid beasts that had come to eat her. There was definitely movement down there though, she was certain. _Stupid eye,_ she hissed in her head, swearing at her blind spot. The door creaked again, and this time the moving shadow left the street and entered the building.

Light-footed and silent, Ororo slipped off her perch, and carefully stepped across towards the stairs, gripping her iron bar. The stairs looked just as uninviting as it had when she and Steve had climbed up it. She glanced over at the boy, wondering if this was the moment she should holler. Indecision racked her; whoever was down below might not attempt to climb the stairs, and her waking Steve would only alert them to their presence. On the other hand...

_Being a leader is hard,_ she thought, tightening her hold on the bar. Below, the tribute – because it _was_ a tribute, since no creature would shuffle in such a manner – milled about, and Ororo held her breath, wincing as the shadow approached the stairs. If there was more than one, she was toast, but she could try her hardest to kill one and give Steve a fighting chance. Ororo, while young and naive and lost, did not think she was one to spew off silly vows of staying bloodless.

The tribute was on the lower steps of the stairs, and that decided it for her.

"_ARGH_!" Leaping from the landing ledge, Ororo twisted her iron bar up like she had seen T'Challa do at the Tesseract, hoping her battle cry was loud enough to wake Steve and quiet enough not to be heard for miles around. The jerk she saw in the corner of her eye told her that at least the former had come to pass. Then she was falling through the air, gravity making her weight heavier and more useful. The tribute looked up in time to see the iron whistling downward in a semi-beautiful arc, and twisted away at the last second.

Ororo's blow landed hard on the tribute's shoulder and the two landed heavily onto the ground. Her eyes widened at the horrifying realisation of who she had attacked.

"Carol?"

"_Oww – Shit!"_

"Language!"

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	49. Chapter 48: Friends with Bandages

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back at promised with an update hot on the trail of our last one, in order to make up for missing Tuesday's update due to Fanfiction's problems. So, before anyone reads further, make sure that you've read last night's update, featuring Ororo and InDeepDarkWood. This chapter had us return to Kate Bishop, written as always by the wonderful robbiepoo2341. Let's see what she's getting up to, shall we?**

**Big thanks to CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean, sailorraven34 and musicalocelot for their reviews! Great to hear your thoughts on the last update!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Eight – Friends with Bandages**

**Morning, Day Two**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"__Friendship is but another name for an alliance with the follies and the misfortunes of others. Our own share of miseries is sufficient: why enter then as volunteers into those of another?" _

– Thomas Jefferson

* * *

Kate stirred awake when the sun came up, blinding and bright and actually very definitely a good sign. After all, it meant she'd made it through an entire night and hadn't gotten herself killed.

"Well, okay then," she said, licking her lips as the words rolled around in her dry mouth. "Good news first: I'm not dead yet."

She moved carefully and quietly, rolling up her sleeping bag and shoving it back inside the small backpack she had managed to salvage from the Tesseract. There was also an empty water bottle, which Kate knew she would need to fill soon, and some rope. A little food was down at the bottom, but Kate was trying to exercise self-control. She'd had a little bit last night, just a protein bar, and she wanted to make it last.

But that was it. No weapons. Nothing more substantial than the rope, and Kate wasn't even very good at tying knots.

Her hands ached for a bow, but she didn't have it. Clint Barton had it — had beaten her to it.

* * *

_She'd seen the bow the moment she'd adjusted her sight to the sudden brightness glinting off the broken windows of the decrepit buildings around her._

_And there it was. Just waiting for her. Far enough away from the centre of the Tesseract that she could get it without getting too close to the Careers._

_35…34…33…_

_The countdown kept going. She glanced around and spotted Clint. It looked like he had seen the bow, too. He might make it there before her if she wasn't quick enough._

_No. She had to be quick enough._

_19…18…17…_

_Kate settled into a running stance, the way Tommy taught her. Tommy, who was probably watching right now and critiquing her stance anyway. Tommy, who was the speediest kid she knew. When she got back, she'd kiss him full on the mouth._

_5…4…3…_

_Kate leaned in._

_2…1…_

_She took off. She didn't look around to see what the other tributes were doing; she just zeroed in on the bow. She skirted around Peter Parker's district partner and nearly had her hands on the bow when..._

* * *

Kate shook her head, clearing her thoughts. It wasn't a good idea to dwell on what she _could have _had. She didn't have that bow, and it was way over in the Career camp, so there was no way she'd get it unless she killed Clint.

And she definitely wasn't going to kill him. She _owed _Clint. Plus, she liked the guy.

Kate's stomach growled, and she made a face, shushing herself. But she couldn't help it. She'd never been hungry before, not even coming from District Twelve, because Dad had always been able to get the best pickings. That was part of what made him such a successful merchant.

But this? The emptiness gnawing at her? This was probably what it felt like for America, for Billy, for everyone else growing up.

It was awful, and Kate hated it.

She sighed and zipped her backpack up, slinging it over her shoulder before she crawled to the edge of the building.

All in all, it wasn't a bad perch. She'd managed to climb up inside one of the taller buildings before she made her way out onto the roof (or what was left of the roof, anyway; the crumbling walls were actually pretty good at shielding her from the view of people down below, not that there _were _any people around), and from there, she had a good view of everything. She'd definitely know if someone came anywhere near her little piece of ground, and that, at least, was some kind of security.

Now that the sun was up, it wasn't as cold, and Kate pulled her hair back. Noh Varr had made some "modifications" to her headband — lengthening the ribbon, hardening the outside, and softening the underside so it wouldn't hurt if someone hit her in the head. ("If we're lucky, and they hit it right, they'll hurt themselves more than you," he'd said.) Now, there was enough ribbon to tie up Kate's long hair into a ponytail, to keep it out of her eyes.

There was a slight wind, just enough to chill, and Kate shrugged her hoodie on a little tighter, frowning at the tear in her left sleeve that let in the cold, as she peeked out over the edge of the building. Yesterday, in the heat of the battle and the terror, it had been warm, and she had worn the hoodie tied around her waist, with just the tank top bearing her bloodied arm to the whole of Marvel.

Half of it wasn't even her blood. That was the worst part. Yes, she'd been hurt, but it had mostly healed, and really, the knife had only just nicked her skin.

Somehow, Kate thought, it would have been better if it _was_ just her blood she was wearing like a badge on her arm. Might make the stickiness a little more bearable.

* * *

_Someone tackled her, and Kate went down. She was just within reach of the bow, but not close enough, and now there was someone between her and her prize._

_It was that girl, the redhead. Daughter of the Red Skull. And she'd already gotten her hands on a knife._

_Kate struggled against the familiar, metallic taste of fear as her adrenaline kicked in. Her instincts kicked in. She'd been in fights before, with Eli and America and anyone else who would take her on, but not since two years ago had she been _attacked _like this — with intent to kill._

_She raised her arm to defend herself, and even though she managed to deflect Sin's knife, it still grazed her. Her hoodie took the brunt of the blow — she heard the fabric tearing — but Kate felt the warmth of liquid trailing down her arm._

_First blood._

_Kate bared her teeth. No way was she going down easy._

_She lashed out the way America had taught her — using her elbows and knees where Sin's joints came together. But Sin was pretty good, too (of course she was — she was the Red Skull's daughter), and all Kate managed to do was keep the status quo, keeping the knife away from her but never quite pushing Sin off._

_She heard a _twang _close by, a familiar sound that, until now, had always been comforting._

_Clint. He'd gotten to the bow first._

_She winced, and she felt Sin try to press the advantage — the other girl must not yet have processed what the sound meant. She hadn't heard that same note a thousand times over, not like Kate had. Sin wasn't tuned to the music of a taut bow._

_And then they heard it. The strangled shout as Clint's arrow struck home. Somewhere further off._

_Kate couldn't see past the red hair in her face, couldn't tell who Clint had hit, but she heard the bow being drawn again and knew she was next. This was the Games, and she was just a girl from Twelve, and Clint didn't need a Hawkeye competition — and besides, he was a Career, and Careers meant death._

_"Gahh!"_

_Kate felt the weight lift off of her as Sin went tumbling sideways, reeling from the arrow in her shoulder. Kate scrambled away, rolling onto her damaged arm and smearing something else wet — she tried to pretend she didn't know it was someone else's blood — into her side. It was already seeping into her sleeve._

_She tried to get to her feet, but she wasn't fast enough — she knew she wasn't fast enough. She knew Clint was a good shot; she knew she wasn't going to get away._

_She looked up._

_Clint looked back at her._

_And then she saw it. The look in his eyes. The smiling kind of look he'd given her back on that first day of training when he introduced himself and started their archery competition._

_He wasn't going to kill her._

_Kate willed herself to say something, anything. She tried to say something clever, like, "Thanks, Hawkguy!" That was the clever thing she had in her head hours later._

_Kate still wasn't sure if she said it or if she was just imagining she had the nerve to say it. The only thing she _was _sure of was that she took those precious seconds Clint managed to buy her and booked it out of there, grabbing a small backpack on her way._

_She didn't look back._

* * *

Looking out from her perch, Kate didn't see anybody, and after several long minutes of silence, she was convinced it was safe to venture out. After all, Kate had spent two years traipsing through the forest learning how to fight and how to hunt. She was very good at spotting things and listening for even the slightest sounds of birds, deer, and other animals.

People were no different. If anything, people were noisier.

She ducked back inside the building. She could have climbed down the outside — the bricks were out of place enough that they provided some pretty decent hand-holds — but there was an opening, baring the guts of the building like the carcass of some long-dead animal. So she lowered herself through it (thank you, years of tree-climbing) until she reached the part of the stairwell that wasn't falling apart.

She glanced at the stairs, then at the rusty stair rail beside them.

Well, she _was _supposed to be enjoying herself out there...

She grinned and threw herself onto the rail, sliding down faster than she'd thought she would be able to and with a grin on her face that seemed to crack her parched lips.

"Always wanted to do that," she said when she skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs — just loud enough that if anyone in Marvel was watching, if the cameras happened to be on her, they would hear her.

She had to keep reminding herself to do things like that. Keep herself relevant to the audience. Make sure they remembered this little girl having fun in the Games. Kate wasn't stupid; she knew that it was just as important to get sponsors as it was to be able to fight.

Maybe, just maybe, she could get a bow that way.

(And while she was dreaming, she would like a pony.)

She'd definitely asked for a bow. Loudly and often. Spent a good deal of time last night staring up at the stars and informing America and Billy and Susan and Blackager and anyone else she could think of that might be watching that they were _clearly _sleeping on the job and that she expected a silver parachute to bring her a bow any time now.

Preferably a purple one, but she wasn't picky.

But in the meantime, she knew it was smart to play up the entertainment factor. Remind everyone that she was still the smiling girl who had caught the eyes of the announcers as early on as the chariot parade.

Yesterday, in fact, she had announced to no one after she set up her sleeping bag that this was her "nest" and that, yes, being a hawk was fun. Might as well own the nickname, even if Clint had it first.

Now, at the bottom of the stairs, Kate shrugged her backpack a little closer and grabbed a loose brick on her way out the door.

Just in case.

But she'd chosen her nest well, and she didn't see anyone for a long while as she meandered through the crumbling streets of what at one time must have been a bustling city. She could feel the slight humidity in the air and wondered how close she was to that huge river.

Kate had seen it, yesterday, when she'd been running from the bloodbath. It was filthy. Probably not suitable for drinking.

And her exploratory search yesterday had been just as fruitless. She'd searched half a dozen buildings, turned on dozens of taps, and there was no power or running water in this area.

So, Kate kept an eye out. If she _had _to, she'd go back to that river and boil that stuff-she-supposed-qualified-as-water until it stopped looking like it was alive, but only if she hadn't found anything by nightfall.

Last thing Kate needed was to get killed doing something stupid like drinking bad water.

She knew better than that; her friends had taught her better.

Kate smiled, thinking of Billy and Teddy explaining their system, the clever ways they'd come up with to make food last longer and to make the inedible edible. Billy could work magic with anything Kate brought back, and Teddy was good at disguising it so it wasn't obvious the thing they were eating was a dead mouse. She'd learned a lot just watching those two work, and she was grateful.

When she got home, she was going to see what she could do about the rules involving family in the Victor's Village. Maybe she could kick Dad out and bring her friends in instead. They were more family than Dad was, anyway, and besides, their little group and their adventures were the only thing keeping Kate alive.

What's more, they would understand a lot more than Dad why she'd come home changed.

Kate snapped back to reality when she heard a noise like footsteps. It was quiet, light. Someone sneaky, someone who knew what they were doing.

She ducked into the nearest building, gripping her brick that was so old it looked like it might break apart the first time she hit anything with it. _Pathetic, really._

She lay flat, waiting, listening.

It wasn't the Careers. She could only make out one set of footsteps.

Of course, that didn't make her feel that much safer. That kid from District Ten, the ones whose _tap, tap, tap_-ing fingernails she could still hear echoing in her head from sitting in that oppressively silent waiting room before training assessments, looked like he could eat her for lunch. And he was a loner — if _he _was the one who'd stumbled into Kate's path, Kate wasn't sure how much protection one measly brick would be.

And if it was Sin... Kate shook her head. If Sin ran into her again, that would _not _be good.

She waited until the footsteps had stopped, then peeked out, carefully, through a hole in the wall where decay had left its mark.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she very nearly let out all the breath she had been holding in one big _whoosh_.

It was Kurt.

He looked tired as he poked his way through the streets, searching for something. More than likely, he was trying to do the same thing Kate was — find water.

So Kate grinned and leaped to her feet, vaulting herself around the edge of the building.

"Psst," she hissed, only just stopping herself before she shouted his name. After all, she didn't want to startle him into attacking her.

Not that he would attack her...would he? Kurt didn't seem the kind of guy.

At the noise, Kurt spun around, a sword in his hand. Kate noticed a knife tucked into his back pocket as well.

Kate raised her hands in a gesture of peace, though she didn't drop the brick — just in case. "Hiya, Kurt," she said conversationally, grinning like they were still back in the Capitol. "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

Kurt paused, lowering his sword slightly, though his gaze lingered on the brick in her hand. "Kate," he said, quietly. He sounded relieved.

Kate grinned. She lowered her hands and started to sit on the nearest sit-able object — it looked like a tire. She put the brick down and leaned forward, her hands clasped together. "So, out for a morning stroll? Smelling the flowers?" she asked, still smiling.

Kurt chuckled and relaxed, lowering his sword. He also moved to sit down, this time on the cracked curb of the road. "Something like that," he said.

Kate looked him over. He looked tired, but he seemed to have come out of the bloodbath and their first night okay. She couldn't see any scratches, and he'd even managed to walk out with two weapons. _Lucky._

But he didn't have a backpack or anything else with him, and she could also see the way his lips puckered, the beginnings of thirst just around his mouth. She decided to run with that observation. "I'm trying to find some water," she said. "You can tag along, if you want. Maybe two sets of eyes might work better than one?"

Kurt smiled softly. "That would be nice." As he stood, his stomach grumbled, and he winced. "And some food."

Kate frowned, but that was the only hesitation. Well, that, and the pause when she realized she _had _hesitated. Of _course _she was going to share her food. Why did she even have to think about it? If she'd been back in Twelve, she wouldn't have paused.

She held up a finger. "Wait a sec," she said, slinging her backpack around so that she could reach into it. She came up with a protein bar and threw it Kurt's way. "I don't have much, but it should help."

Her own stomach gave an incriminating growl. _Yeah, yeah, I know. We need to find more than just what I've got_, she thought grumpily.

Kurt unwrapped the protein bar and looked like he might devour it whole, but he paused — and, slowly, he took one bite at a time, his thoughtful gaze on Kate.

"I've got a nice nest a few buildings that way," Kate said. It was quiet, and she didn't like that, so she filled the air with conversation.

Kurt laughed, and when he did, he finally looked more like the boy she'd met back in the Capitol. "A nest? Really, Kate?"

Kate laughed, too, and shrugged easily. "Hey, I've only got myself to blame. I'm the one who asked if I could steal Clint Barton's nickname. When you get stuck with 'Hawkeye,' you do what you can."

"Room for two?" Kurt asked between bites. He was still smiling.

Kate grinned. "Plenty."

Kurt finished the protein bar and stuffed the wrapper in his pocket. He walked over to her and offered her a hand — ever the gentleman — to pull her to her feet. "Well, then, it sounds like we'd better get some supplies to fill our...nest." He had a crooked, teasing smile on his face, and Kate couldn't help giggling at him.

"Thanks," she said, then paused to grab her brick.

Kurt laughed and reached around to pull the knife out of his back pocket. "Here," he said, the smile still playing in his eyes. "This will probably be a little more helpful than that thing."

Kate took it gratefully.

* * *

They'd gone a few blocks before they finally found something they could use for water. It wasn't much, just what looked like the remains of a fountain. But it had collected some rainwater, and once Kate had picked out some of the leaves and such, she filled her water bottle. They'd need to boil it, probably, but at least it was a start.

Then, carefully, she pulled her hoodie off and dipped just the edge of the sleeve in the water — she didn't want to waste water, but her arm was starting to get uncomfortably sticky. She took the sleeve in her hand and started to wipe the brownish stains from her skin.

She felt Kurt's gaze on her arm and gave him a slight smile. "Don't waste your pity. It's more a paint job than a scratch," she said. "Promise it looks much worse than it actually is."

She paused and frowned again. "Not sure how much of it is my blood, actually." At that, she scrubbed her arm a little harder.

Kate was pretty sure she hated this. Not just the being in danger part but the knowing other kids were getting hurt and killed. Being so close to the danger that she had someone else's pain on her own body.

She shook those thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered — was it Billy? She couldn't remember who — someone telling her that cuts healed faster if they were covered. She used her knife to cut a strip of fabric from her hoodie — since it already had a nice, long tear in it anyway — but before she could do anything else, Kurt was at her side.

"Let me do that," he said, grabbing the makeshift bandage to tie it off.

"Thanks."

"Mmm," he said, tongue between his teeth as he gingerly took her arm in his hands, as if he was scared of hurting her.

"I'm lucky, really," Kate said, staring down as he finished his double knot. "I got off with just a scratch. You should have seen..." She trailed off. "I mean, not everyone came out of the Tesseract alive yesterday, you know?"

Kurt's frown deepened, though she noticed he looked a little more relaxed once she was slightly cleaned up and it was clear that the scratch was, in fact, superficial.

_Good ol' Kurt._ He had too big a heart to be in these Games.

"How'd that happen, anyway?" he asked at last.

Kate frowned, remembering the primal terror that had taken hold of her in the bloodbath, the kind of fear she thought she'd put behind her two years ago. She busied herself with tying her hoodie around her waist before she said, simply, "Sinthea Schmidt. You know, District Six?"

"The Red Skull's daughter?" Kurt's expression was somewhere between concern and pride — maybe he was pleased Kate could hold her own against someone like that. Could definitely come in handy in their little alliance.

See? She _was _useful.

Kate nodded. "She got in between me and my bow," she said bitterly, staring down at hands that should have been holding her weapon. "I was lucky, though. I got away."

She didn't offer more of an explanation than that. Didn't tell Kurt about Clint. Because she still wasn't sure what had happened back there — she only knew that Clint had saved her, and she owed him. She'd sit on that information until she was sure it couldn't be used against him — or until it might save his life. Kurt seemed like the kind of guy that would spare Clint if he knew the other Hawkeye had saved his counterpart.

Kurt nodded, his eyes wide and solemn. "I wondered about that," he said.

"What, my lack of archery equipment?" Kate sighed, throwing her head back dramatically. "I know. I feel naked without my bow." She picked up a leaf and crumbled it in her hands. "Clint's running around out there with _my _bow right now. Totally not fair."

"You're not planning on trying to get it back?"

Kate busted out a laugh at the look on Kurt's face. "What, me? Take on the Careers? Sorry, Kurt, but not even with you on my side. I'm not stupid."

"I feel like I should be insulted right now," Kurt said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't be. We'd need both of us just to take on the girl from Four," she pointed out.

"Good point." Kurt laughed and settled down to sit with his back against the deep basin of the fountain.

Kate settled in next to him, leaning back. "Think we could find any shops that stock coffee around here?" she asked suddenly, a sly smile on her face.

Kurt turned to look at her with both eyebrows raised.

She grinned. "Because I had some back in the Capitol, and I think I'm in love."

Kurt gave a little snort of laughter. "I doubt they've got anything like that around here."

"Shame." Kate played with the edge of the ribbon in her ponytail. "I love that stuff." She let her grin get even wider. "When I get home, I'm going to buy one of those things that makes coffee so I can have some every day."

"Good to know you've got your priorities in order," Kurt laughed.

"And if I die, you should get one of those things, and every time you have a cup of coffee, you can think of me," Kate continued on before she could stop herself.

The light went out just behind Kurt's eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," Kate said quickly. She could be so _stupid _sometimes. What was she thinking? "Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain."

Kurt frowned, but then he sighed. "Only sometimes, Kate?" he asked, something like a smile returning to his face.

"Hey!"

Kurt just smiled at her.

She clambered to her feet, and this time, she was the one to offer him a hand up. Just to shake things up a bit. "Okay, smart guy," she said, still grinning. "Just for that..." She trailed off.

She leaned forward, her hand on the knife Kurt had given her, and she could just see Kurt's ears perking up next to her. He also moved for his sword.

"Hear that?" she asked through the corner of her mouth, and he nodded, eyes wide.

The sound was faint, but it was definitely human. Someone talking.

Kate put a finger to her lips, and Kurt nodded, moving forward alongside her in a low crouch. He could be pretty sneaky — he had, after all, managed to make it pretty far into Kate's territory before she noticed (but then, he was good at showing up places unexpectedly) — so Kate wasn't too worried about him.

They got closer, and now, they could make out words.

Words that made Kate blush bright red and made Kurt's eyebrows scrape his hairline.

They got closer, and as they rounded the corner, Kate could just make out who it was.

It was the guy from Seven. Logan. He had fashioned himself some kind of...were those claws? _Okay. Claws, yep._ He had made himself some claws out of rebar he'd likely found in the nearby buildings, and he seemed to be trying to sharpen them as he sawed at the concrete. Kate had used the same technique — sawing down to a tip — on her own arrows back home.

She recognized the source of all the swearing when she saw that some of the concrete looked like it had recently crumbled and had fallen just a few inches from where he'd planted his feet.

He must have heard them coming, though, because as soon as they were close, he jumped to his feet, baring his teeth. He pulled out those claw things — which were attached to his forearms, Kate saw — and let out a deep, almost animalistic growl as he charged.

Kate brought her knife up and tensed. She wasn't sure, with those claws, that this was a fight she could win, but with Kurt on her side, she at least had a chance.

She planted her feet, ready for the fight, trying to take in any weaknesses even as he charged...

And then, very suddenly, Logan paused. He just stopped halfway through running at them as his gaze took in Kate and Kurt.

Kurt was beaming at Logan like they were best friends and like the guy hadn't been the scariest thing Kate had seen all morning just a few seconds ago. When he saw that Logan had paused, he relaxed. He flipped the sword in his hand casually but missed the handle and looked crestfallen as it clattered to the ground. He was very good at handling swords in actual fights, but maybe he shouldn't take up juggling. A circus performer he was not.

The display seemed to change something in Logan. He looked…was _relieved _the right word for it? He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Looked like he'd had a long day.

"Oh. Elf. It _is_ you," he said at last, lowering his claws.

Kate looked back at Kurt, who waved shyly as he picked his sword back up.

"Oh, you're the elf?" Kate whispered through her teeth at Kurt, and Logan turned to her at last, giving her a good glancing over. She avoided his gaze and instead asked Kurt, "Why does he call you that?" She kept a good grip on her knife, since she could still taste her heart in her mouth from when Logan had gone into attack mode.

"No idea," Kurt said genially. "How are you doing, Logan?" he asked, smiling as he leaned up against the nearest building and crossed his arms.

"How's it look like I'm doin'?" Logan grunted, settling back into sharpening his claws as if nothing had happened. "Lousy flamin' luck — gotta make a damn weapon."

Kate and Kurt glanced at each other and shared a look before Kurt just waved and laughed at Logan. "Well, we're alive, anyway. That's something, right?"

Logan just snorted.

"We found some water close by," Kurt continued cheerfully. He was already moving to stand closer to Logan, grinning and talking with his hands. "Filled a water bottle and everything."

_That _got him interested. Logan looked at them, really looked at them this time, and Kate could see a smile trying to worm its way into the corner of Logan's mouth. "Not from that oil can that passes for a river?" he asked.

Kate snorted. Good description.

"No, it's rainwater," Kurt said. He just seemed so relaxed and friendly around Logan (seriously, how could _anyone _be relaxed around this guy?), and Kate wanted to scream at him. She didn't know what had possessed Kurt to befriend Logan, but he looked downright dangerous and...

_Oh. Right._ They could totally use someone like him on their side.

"You got some with you right now?" Logan asked.

Kurt glanced at Kate, and Kate looked back at him. _Oh._ She still had the water bottle in her backpack.

She felt Logan's eyes on her, and she realized she still hadn't actually talked to him. "We should probably boil it or something," she said at last.

Logan grinned at that. "Good to know your head's still working. But rainwater's pretty safe to drink — long as the thing you catch it in isn't too dirty."

"It was in a cracked old fountain with leaves and dirt floating in it."

Logan snorted. "Right. Still, better'n nothin'..." He started to stand, and that's when Kate spotted it.

He was pretty good at hiding it, actually, but it was there, hiding just under the surface, in the way he held himself. The way he favoured one side more than the other. She probably wouldn't have even noticed it if she hadn't spent two years of her life learning archery, learning how to see everything and spot even the smallest details to find the best shot.

Left side. Just near his ribs.

He was hurt.

He had his arm half-flexed, across his torso, and with the way he was examining his handiwork on his claws, it was almost too easy to dismiss that pose as just a side effect of that rebar he'd strapped on. But Kate knew better.

Logan caught her gaze, and for just a second, he looked...different. It was an emotion she couldn't quite place, not with her adrenaline still pumping in her ears. His gaze slipped, for only a second, down to his side, but then he looked back up. Back at Kate. At her arm and the fabric tied around it.

He caught her gaze, then, meeting her full on. He didn't say anything, just looked down at his side and then rolled his eyes in Kurt's direction.

_Don't tell the Elf_.

She could almost hear those words out loud; the message was that clear.

Kate bit her lip, then nodded. She didn't know why, but she sort of understood.

Logan relaxed just the slightest bit, then turned back to Kurt. "C'mon, then. Water. Lead on," he said, shooing Kurt with his hands.

Kurt grinned as he spun on his heels. "This way."

Logan even shot a smile Kate's way as they followed Kurt. Sort of a _Gotta love that kid_ kind of grin that Kate couldn't help mirroring. Yep, Kurt was definitely easy to like. She could sort of see now how of course he'd be the one that got under Logan's skin.

She was glad she had Kurt with her now. She wasn't sure she'd managed yet to get into Logan's good graces like Kurt had, and if she'd met Logan on her own...

But no sense thinking of the could-have-beens, especially the could-have-dieds. As for the future, she had time. She was _awesome_, after all, and she was sure she'd win over Logan's trust.

As they walked, Kurt filled Logan in. "Kate's already scoped out a couple buildings where she can build a nest—"

"Nest?" Logan repeated, wrinkling his nose at Kate.

She laughed. "Gotta stick to the nicknames, Werewolf," she teased.

"It's Wolverine," Kurt corrected her gently.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know."

"It's Logan," Logan said sullenly at the same time.

Kate laughed and waved her hand at him, still smiling when she saw the look on his face. Oh, he was going to be fun to pick at if they kept him around. "Whatever," she said, and Logan's expression was perfection.

But then, suddenly, Logan had a different kind of look — the mischievous kind, which was weird on him. "You were gonna take me on with that toad sticker, eh?" he asked, nudging her and gesturing down at the knife.

Kate made a face at him. "Yeah, and I could totally have won," she lied. Then, just a piece of truth: "You think I'm only a good shot with a bow and arrow?"

Logan chuckled. "What happened — you decided to leave your bow back in your nest?"

She sighed, long and loud. "Yeah, well, I sort of got pinned down by Sin back at the Tesseract, and..." She trailed off, then shrugged. "Well, I got out of there pretty fast."

"We gotta fix that, Trickshot," he said with a crooked smile.

"That's what I've been saying!" Kate laughed, but when she saw the thoughtful look in his eyes, she wondered if maybe she should point out that she'd like a bow that she didn't have to pry out of Clint Barton's cold, dead hands.

She shuddered at the thought and fell silent, but luckily, they had just about reached the fountain anyway, so there was an excuse for not carrying the conversation.

"We were going to search the area for more fountains like this," Kurt said as Logan sat down beside the fountain and licked his lips as he stared at the water.

Kate watched him for just a second before she decided, well, she might as well jump in with both feet into this whole alliance thing. Logan might have been surly, but at least he wasn't trying to kill them, and besides, he was starting to grow on her. "I was thinking we could nest in that building right there," she said to Logan, pointing at the tallest one.

"You like being taller than everyone else?" Logan asked.

"I like being able to _see _everyone else," Kate said. She pointed at her face. "Bird's eye view."

Kurt snorted. "Really, Kate? Puns?"

"I refuse to stop having fun. If they're going to make me play a game, I'm going to _play_," Kate said. She hadn't meant it to come out that fiercely, but it just sort of happened.

She felt Logan's gaze on her and was surprised to see him smiling at her. Like he was, weirdly, proud of her or something.

Surprised, Kate could only stare at him.

"And you two were, what, planning on just having a big, happy sleepover?" Logan asked at last.

"Yeah, and you're invited," Kate said with a careless grin. "I'll even let you braid my hair."

"Brave offer." Kurt chuckled.

"You can braid, too, if you're really nice," Kate shot back.

Kurt just laughed.

Logan raised his eyebrows at both of them, but he couldn't hide the sort of snorted-out laugh as he said, "Long as no one expects me to sing campfire songs or something."

Kate beamed. _Ah, so he does have a sense of humour!_ "Okay, yep. I like you. You can stay," she announced.

"Of course he can," Kurt said, sounding almost insulted, like leaving Logan behind hadn't even occurred to him the minute they stumbled across their snarling Wolverine.

"Do I get a vote?" Logan asked.

"No," Kurt said, his grin splitting his face mischievously.

Logan just narrowed his eyes but didn't argue. "Okay, fine," he said, then turned to Kate. "So," he said. "Where's your nest, Trickshot?"

"Yeah, I'll scope out a good perch in a sec," she said, waving her hand. She sized Logan up and decided that, silent agreements aside, she'd much rather have a slightly annoyed ally than a busted-up one. "First thing we should do, though, is patch up those ribs."

The look Logan shot her was equal parts annoyed and betrayed as Kurt's entire expression changed. "You're hurt?" Kurt asked, all traces of his smile gone.

It was kind of funny, actually, to see Kurt go immediately from smiling friend into concerned parent. He really had no business being in these Games with a heart like his. He was too good for this place.

Logan grumbled something about it being "none of their business" and mumbled some half-hearted threats to keep Kurt at arm's length, but pretty much nobody could say no to Kurt. It was, Kate was pretty sure, physically impossible.

Kate just grinned at Logan, and Logan looked at her with barely tempered wrath. But a playful kind — the sort of thing Kate saved up for America when she was particularly annoying.

Kate stuck her tongue out at him.

"How did this happen?" Kurt asked, the same concern in his voice that Kate had heard when she'd taken off her hoodie before, only magnified, because Logan was hurt somewhere more important than the side of his arm.

Logan shrugged freely. "Had a disagreement with a redhead," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Kate pulled a face at him. "Can you not?" she snapped, probably more forcefully than she meant to. Maybe because she'd also had a disagreement with a redhead, and it was _not _a laughing matter.

Logan just chuckled but didn't say anything else. At least he didn't snap back at her.

But Kurt was not to be deterred by the hows and the whens. He glared insistently at Logan. "Let me see," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Logan pulled away, but Kate knew that was a losing battle.

It wasn't long before Kurt had talked Logan into letting them take a look at his side. It really wasn't that bad. Logan had patched himself up well enough with some tape and gauze, but Kurt and Kate knew they could do it better, since they could reach where Logan couldn't, and besides, Kurt wanted to be sure it really was "nothing." (It was. It was superficial, just right near the ribs where even superficial hurt.) And before she knew it, Kate and Kurt had patched up their new friend, and Kate and was teasing Logan when he protested that he didn't need to be "mollycoddled."

(She was also teasing him about his abs, because, well, when you're stuck with two boys and one of them takes his shirt off, there are some things you just can't let pass without comment.)

"You two are gonna be pains in my side the whole Games," Logan growled at them as they stepped back to admire their good work.

"Yes, that's true," Kurt said brightly, and Kate laughed at the defeated look on Logan's face.

"Can't help it. We're too awesome not to love," Kate added.

Logan glared at them, but Kate could see the reluctant laughter in that same corner of his mouth, the one that kept twitching up despite his best efforts.

Oh yeah. This was going to be the best alliance ever. She could _feel_ it.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male - Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female - Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female - Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	50. Chapter 49: Like Tears in Rain

**(A/N) It's Sunday, so it's time for an ITEYAK update! This time, I'm very happy to return you to the hands of the amazing DeadWoman, as we get to see what's been going on with Clint Barton and the Careers following the other Hawkeye's chapter, as they adapt to their second day in the arena. Will it be as violent as the first? You'll just have to read on!**

**Shout out to musicalocelot and CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean for their reviews! You guys are awesome, and it means a lot that you think we're awesome too – obviously! We don't seem to have let you down yet, but I really hope we keep you guys hooked.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Nine – Like Tears in Rain**

**Day Two**

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

"_I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time...like tears in rain..."_

– Roy Batty, _Bladerunner_

* * *

_The glowing blue hurt his eyes. Everyone was tense, waiting with bated breath as the countdown continued._

* * *

Clint cleaned his arrows, perched on the highest point he could find near the Career camp – an oak tree. The cloth purloined from one of the many backpacks the Careers managed to get was off-white and smelt of alcohol but it was a good arrow cleaner. He assumed it was some medical thing – the alcohol-soaked cloth – but he wasn't sure. He wouldn't give it up now, not that they would ask him to. His killing of one tribute and injuring of another was enough to gain him a meagre amount of respect with these bloodthirsty tributes. His strange relationship with Natasha had lowered the respect he might have had.

Romance was not welcome amongst these Careers. He had seen romance happen before in the arena, but it always ended badly.

* * *

_The klaxon sounded and he was off, running, determined to get the bow and arrows he had his eyes on before someone else did. He knew that he would be almost worthless if he couldn't get them. There were enough fighters in the Career pack, they needed a long-distance shooter. A cold, deadly assassin, he thought. His hands closed round the bow and he was already pulling out an arrow as he turned round._

* * *

"Barton!" someone yelled. He looked through the branches and saw Elektra stood at the foot of the tree, a knife shining in her hands. "We're going on a hunt!"

* * *

_The arrow sunk into a girl's chest. He loaded another one and looked around him. The chaos of battle was everywhere. He hadn't thought the Games would be like this._

* * *

Clint didn't bother replying to Elektra as he climbed steadily down the tree. Occasionally branches scratched him but he ignored the fleeting pain. The hunt yesterday was unsuccessful and it showed in the others' moods. Clint was irritated but he wasn't as clearly furious as the others. Most noticeably, Natasha. She had been almost vibrating with anger that they were wasting time before they had complied with the hunt idea, but after, she was even angrier.

* * *

_Natasha ran towards someone but for once, he wasn't paying attention to her. Kate was fighting with Sin. She would be easily overpowered. He let his loaded arrow fly towards Sin but it just hit her shoulder. She yelled out in pain and moved out of his range of arrows, away from Kate. Kate met his eyes and he offered her a small smile. Then someone headed his way and he had to move. He avoided the onslaught of fists, knives and varying weapons thrown his way as he got under cover, scooping up backpacks and more weapons just in case things didn't go to plan. Then the fighting was over. People were running, cannons were being fired and he felt limp and lifeless_.

* * *

Clint landed on the ground lightly and walked past Elektra to the camp they had set up. The others glanced up at him then looked back to whatever they were doing. Wade was still injured; evidently whatever Loki had done to attempt to heal him hadn't worked. Clint still didn't trust Loki. No, that was a stupid statement. He didn't trust _anybody_.

"What've you got there?" Thor boomed. Clint jumped as he felt a hand pull the backpacks off his arms. He didn't do anything to stop the older and stronger boy but he grasped his bow and sheath of arrows tightly. Perhaps due to Clint's desperate expression but most likely because of his talent in shooting arrows, Thor didn't try to prise them from his hands. Thor had self-elected himself as leader of the Careers and Clint didn't dare try to question his actions.

"Who's going on this hunt?" Clint asked, realising that his throat was dry. He reached for the water on his waist and took a long gulp. He didn't know when they would next be able to fill up their water if they were going hunting, but he needed something cool. The water was tepid but it was drinkable.

"Me," Thor said, standing up from his position beside Wade. Of course, Clint inwardly sighed. "Romanoff." Natasha stood up too, knives hanging from her belt and a smattering of fresh bruises on her arm. He was about to ask where she had gotten them from, but then she put on her jacket, covering them up. An obvious signal not to talk about the bruises. "And Elektra."

Elektra grinned.

"Try not to fuck this one up like you did last time," she said. Her tone was casual, but her words were anything but. Clint knew that he would have to watch out for her. She would be trouble if allowed to get too involved in the pack's actions. At least Thor was strategic and he had a weakness – Loki. Elektra just wanted to win, and he didn't doubt that they were just a stepping stone to victory to her.

They had gone hunting, due to Natasha's demands. Clint privately agreed. What use was having allies when you couldn't go hunt out the weaker tributes? He knew that the Careers were frustrated that they hadn't had a high kill rate but he was pleased. He had killed and injured. That should have been enough to keep in the good books for a while.

"We need to split up," Thor instructed after a ten minute walk away from camp. "Those ruins over there look like good hiding places. There's probably a tribute or two in there. Look for smoke."

"I'll go with Natasha," Clint volunteered instantly. It was in his best interests to stick with his district partner and anyway, he had a feeling that Thor and Elektra wouldn't hesitate to let him be killed. At least with Natasha he had some hope that she would save him or at least attempt to save him. Hope in the arena, however, was a finite thing and he was running out of his supply.

The other pair walked off, quietly sidestepping rubble and stones. As he was about to ask in which direction they should go, Natasha walked away, her steps light and her eyes searching for their prey. Hesitant, he followed her, pulling an arrow out of his sheath. He felt the buzz of his hearing aid against his ear and sighed. The Capitol had provided him with an improved one. He had to press the small button on it every twelve hours and so far, he had avoided the others seeing his weakness but he had to tell Natasha now if he didn't want to get left behind.

"Natasha!" He called. She paused only for a second then carried on walking.

"Romanoff!" he tried.

This time, she turned round long enough for him to see the murderous expression on her face. "Do you want them to think we're weaklings?" she hissed. "Shut up, or you'll tell the whole arena where we are!"

"I need to-" Clint began but she was already walking away. There was no point concealing it now. "I have to re-set my hearing aid!" he yelled. Then she stopped. The overwhelming silence made him feel empty. His heart thumped against his chest as he hurriedly took the hearing aid out and pressed in the button. He inserted back into his ear and the three beeps signalled that it was once again working. "Thanks," he muttered.

"We carry on now. Don't stop until we find someone and _kill_ them," she replied, ignoring all that had just happened. "We take no prisoners."

"No prisoners," he agreed but inside, he was secretly hoping that they didn't find her. Watching Natasha brutally murder any tribute would make him shaken but he especially didn't want to see her murder that kid with the bow and arrows. The kid reminded him of himself when he was younger. When he was more innocent, less tired and ragged with the constant fighting and training and pressure to win. If he couldn't win the Games and his partner couldn't win the Games, he sure as Hell hoped that Kate Bishop would.

* * *

Exhausted, covered in cuts from trees growing out of the ruins, and starving, an hour later, Clint and Natasha met back up with Elektra and Thor. They looked fine, despite their news of not encountering any tributes. "They're hiding well this year," Elektra commented. "But they can't hide for long, right? I'm gonna smoke them out sooner or later." From the look on her face, Clint didn't think she was joking about the smoke bit and decided not to let her near any matches. It would be just like the crazy bitch to set the arena on fire.

"We should stick together from now on," Natasha said.

"Scared that you'll get too attached to Arrow Boy when you two are alone together?"

She ignored Elektra's comment, a smile still pasted on her face. "There's one direction we haven't gone yet. West. So I suggest that we head that way and look for the tributes so we can get the body count up and ensure my chances of winning."

"Your chances of winning?" Thor chuckled mirthlessly. "You're but a small girl. I know some fine female warriors, but you aren't as ruthless as they are, Romanoff. You're just a girl from District Two with no chance of winning these Games. You shouldn't have volunteered."

Natasha ignored him as well but Clint saw her jaw tighten as she started walking ahead. She stopped a few metres away, her foot resting on a fallen tree. Then she looked over her shoulder, cold eyes piercing them. "Are you coming or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming," Elektra rolled her eyes and ran on ahead of Natasha. Elektra's knife shone in the sun and Clint sighed. If his partner wasn't careful, that knife would end up in her back. He knew she would rather die than be viewed as weak but he didn't want that. To be honest, and honesty was never welcomed in his experience, he didn't want anyone to die. The Games were sick and twisted and the tributes went along with that. He volunteered for his chance to be free and freedom might come hand in hand with his death but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had changed in the meagre time he had been in the arena.

He would kill. He could kill. He _had_ killed.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that, and that was the painful bit.

"Are you coming, Barton?" Thor asked and he realised that he had been staring into space.

"Yeah," he replied. The two walked together amicably until Thor broke the silence.

"What do you expect for us to find on this hunt?" The taller boy's voice seemed loud in the hushed silence of the arena. Not even birds sung in this section.

"I don't know. I didn't issue the hunt," he pointed out. The towering buildings that surrounded them seemed even more menacing in the eerie quietness. They could be hiding all sorts of tributes. Maybe some other tributes had formed an alliance and were hunting them right now. He wished he could scale one of these towers and get a bird's eye view of the whole arena. He was pretty sure that the sides – where the Games mixed with reality – would be heavily enforced. Maybe an unclimbable wall or a force field of some kind.

"Do you regret volunteering, Barton?" Thor asked with his voice probably as gentle as he could manage. Clint didn't reply. He knew that was a test and even though he didn't feel like it, he was on live television right now. The President and the Gamemakers – especially the Director – were watching his every move, monitoring his every word. The only relief was that they couldn't read his thoughts yet.

"I don't. I want to win these Games," he said. He must have been louder than he thought because the girls turned round. Elektra was smirking again and Natasha had an unreadable expression her face. "Sorry," he muttered. He had probably further flattened their chances of killing some tributes.

"There's something up ahead." Natasha gestured to a structure that Clint hadn't noticed before. It was a pile of metal and stone, obviously made out of materials from the city debris. It had a hole on one of the sides but it was impossible to see what was inside. It was dark in there and dust floated around from the rubble.

"Should we go in? It looks…unsafe." He didn't say dangerous. If something even hinted danger, the other Careers would all be lurching in there before they could do the necessary safety checks.

"He's got a good point," Natasha frowned. "I wouldn't want to die in such a ridiculous way."

"And someone's been here recently," he supplied his other argument. The others turned to look at him and he elaborated. "Fresh footprints in the mud over there, scattered burnt branches which means someone lit a fire then tried to cover up their tracks, this would be a good hiding place, among the broken buildings, but no-one is here. They've obviously been scared away by the other tribute. Could mean he's a formidable tribute, someone with good skills, maybe. Maybe it's a trap and they're waiting for us to fall for it. The other tributes don't dare distract us from it by hiding round here because they've seen it and they it would be good to get four Careers out the game so early."

"So, you're saying this is a trap?" Elektra asked. Clint nodded and Elektra barely hesitated before running towards him, kicking rocks out of the way as she went. Natasha let out a low growl of frustration.

"We should go after her," he said and Thor nodded, already withdrawing his weapon from his bag. Clint selected an arrow from his quiver and readied it on the bow. Drawing a weapon before he could see the threat was second nature to him now. He used to pause, analyse the threat, and see if it looked dangerous or not. Now, anyone would be dangerous. It could be some kid and he would have to shoot them. They were all just some kids. They approached the trap, wary as Elektra started poking around with her knife.

"No-one here, Barton," she called out in a sing-song voice. "This isn't a fucking trap. Probably some tribute's old den before they got killed for such bad hiding skills. See?" She kicked it and a sheet of metal fell off, but she dodged it. "The biggest threat is metal falling out at us."

"Right," Natasha sighed. "So there are no tributes here? No traps? Barton, are you deliberately leading us astray? Trying to distract us from that little archery _girlfriend_ of yours?" She turned to him, a strange look on her face. He would have classed it as jealousy but this was Natasha Romanoff. She didn't really seem to _do_ jealousy.

"I haven't seen Kate since the start of the Games, Romanoff," he replied. "It's not _my_ fault that we haven't found any tributes. Maybe if you kept your mouth shut instead of yelling at people all the time…"

"If _I_ kept my mouth shut?" She laughed coldly. "You haven't stopped talking since we got reaped."

"Since we volunteered."

"What? You regretting volunteering? Wishing you'd stood at the side-lines and not rescued that boy? We've all seen the footage, Barton. People view you as a hero for rescuing a stranger, and not expecting anything in return, but I know you. Your every move is some tactic to get close to me and break down my defences – isn't it?" Natasha snarled. Clint didn't reply; to be honest, he was too shell-shocked at her outburst. The arena seemed to be tearing down her calm demeanour and revealing the monster inside of her.

Natasha looked at him then stalked off to search the trap with the other two. Clint reluctantly followed, wondering how long it would be until he would have to go off to be on his own. He didn't want to be around Natasha or Loki any longer than was absolutely necessary. Screw alliances. He could steal some supplies and run off in the middle of the night. He was about to start re-thinking his game plan for the Games when he heard a creak. "What was that?" Thor said, tensing up. Clint frowned and then looked up.

"Oh shit," he exclaimed before the metal collapsed on them.

* * *

Clint opened his eyes, blinking away the spots in his vision. He was trapped under a pile of material but he was alive. Luckily he hadn't taken a blow to the head which surely would have killed him straight away. "Guys?" he groaned, kicking off the debris. Someone made a noise that resembled some sort of word so he assumed at least one another person was alive.

Clint stood up and looked around. Elektra was pulling herself out of the wreckage, looking relatively unharmed. Shame, he thought. Thor too was sat up, pulling splinters out of his hands and looking annoyed. "Natasha?" He said loudly. Elektra smirked but he ignored her, searching for his district partner. "Natasha!"

"Shut up, Barton," she said. He spotted movement and grabbed the exposed hand. Plastic fell off her as she stood up, glaring at the trap. "So I guess it _was_ a trap."

"You can all apologise later," Clint said. "I don't like this. Who set up that trap and where are they? They could kill us from long distance while we're weakened." In fact, he was half expecting an arrow to pierce someone's shoelace. He was waiting for a laugh as a certain female archer jumped through the trees, demanding that Clint play dares. But Kate wouldn't be so stupid. He didn't know what she was doing but hopefully she was far away from the chaos of the Careers.

Then, from the distance, they heard a very distinct, "fuck!" and the rustling of trees. Clint chuckled. That wasn't her, he could relax. _Whoever it was, kudos for originality,_ he thought with a smile. "Come on," he said to the others. "Let's go-" he stopped. He was about to say home. _Damn_. "Let's go back to camp. I have a feeling that Loki will be _pretty_ fed up of nurse duty by now."

* * *

Once back in camp, Clint sat down on a log, letting Thor relate the failure of today's hunt and the story of the faked track and the trap to the others, his mind buzzing with thoughts. Wade's shoulder was getting worse, giving off an awful stench that made everyone reluctant to go near him. Elektra had reluctantly volunteered because she hadn't sat with Wade yet and the others had. Clint wanted nothing more than to climb a tree and polish his arrows but he made himself sit around the fire, pretending to be listening.

Eventually, he got fed up and walked off to sit on the piled up vehicles at the edge of camp. The sky was a vibrant blue, a nice blue. The kind he would have dismissed back home but here, he appreciated the beauty. He loved the beauty. The sky was limitless, endless, it never died. Death. Something he was all too familiar with lately.

He _had_ protected Kate.

Of course he had. He _had_ to protect Kate. She was the only one he actually liked in this arena.

But he had hurt _someone. Sin._

He had killed someone. An actual person. _Rogue._

Someone who might have a family, a boyfriend or girlfriend, friends, back home. Someone who would have felt just as guilty about killing Clint. No…this wasn't guilt, this was sadness. He was sad about someone who he had never met dying. Some people often were sad about people dying but Clint used to be built against it. He had never even grieved for his mother. He didn't have time. But now he had time. He had all the time in the world. He had until his death to mourn.

So, under that beautiful, brilliant, sky, weapons on his lap, allies behind him, blood on his hands, he wept for all the lost moments and all the memories those that had died and were going to die would never be able to make.

And suddenly, inexplicably – for there wasn't a cloud in the sky – it began to rain.


	51. Chapter 50: A Lesson in Thriving

**(A/N) Hello again, all, and I'm very happy to announce that, with this update, we pass out the half-century mark, as this is our fifty-first chapter (counting the prologue, which is why the chapter title reads "Chapter Fifty"). As a result, it's very fitting that the chapter in question belongs to Steve Rogers, who'd be approaching a full century if he was real – in fact, he's probably going to reach it sometime soon enough in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Lili's done a fantastic job here, I have to say, and I'm sure you'll all agree with me on that once you read through it.**

**Thanks once again to CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean, musicalocelot and sailorraven34 for their reviews. Would love to hear who you guys are rooting for, if you'd be up for sharing – and same goes out to anyone reading this fic, but have been too shy to share so far!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty – A Lesson in Thriving**

**Day Two**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"We each survive in our own way."_ – Sarah J. Maas, _Throne of Glass_

* * *

Gravel crunched beneath Steve's boots, tiny stones grinding harshly together with every step. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and he felt like he was slowly blistering beneath the mocking gaze of the sun – it was so much hotter inside the arena that he'd expected it to be. Heat bounced off of the surrounding buildings, creating an oven-like atmosphere beneath their broken frames. If Steve lifted his gaze, he could see the road shudder beneath the rising heat waves.

His two companions weren't unaffected by the heat, either. Ro had tied her rust-coloured jacket around her waist as she trudged by his side, and sweat darkened her grey shirt. If Steve concentrated, he could hear her ragged breathing beneath the sound of his own chest heaving. But despite the high temperatures and the long trek, which Steve knew had to be taking their toll by now – especially since she was carrying his vibranium shield, which _had_ to be heating up – Ro hadn't muttered a single word of complaint.

Neither had Carol, even though the tension throughout her whole body clearly meant that her ankle was giving her trouble. He could feel the hitches in her breathing, too, every time she stepped a little too forcefully.

Steve wished that they could rest. Really, he did; even though he was the one that had insisted they move so fast, and for so long. But Ro was grieving, and a little girl besides, plus Carol was injured – and that left him as the only one that could defend their small party from other tributes. But if they ran into the Career pack, Steve knew that they didn't have a chance. So, he'd wanted them to put as much distance between themselves and the other tributes as quickly as possible. It had been two days since the bloodbath, and Steve was starting to feel less like someone was breathing down his neck, but he was still reluctant to relax.

He was trying to make it easier on them, though. As the strongest, non-injured member of their little pack, Steve had silently offered to become the pack mule. Carol's pack was strapped tightly to his back, her spear firm in his hand, and the girl herself plastered to his side. He swung said spear forward, using it as a makeshift walking stick. It dug firmly into the cracks in the bitumen and Steve moved forward, Ro trotting as his left. Carol hopped furiously to keep up, her arm tightening around his neck as he gripped her waist firmly to keep the girl upright.

They moved more quickly like this, with Steve carrying some of her weight – but it also would have been a fair assessment to say that he was practically dragging her along. Her weight was straining the muscles of his back, and a deep ache was setting into his shoulders. He hadn't said anything, and neither had she, despite her tightly pinched lips and pale face.

Steve didn't know where they were going. He'd tried to form a plan a few hours ago, after shaking the others awake at the sun's first appearance over the horizon – _"Where do you think we should go?" he'd asked, staring down at the road stretching beneath their feet_ – but Carol had only shrugged, and Ro's answer wasn't much better – _"Away," she'd told him, and dug her toes into the dirt. She'd glanced at the sky for a moment, long enough for Steve's stomach to drop. Ro had looked at the place where, last night, T'Challa had gazed down at them_. Steve hadn't asked again.

But remembering their earlier conversation only made Steve think back further. They'd been incredibly lucky to make it out of that bloodbath alive – though, admittedly, it had been close. Carol had told Steve about nearly being skewered by an arrow fired from that guy in District Two. Someone else had taken the hit that time, he knew, but it was hard to shake the thought that that might be the extent of her good luck. And, well, it wasn't as though Steve and Ro hadn't had their brief brush with death, either.

* * *

_When the horn sounded, Steve exploded into movement. He ran straight for the Tesseract, trusting in the power of his own body to get him there before anyone else. He'd gone through the plan with both Quill and Michael – move quickly, grab supplies, then head west to meet up with Carol after a few miles._

_Ahead, other tributes were racing to the Tesseract, but Steve knew he was in the lead. Just inside the Tesseract was a blue backpack, bulging with supplies. Some kind of weapon was leaning against it, perhaps some kind of axe. Steve knew he'd have time to grab it and escape the scene before any of the tributes tried to take a swing at him. He glanced around quickly, checking that none of the other tributes had caught up-_

_\- and his gaze fell on the girl from Eleven. She wasn't close to Steve, wasn't chasing him down at all. But she was running as fast as her tiny body could manage, her arms moving like windmills as she pushed herself forward. He could see her target; a small grey backpack sitting near the edge of the square._

_She wasn't alone._

_The boys from One and Four – Wade and Thor, he remembered – were on her heels. Thor had already picked up a weapon; some kind of heavy hammer, which looked like it could crush Ororo's skull in a single blow. She hadn't even noticed that they were following her._

_In an instant, Steve made his decision. His boots skidded against the cracked pavement as he abruptly changed direction, heading straight for Ro and her two assailants. Where the hell was T'Challa? He should be protecting her. Either way, Steve raced towards the girl. "ORORO!" he yelled, and the warning scraped against the walls of his throat._

_She glanced up, her eyes going wide at the much bigger tribute racing towards her. But Steve screamed her name, again, and her head finally whipped to look behind her._

_Steve looked at them, too. Wade was already watching him, eyes narrowed. As they locked gazes, the other boy grinned._

_He was distracted from the nauseating flip of his stomach by a sudden roar – "On your left!" and Steve's gaze snapped to the side, just in time to catch sight of T'Challa. His arm whipped forward, and something silver glinted in his grip. In an instant, it was flying through the air towards Steve. He had the sudden, bizarre thought that this wasn't the time for games, because T'Challa had clearly just thrown a Frisbee – he and Bucky used to play, back in District Five – but no, it wasn't nearly so innocent. Steve snatched the object out of the air on reflex, and it was ashield – thick brown straps hung on the concave side and he slung it onto his left forearm in the last few, precious seconds._

_Ro's eyes were wide and she screamed as Steve drew closer, but Thor's hammer was already arcing down and there was no time. He dropped into a skid mere metres from the trio, his boots scraping against the ground._

_Steve fell into place just in time. Ro ducked just as Thor's hammer smashed into his shield, the impact shuddering through his locked arms and all the way down to where he was shoved into the pavement by the force of the strike. But Steve didn't waste time – he kicked out at Thor's knees, knocking him backwards as he scrambled to his feet. Wade had fallen behind the District Four tribute, but not for long._

_Ro was still on the ground, and T'Challa was sprinting towards them. Twin blades glinted menacingly in his grip, and Steve's throat went dry for a moment – but then T'Challa lifted his gaze. "Get her out of here!" the other boy ordered in a shout, and Steve realized he'd somehow fallen into an alliance. It was fine by him._

_Steve grabbed Ro around the middle – she screamed, at first, before realizing it was him – and threw her over his shoulder. She barely weighed anything, but clambered out of the hold within seconds and instead plastered herself against his back. Her hands clasped in front of his neck and her legs hooked around his waist, and it was suddenly easier to run. Steve pumped his arms and sprinted towards what looked like a side street, the shield steady on his forearm._

_He glanced over his shoulder and saw T'Challa standing firm as Wade and Thor drew closer. Then, the boys lunged into action – and Steve looked away, knowing that distraction would only cost him._

It was the last time that they'd seen of T'Challa alive.

* * *

Steve glanced over, looking down at his shield. He'd given it to Ro to hold – partly because he didn't have enough hands and it was the lightest thing they had, but mostly because it was big enough to cover her entire torso and Steve didn't want her to be vulnerable while they walked. Earlier, she'd swung it around and admired the way that it sent rays of light scattering along the ground. Now, though, it just dangled limply from the straps wrapped around her fingers.

Carol hadn't argued when she'd found him, eventually, with Ororo in tow. She'd just sent him a look of exasperation over the younger girl's head, though Steve couldn't have really blamed her for being irritated – Ro had nearly stabbed her, after all. Then again, it was hardly unreasonable for Ro to be feeling jumpy.

Ro's stomach growled miserably as he watched her, and her chin jerked up. She glanced around the area, sweeping for signs of pursuit, before letting her chin drop to her chest once more. A soft sigh rolled from her lips, but she said nothing.

She'd been doing it for a while, he'd noticed – using her empty stomach as a timer to check for any approaching tributes. Since the noises of hunger came regularly, it was a depressingly effective system.

Steve's own stomach felt painfully hollow, and Carol had to be feeling the same. They hadn't had anything to eat since before entering the arena. Neither Ro nor Steve had managed to grab supplies, meaning that they were relying solely on the contents of Carol's backpack. But it hadn't had anything to eat, just a two-litre bottle of water. They'd almost emptied it, too, despite their attempts to ration. Steve's mouth felt uncomfortably dry.

After a few more minutes, Steve finally broke the exhaustion-induced silence. "I think we should stop soon," he said, and Carol's relieved sigh echoed his words.

Ro piped up immediately. "Can we go inside one of the houses?" she asked. "I want to get out of the heat."

"I agree," Carol murmured, and her head lolled back onto Steve's shoulder so she could squint irritably at the offending sun. She seemed to have gotten over her grudge towards Ro, at least a little.

Steve's laugh was relieved, and a little breathless. "Yeah, good idea, Ro. Let's reach the end of this block, and then we'll go find some shelter."

The District Eleven girl hummed, pleased, and they all moved with renewed purpose at the prospect of getting some rest. Ro was almost bouncing as she walked, and by the time they reached the next intersection of major roads, she was a few metres ahead of them. She led the way across the decimated street, towards the least-collapsed of the approaching buildings, and Carol and Steve followed diligently.

The door groaned loudly as they pulled it open, so Steve piled up a few broken bricks in as naturally a looking pile as he could manage. He didn't want to attract any of the other tributes by making noise, but he didn't want to make it obvious that the building wasn't empty, either.

Inside, the building was mostly dark. Beams of sunlight filtered through holes in the roof, but it just served to highlight the thick dust swirling through the air. Steve eyed it with heavy misgivings, and pulled up the collar of his jacket to cover his mouth and nose. It was unlikely that his asthma would start to play up, but he wasn't going to take the risk.

Carol left his side almost immediately, choosing to hop towards a sink embedded in the wall. She twisted the tap, but nothing happened. Steve sighed as he watched, having been hoping that it would somehow miraculously work.

Ro folded her legs as she sat down, slumping against a wall, and they followed her lead. For a minute, there was no sound – just silent appreciation of the fact that they were finally able to rest after having been on the move almost all day.

The silence didn't last long, though. Carol cleared her throat, and they both turned to look at where she was sitting with her hurt ankle stretched in front of her. "We need to make a plan," she admitted, staring at the roof.

Ro groaned. "Can't we just stay here for a while?" she asked. Steve glanced over to find that she was already looking at him, her eyes wide in as pleading a look as the little girl could probably manage.

"No, she's right. We need a plan," he said, and shoved himself into a more upright position as he nodded at Carol. They looked at him quizzically, eyeing the fabric around the lower half of his face. Steve shrugged and spoke again. "Let's make a list of what we need, and figure out how to get it. Then we can rest until tomorrow morning."

"Food," Ro offered instantly.

"We also need water," Carol said. She reached over to drag her backpack closer, and rifled through it until she could pull out the bottle of water. What little was left sloshed inside, but it was a depressingly small sound.

"Noted," Steve said, "Any ideas where we can find food, Ro?"

She shrugged. "We could try hunting for it," she told them. "I saw a couple of deers while we were walking."

"You did?" Carol questioned, her eyebrows lifted high. "When? I only saw rats."

"Down the side streets, mostly," Ro answered. "And only the ones that were close to those old parks. I think we scared them off the main road, and they always ran away when they saw me."

"Okay, so we'll go hunting," Steve agreed, his voice muffled slightly by his jacket collar. "What about water?"

"We could try to find a river," Carol suggested. "But I haven't seen one since we started walking, and it probably wouldn't be clean water, either..."

"And we don't have any iodine," Steve finished her sentence with a sigh.

"Maybe we could find a water pipe?" Ro guessed. "This city probably used to have running water. We could make a hole in one of the pipes and drink it."

"How would we find the pipes, though? The ones close to the surface would be broken," Carol argued.

"There might be bottles of water in a building, somewhere," Steve suggested. "It's a long shot, but maybe something that the Gamemakers would do. We have to survive long enough to kill each other, after all," he added, with dark humour. Ro's lips twitched, but Carol's mouth only turned down slightly.

"I guess," she said finally, and glanced away. "We can look out for it, anyway."

"Yeah, okay." Steve frowned, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "But I don't know if we can accomplish this before night falls – and I really don't want us to be out when it's dark outside." It went without saying that the night belonged to the Career pack; traditionally, it was their hunting time.

"Let's split up," Ro said, and they looked at her. "Carol can search the buildings around here for water, and Steve and I can go hunt for food. Then we meet back here just before dark."

It was a good idea, Steve knew, even though his skin crawled at the suggestion of splitting up. Carol could barely walk, let alone run – she wouldn't be able to take down any kind of animal. But the pathways between buildings were small enough that she could cling to the sides and keep off her injured foot.

He didn't want to leave her alone, though. But Steve hated the idea of sending Ro off to gather food alone… and if he left the two together, they'd probably fight – Carol was still holding a grudge, after all – and he didn't want the sound of an argument to attract other tributes.

Leaving Carol by herself was the least of three evils, but that didn't mean that he had to like it.

Then again, the choice wasn't really up to him. But Carol jerked her chin in a nod, and pushed herself shakily to her feet. "Okay," she agreed. "But if I come back to the rendezvous and you guys aren't here, I'm going to find shelter in another building," she warned them. "You should do the same, too. If any one of us is found by the Careers, they'll guess that the others are in the area."

"Good idea, Carol," Steve said. "But if one of us somehow manages to miss the rendezvous for non-tribute related reasons, leave a sign so that we can find each other in the morning."

Once they'd all agreed, the trio split up. Carol was left with just her water bottle so that she could move around easier, while her two companions took her backpack, spear and Steve's shield, since Ro was insistent that he could use it to knock out some prey. He'd reluctantly agreed.

Ro led the way towards one of the old and overgrown parks that she'd spotted earlier, which they hoped would be home to some animals. As they drew closer, the local flora started to really make itself known; the once neat and trimmed parks spreading into thick open forests. Trees pushed up stubbornly from cracks in the sidewalk, and vines tore apart old cars lying abandoned on the streets. The same shrubs that a long-dead population had appeared to have tamed now climbed free of their broken restraints, determinedly clinging to life despite their bone-dry homes.

Steve's fingers itched. He tried to memorize the sight, of nature reclaiming what had once been hers alone, so that he could recreate it on paper if he lived to get the chance. All he could do was shake his head in wonder, and try not to think of it as some kind of metaphor.

"So, how are we going to do this?" Ro asked finally, jerking Steve out of his thoughts. She'd perked up at the thought of finally getting some food inside her empty stomach, but managed to restrain herself enough to keep pace by Steve's side. He glanced down at her, and the sight punched him in the gut. Afternoon sunlight scattered around Ro's white hair in a halo of light, her big eyes squinting against the brightness; a child of the sun trotting faithfully by his side.

Steve forgot what he was going to say. Once again, he tried to take a mental picture – he could already imagine the way he'd capture her portrait, colourful lines spreading onto a canvas beneath his skilful hand. It struck him, suddenly, how he'd never been hit quite so strongly with the urge to draw as he'd already felt several times inside the arena. But what could Steve say?

The arena was beautiful; and he hated that something so lovely would soon be drenched in blood.

"Are you alright, Steve? Your face looks weird." Once again, Ro snapped Steve out of his own head. The sudden return to reality made his head spin.

"What? Yeah, I'm fine," he answered, and tried to shake off the dizziness. It had, all of a sudden, become abundantly clear to Steve that he was now one of the major people responsible for if this tiny girl lived or died.

"Did you hear what I asked?" she reminded him.

Steve looked forward and frowned, returning the task at hand. "Yeah. But do what? Catch the deer, you mean?"

"Deer, rabbit, rat – does it matter?" Ro waved her hand dismissively. "Food is food."

Steve pulled a face, and Ro's giggle floated across the street. "We are not eating rats."

"That wasn't the point," she said, but there was a tiny smile twisting her lips. "How are we going to catch anything?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I guess we'll just… chase it down? Throw the spear and hope we don't miss?"

"Throw your only weapon away?" Ro echoed. "That would be pretty dumb."

Steve huffed, pretending to be more offended by her insult than he really was. Just as he'd guessed, she snorted with muffled laughter at his miffed expression. He hid a grin – it was pretty easy to keep Ro distracted; maybe because he had so much practice with Bucky's little sister, Rebecca. She and Ro were the same age, he knew, and it wasn't so hard to imagine that it was Becca beside him instead-

-_whoa_, he snapped, cutting off the thought almost as quickly as it had come. That was a dangerous line to go down.

But… it made Steve start to think of other things, too. Something pinched his ribcage, sharply, and he had to suck in a breath. Right now, were he and Ro onscreen? Was his family watching them – his mother, Bucky, and Peggy? Was the Barnes family praying for Steve to come home, knowing that it could have easily been their son and brother in his place?

Steve glanced down, his gaze sliding to the right. Was Ororo's family watching them, right now? Well, perhaps _family_ wasn't the right word for what she had – but the group of kids she'd told him about yesterday seemed a substitute of sorts. And of course, she and T'Challa had been pretty close – maybe his family were still wiping their eyes, but while turning their hope for his survival into hope for _hers_.

Making guesses didn't really serve a purpose, Steve knew. Maybe they weren't onscreen at all, which was likely considering they weren't really _doing_ much. Somewhere, there would be more interesting things happening – tributes facing off, or – if they were lucky – a fight for dominance throughout the Career pack. It was fairly common, after all, though Steve reluctantly admitted that it rarely happened on the second day.

"Got any better ideas?" he asked instead, glancing down at Ro.

She was twisting her fingers together nervously, and after a second she looked up to meet his gaze. "Maybe," she offered hesitantly, as though she'd had a bright idea but now thought it might be stupid.

"Yeah?" Steve lifted an eyebrow, and Ro caved.

"Well… you know that battery we found yesterday?" she asked, and Steve nodded. It was currently sitting in Carol's backpack, weighing heavy on Steve's shoulders. "I've been thinking about it. Um, so, before the Games started, I went up to that boy from Three-"

"Tony Stark," Steve offered, and she nodded quickly.

"Yeah, him. Anyway, you know how he's good with technology and stuff? Well, I asked him if he could show me some stuff, and he did. And it was kind of cool, actually – um; anyway, that's not the point. I mean, I don't know a lot, but I was thinking we could make some kind of trap."

"Made from electricity?" Steve asked, to clarify, and Ro blew out a breath. She nodded. "Okay," he said, slowly, and his forehead started to crease. Ro was watching him a little worriedly, but Steve was only lost in thought. "We'd need some kind of cables or wire," he told her, "to actually make the trap. Right?"

"Yeah!" His agreement had seemed to energise her, and Ro bounced next to him. "But I've already thought about it. I mean, all these houses have lights inside them, even though they're broken, so it clearly used to run on electricity. And I was thinking we could probably find some that haven't degraded too much, and-"

"I don't think that's necessary," Steve interrupted, and turned to her with a grin. "Thinking of that was pretty clever, Ro. Hell, I'd say it was Game-maker clever."

For a second, she scowled at the perceived insult – but then his meaning hit her and Ro's mouth dropped wide. "You think they'd have left some good cables behind?" she asked.

"Wanna find out?" he offered.

Ro grinned at him, and headed towards the closest house. Steve followed at her heels.

It was almost half an hour before they actually found anything, but Ro's gasp of delight was worth it. They'd been checking all the hiding places that they could think, but it was only once they'd thought more logically that they'd actually found it.

The Gamemakers wouldn't leave such valuable weapons lying around, after all. They'd leave them in the most mundane places, and only the tributes clever enough to look would be able to find them. So it was only once Steve had pushed open the hood of a car that he'd finally found two cables dangling limply from the long-dead battery.

He'd unclipped them quickly, and called for Ro. She'd quickly began searching the other broken-down cars until they'd found a couple of matching cable, and her triumphant grin told him that they were ready to start hunting. Ro had already ripped an old piece of long wire from a broken fence, and as they walked, she explained how it would work.

By the time they actually reached the park, Steve guessed that almost an hour had passed since they'd left Carol. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, and was probably only a couple hours away from disappearing completely. But Ro had explained the next steps pretty thoroughly, so he knew what he had to do, and setting their trap didn't take long.

After examining the surrounding area for a while, Ro and Steve had agreed that it was definitely home to some large animals. It was pretty easy to spot the favoured feeding areas – nibbled leaves strewn across trampled grass left little doubt. Ro strung the wire between two small trees next to the bush, hoping that it was the direction that the animals would come from. Then she clipped two of the cables to either end, with the other end of one cable attached to the battery, which Ro hid behind the tree. Then she created a long line of cable on the other side, draping it carefully across the ground until it could reach the battery without straining. Steve helped by digging a small trench into the ground with his hands and hiding the cable inside, patting dirt over it to hide it. He tried to spread some leaves over it, too, so the disturbed ground wouldn't be too noticeable.

When it was done, he stood back and examined it critically. The thin wire was almost invisible where it hung between the two trunks, and an animal probably wouldn't spot it. There wasn't any hum to give it away, either; the voltage was too low, he thought.

"What now?" he asked Ro, and she glanced at him.

"Now we hide, and hope something wanders over here," she answered, waving her hands vaguely, and he nodded.

Steve was terrible at hiding, as it turned out. Ro clicked her tongue when he climbed a tree, and burst out laughing when he tried to crawl inside a bush with surprisingly sharp branches. After watching him struggle to extricate himself for a few minutes while swearing under his breath, Ro finally took pity on him.

"Okay, okay," she managed between snorts of laughter. "I'll help you hide."

Ro's version of 'helping Steve hide' really meant that she held the branches aside while he crawled into an even smaller bush. There was a slight hollow in the centre, which was good, even though he had to curl up pretty small. Steve finally settled down and Ro let the branches slide back into place, and then scampered up into a tree.

"Hey," he called out, feigning indignation. "How come I can't hide in a tree?"

Ro's snicker fell from the treetops. "Because I won't fall out," she whispered back.

He sighed loudly in response, just to hear her giggle, but he wasn't really in a position to argue. After that, the two of them fell into silence.

It was a long, long time before anything interesting happened. Steve's muscles had started to seize, and serious cramps were setting into his twisted legs, but he hadn't moved. A few mice and rats had scuttled past his hiding spot, including the slightly more notable appearance of some rabbits, but there were no deer. At least they knew that his hiding spot worked.

But finally, _finally_, Steve heard a snuffle and the quiet movement of small hooves. He froze, barely daring to breathe as the animal drew closer.

A few, torturous minutes later, it finally came into view. It was smaller than he thought deer were meant to be – but then, he'd never had a good look at one before. There were no deer inside District Five, and the few that he'd spotted outside the fence had usually run away at the sight of him.

The deer – and he saw now that it was a female, without any curving antlers – took a few slow steps forward, her ears flicking. Slowly, Steve looked upwards, but Ro was nowhere to be seen. He could only guess that she was watching with bated breath, just as he was.

The doe got closer, and closer, until Steve thought his chest might collapse from the lack of air. But then, finally, her chest brushed against the wire, and the doe jerked, a shrill sound of surprise escaping its slack mouth.

Steve waited for it to fall – but it didn't. Its knees buckled and he started to rise, but then the deer climbed back up and bolted. It made a sound almost like a scream as it disappeared, and the sound cut at Steve's chest.

"Steve!" Ro yelled, and something fell through the trees. For a bizarre second, he thought it was the girl herself – but no, Ro had simply tossed down the spear. "Go get it!"

Steve exploded out of the bush – really, there was no other word for it. He didn't even notice the scratches left on his skin as he snatched the weapon obediently and took off in a sprint. The doe had left a path, crashing through the undergrowth, and his chest burned pleasantly as he raced down it. The air had gotten cold, and he relished the heat that started to pump through his blood.

Ahead, the doe was still making loud noises, and Steve guessed that it was in a lot of pain. But he knew that he had to kill it, and quickly – who knew who else was out here, being drawn towards them by the loud animal's cries?

Steve crashed through the forest. His boots had good grip; he didn't fall even as he swung himself around trees and launched over fallen trunks. The deer was slowing down, clearly more injured than it had appeared. As soon as it came into view, Steve changed his grip on the spear and whipped his hand forward.

It was a clear shot, and the spearhead sliced into the deer's neck. Steve looked away as he drew closer, unwilling to examine the wound closely.

The doe died quickly, though – a fact for which Steve was grateful. He yanked the spear out, quickly wiping the blood on the grass. By the time he stood up, Ro had caught up. He glanced at her, but she was looking at the deer on the ground. Steve cleared his throat, successfully drawing her gaze away – she was too young and he didn't want her to see something like that, even if it wasn't that gruesome.

"Now what?" he asked.

Ro shrugged. "Take it back to Carol, I guess," she offered.

Steve looked down at the deer, and sighed.

* * *

Having a dead animal slung around his neck wasn't pleasant, but Ro was aware enough of Steve's discomfort that she kept up a steady stream of chatter to distract him. It was slightly awkward, considering that Ro wasn't particularly chatty, but the conversations that they'd had both on the way to the park and the previous day made it slightly more relaxed. She collected thick, dry branches as they walked, tucking them underneath her arm.

By the time they made it back to the building where they'd left Carol, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. It sent golden rays of light across the buildings, softening the harsh city landscape. Steve's grip tightened around the deer's legs, and he tried hard not to wish that they were his favourite art pencils instead.

He kept an eye out for any messages or signs scrawled on the side of the building, but it was clear. When they stepped through the threshold, Carol was waiting with a smile.

She raised an eyebrow when she saw what Steve was carrying, and the wound on the deer's neck. "Nice shot," she complimented him. "How far away was the deer?"

He grinned, feeling his cheeks pink. "About three metres," he answered. "And I was aiming for its chest."

Ro giggled behind him, and Carol hid a smile. "Impressive," she said wryly.

"What about you?" he asked, noting that she didn't have her water bottle with her. Had she lost it?

Carol's grin grew. "Follow me," she told them cryptically, and lead the way out of the room.

Ro ducked under her arm to help the older girl walk properly, and it was a testament to Carol's good mood that she didn't resist. As the trio made their way through the streets with the sun slowly falling behind them, she refused to mention where she was taking them. But her excitement was infective, and it wasn't long before Steve's chest felt light and a grin was spreading across his face.

Finally, Carol hopped towards the door of one of the taller buildings. Steve glanced up at where it stretched into the sky, looking at the identical shape of each balcony. "Is this an apartment building?" he asked. He'd seen a few of them in the Capitol, though they were a lot grander than this drab building.

"Yeah, I think so," Carol answered. They entered the lobby, which was surprisingly intact, and Steve had barely taken a step towards the elevator when Carol shook her head. "Elevator's broken," she told him. "We have to take the stairs."

She led them to a small door at the back of the room, and Ro pushed open the door before the pair stepped through. Steve took one last look at the ratty, dust-covered couches before he shook his head and followed.

The stairs weren't steep, but there were lots of them. After a few flights, even Steve started to feel winded. "You climbed these by yourself?" he asked, wheezing against the tightness in his chest. It was pretty dusty, too, and he hoped that it was just the climb and not his asthma playing up again.

"It took me a while," she admitted, glancing down at him from a few steps above. "But I had a feeling that it would be worth it."

_No kidding_, he wanted to say. Carol's excitement had gotten his hopes up for wherever they were heading, and now he knew for sure that they'd be safe – what kind of self-respecting tribute would climb all these flights of stairs on the random chance that they'd stumble across someone else? Especially considering this apartment building was one of many, and not even the most notable.

Carol stopped on what he thought was the fifth level. Ro dragged her over to the door and leaned against it until it fell open, then stumbled through. Steve followed with a muffled groan, hoping that the site was close – his back muscles were starting to cramp, with the combined weight of Carol's backpack and the deer. Ro had taken the spear in an effort to lighten his burden, but it hadn't helped much.

He followed the two girls down three different hallways until Carol stopped in front of a surprisingly intact door. Steve waited for her to push it open, but she turned to look at him. "It's off its hinges," she explained. "You're gonna have to pick it up and move it."

There was no way he could do that with all the added weight on his back. Steve leaned down and let the deer gently slide onto the floor, before slipping off his backpack and taking a step forward. The door was just leaning against the inside frame, so he wrapped his fingers around the sides and just picked it up, shuffling until he could lean it against the wall. His muscles ached in protest and Steve gritted his teeth, hoping that that would be the last strenuous act for a while.

"Thanks," Carol muttered absently, moving into the room. Steve quickly grabbed the backpack and picked up the deer once more, before following the two girls into the room.

_"__Wow__," _Ro murmured, and Steve echoed a similar sound of surprise. Somehow, Carol had found a stash of canned food, and she'd stacked it against the wall, complete with one rusted knife and her two-litre water bottle, which was completely full. In actuality, it wasn't a lot of food – but to someone that hadn't eaten for two days, it was a veritable bounty.

"I feel weak at the knees," Steve joked lightly, and he turned to grin at a beaming Carol. "I can't believe you found all of this!"

"I found them in the storeroom for some old shop. But that's not even the best bit," she added smugly. "Hey, Ro? Go turn on the taps in the bathroom."

Steve's jaw almost dropped as Ro rushed to do her bidding. A second later, there was a screech of metal and then the unmistakable sound of water flowing from a tap. He turned, again, to gape at his district partner.

"The shower works, too," she told them, and Steve honestly could have kissed her.

* * *

Ro took the first shower as Carol skinned and began to cut the deer carcass into strips of meat, with Steve standing watch down the end of the hall. Some windows had been broken in a few of the other apartments, and Steve prowled through the rooms to glance at different sections of the street below. He didn't see anyone else, but that was no guarantee that they weren't there.

Eventually, Carol called him back into the main room. "Here," she said, thrusting a roughly hewn block of meat towards him. "Cut that into strips while I build a fire."

"Shouldn't we do that somewhere else?" he asked, reluctantly taking the knife. "The light could be visible from the streets."

"Then I'll cover the window," Carol said with a shrug. "Don't worry about it, Steve."

Carol cleared a wide section of the tiled floor, making sure that there was nothing around for the fire to catch onto. Then she started to build the actual fire, breaking the branches to create smaller ones, and even using her spearhead to peel off some wood shavings as kindling. It looked impressive once she was done, despite the lack of actual flames.

Steve watched in silence as she took the two of the last branches, after hanging the sheets from the bed across the windows. She'd sat for a few minutes and carved a small hole into the thicker of the two, which she now placed the end of the smaller one into. When she started rubbing the stick between her palms, spinning it quickly, Steve raised his eyebrow.

He raised it even higher when, surprisingly, she managed a spark. Carol moved quickly to feed it some kindling, and it caught alight within seconds. She moved it to the centre of her woodpile, and coaxed it into bigger flames until the whole pile was crackling.

"Wow," Steve said, impressed. Carol smiled at him, her cheeks dimpling. "How'd you learn to do that?"

In a second, her good mood was gone. Carol's smile dropped from her face, and she broke his gaze. "Same way I learned to cut up a deer," she answered, and turned away from him.

"Which was?" They'd both grown up in the same district, after all, and Steve couldn't do have of the things that Carol could. She was almost frighteningly capable, kind of like she'd actually trained for this. But that was impossible-

"Drop it, Steve," she snapped, her voice uncharacteristically cold.

Her anger startled him, and he nearly dropped the knife. Steve glanced at her back, which was rigid and straight, and opened his mouth. "Carol-"

The bathroom door creaked open, and a fresh-faced Ro stepped out. She had a wet bed sheet scrunched in her fist – they hadn't found any towels, so they'd had to make do – but at least her skin was dry. She grinned at them both. "Guess what?" she asked.

"What?" Steve answered reflexively.

"The water's actually kind of warm," she told him, grinning, and took a seat on the floor. "Cool fire, Carol."

"Thanks," the blonde muttered. She twisted to face them, and tipped her chin at him. "Go take a shower, Steve."

"Are you sure?" he asked, ninety-percent certain that she was just trying to get rid of him. "I could help you cook the meat-"

"It's fine. Go."

Well, he wasn't going to argue. Steve clambered to his feet, and picked up one of the sheets he'd stripped from another room. Ro's gaze flickered between the two District Five tributes until he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Steve stripped quickly, eager to be under the spray. He was covered in dirt, and dust, and even a little bit of blood – he just wanted it off of his skin, already. The water stung the little cuts he'd gotten from the bush earlier that day, but Steve didn't really mind. It was a small price to pay for the relief it gave his tired muscles, the warm water sluicing over his skin.

They didn't have any soap, but Steve cleaned himself as best he could before stepping out. He'd tried to wash his hair, too, but he'd mostly succeeded in just tangling his fingers in the wet strands. With his body warm from the shower, he was too tired to care. In fact, it was probably just his empty stomach keeping him awake anymore – and he didn't think it would actually be much of an obstacle if he just lay down and closed his eyes.

He dried himself off quickly, and stepped back into his old clothes with a grimace. It felt kind of unclean, even though he knew that they weren't particularly dirty. It wasn't as though Steve had spent his time rolling in mud, but still.

When he stepped into the other room, the smell of cooking meat seemed to punch him directly in his empty stomach. Steve leaned against the doorframe and sighed. "That smells amazing," he admitted, and Ro grinned.

"Alright, outta the way. It's my turn," Carol said, and brushed past him as she hopped into the bathroom with another sheet bundled in her arms. Steve stepped out of her way and she closed the bathroom door with a faint click.

Steve settled down next to Ro, and she handed him one of the sticks that she'd collected. "Carol said that we're just going to cook the meat," she said. "She wanted to dry it out and make some jerky, but that would take more time than we have."

Steve nodded, and copied the way that Ro had weaved the strips of meat onto the stick before holding it above the flames. "I think we should open some of the cans for dinner," he said after a moment. "Why not make it a real celebration?"

Ro handed him her stick, and bounced to her feet. "What ones should we open?" she asked, peering at the labels. "There's pineapple, fruit salad, sausages, beetroot, beans, vegetarian sausages-"

"Pick two of your favourites," Steve suggested with a shrug.

She came back to him with one can of sliced beetroot and one of the vegetarian sausages. Steve gave her the two sticks – now with different strips of meat, since the others had cooked – and picked up Carol's rusted knife. It could barely be called a weapon, and he had a feeling that they'd be leaving it behind – but for now, it would do.

He stabbed it towards the edge of the first can. It took a few tries before the blade finally pierced the metal, and caused an absolutely horrific sound as he dragged it in a circle, but Steve finally managed to get the lid off. He placed it down next to the fire, and set to opening up the second.

By the time he had, Carol was stepping out of the bathroom. Ro and Steve had waited for her, by silent agreement, before eating. Steve had even laid out the strips of cooked deer-meat onto his shield as though it were a plate, and with the two cans standing next to the platter, it almost resembled a real dinner.

Carol's smile was faint, but real. It seemed as though her earlier pleasant mood had returned. "Looks good," she commented, settling down opposite Steve. "What are we eating, chef?"

The question was clearly meant for him, but Steve raised an eyebrow at Ro instead. She cleared her throat delicately, willing to play along, and spread her hands. "For our dining pleasure," she began in a tittering, high voice – and Steve had no doubt that she was mimicking one of her Capitol stylists, because her accent was perfect – "we have fresh beetroot slices, delightfully roasted vegetarian sausages, and succulent strips of, um, deer."

Steve burst out laughing as she finished, and Carol joined in after a moment. Ro managed to keep a straight face for only a few more seconds before dissolving into giggles, too. Maybe it was simply because they had crossed the line from exhausted to hysterical, but Steve didn't care. The tributes needed a little lightness in their life.

The laughter lasted for only a few minutes – mostly because the resultant pain in their lower stomachs only reminded them of how hungry they were. After that, the three of them dug into the food with the fire warming them at their side, and ate without abandon. There was more than enough food for all three of them – and for the first time in days, they felt full again.

Later, when they'd crushed the fire and moved into a different room – one with no broken windows and a lock on the door, which Steve had insisted on – Steve offered to take the first watch while Carol and Ro slept, after dragging two extra mattresses onto the floor. They'd agreed, their eyes closed before he'd even finished talking.

After that, Steve went to go sit in one of the apartments further down the hall – one with a broken window. He stripped one of the moth-eaten blankets from the bed and dragged one of the large armchairs over, positioning it so that he could sit down and still see the sky outside.

He'd wanted Carol and Ro to rest, of course, but he had also wanted to shield them from watching the nightly death-recap. He hadn't heard any cannons during the day, so it would likely just be repeats of the already-deceased tributes. In all honesty, Steve didn't know why they had to be reminded of who had died – every time he closed his eyes, their portraits glowed in his mind. It would have been impossible to forget their faces.

As he waited for the tributes' portraits to light up the sky, a cold breeze snaked in through the window and Steve wrapped the old blanket tighter around himself. Now, separated from his allies and without the light of a fire, it was difficult not to let the cold and dark night affect him. He could feel its misery seeping into his mind already.

The movement made the pin on his jacket's left shoulder scrape against the material, and Steve glanced over, grateful for the distraction. He didn't think about his token much, mostly because it was out of his sight. But now the dim silver metal winked in the starlight, and Steve glanced away. His throat felt too tight.

Bucky had given him that pin, a few weeks before the reaping. Steve didn't know where he'd found it, just that it was one of a set – a single wing, and Bucky had the other. He'd laughed and accused Bucky of being sentimental – _"What is this, Buck? Some kind of friendship bracelet?"__he'd teased_ – but his friend had only shrugged. _"Can't have my guardian angel goin' around without his wings," Bucky had answered. Steve had lifted a single brow. "With only one wing, I'll be going around in circles, Buck. Is that what you want?"_

Bucky's reply had been weak compared to his usual witty comebacks – _"Shut up, punk."_ – but thinking back on it now made Steve's chest feel slightly warmer.

It also made him think of how he'd volunteered for this Games, to potentially save Bucky's life. Steve always took care of the important people in his life.

But Ro and Carol felt pretty important to him now, too, Steve realized. But if Steve wanted to make it back to his district alive – and he _did_ – then their days were undoubtedly numbered.

The realisation made him feel awful. So Steve tried to banish it from his mind, and instead slumped in his seat as he waited for the Capitol to remind him which innocent children had already died.

But his isolation didn't last long. Steve heard the quiet scuff of boots against carpet, and glanced up as Ro shuffled into the room. She had her jacket pulled tightly around her, hands fisted into the material.

"Hey," he called quietly. "You shouldn't be awake."

Ro didn't say anything at first, just lifting her shoulders in a small shrug. He watched silently as she walked towards him, her eyes on the ground. "Can't sleep?" he guessed, his voice pitched low.

After a moment, Ro shook her head. "I don't want to," she mumbled finally, not meeting his eyes. "Not yet."

He realized what she was waiting for a moment later, as the young girl's eyes drifted to the night sky. Steve rolled his lips between his teeth, indecisive – and then he shuffled over, creating a small space at his side.

Ro pulled her jacket more closely around herself as he lifted the edge of the blanket, letting her tuck herself in. She settled in next to him quickly, angling slightly so that she could stretch her legs out across his knees. Ro was probably trying to take advantage of his body heat too, not that Steve really minded.

He spoke eventually, but kept his voice soft. "You're waiting to see him, aren't you?"

Ro glanced down, twisting her fingers together. "Yeah," she answered softly. Then she looked up, but not at him – she was double-checking that the Capitol hadn't started the display yet. "It's the only time I'll ever get to see T'Challa again," she told him, stumbling only slightly over the name of her district partner. It made Steve's chest ache.

"You'll see him again, one day," he murmured, watching the young girl as she glanced at him.

"Yeah?" she asked, sounding slightly more hopeful.

"Yeah." Steve didn't know if she was a believer – or if they believed in the same things, even – but he had faith that there was an afterlife, even if it wasn't the one that everyone always pictured.

The pair fell into a companionable silence, turning to watch out of the broken window for the evening recap to begin. There was no sound but their soft breathing, and the occasional flutter of fabric as the cold wind swept lazily around the room. It was quiet, and peaceful, and Steve wanted to think that it could last.

Because it was _good_. Because, even though they were fighting to the death and at least two of the children currently inside the building were going to die soon, a warm sense of pride still glowed from underneath Steve's ribcage at the fact that _they could still have these moments._ Even shadowed by cruelty and with death snapping at their heels, a bunch of scared children could still show each other kindness.

It wasn't much, sure, but it was good.

The Capitol hadn't beaten them yet.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	52. Chapter 51: Thinking Out Loud

**(A/N) Hey all, apologies for missing the Thursday update, things just got very hectic towards the end of the week. To make it up to you, there'll be another update tonight, or (more likely), tomorrow morning. Just make sure not to miss this chapter, because Cas really has done a marvellous job with it – will post a reminder in the next update too, just to make sure no one skips this by.**

**Big thanks to musicalocelot, sailorraven34 and the anonymous Guest for their reviews! Sorry about the delay, but I think you'll all find this chapter well worth the wait!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One – Thinking Out Loud**

**Evening, Day Two**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"Spider venom comes in many forms. It can often take a long while to discover the full effects of a bite. Naturalists have pondered this for years: there are spiders whose bite can cause the place bitten to rot and to die, sometimes more than a year after it was bitten. As to why the spiders do this, the answer is simple. It's because spiders think this is funny, and they don't want you ever to forget them."_

– Neil Gaiman,_ Anansi Boys_

* * *

Long shadows provided the dark-haired boy with some semblance of cover as he checked yet another dumpster for usable material. The lid was missing and the degraded garbage was barely recognizable as old paper products and cans. Another bust.

Peter dropped back to the broken asphalt and grabbed the bag he'd fashioned out of couch upholstery. _Sewing skills finally came in handy._ The stitches were holding up well so far despite being made using strips of fabric and a couch tack to make the threading holes. The contents clinked together lightly as he shuffled through and pulled out a length of cord he'd taken from a window blind. In moments, he'd fashioned a snare and attached it to the bottom of the dumpster.

"And that makes five traps for five furry dinners." He dusted off his hands as he stood and smiled to himself. He headed for the end of the alley and made mental note of where he'd placed his last snare. As long as one worked, he'd be set for a while in the food department. He'd already found a few cans of food to last until he could check his traps. Water was a problem. He still hadn't found an appropriate source to fill his empty jar and there was only so much moisture in the cans he'd scavenged. The river surrounding the city was dirtier than he dared to risk just yet.

"Hey, Norman." He waved at the sky with both arms. "If you're watching, I could really use some decent water. I'm not picky. Could be a bottle, or a jug, or rain." Peter frowned. _Now there's an idea._ His eyes ran along the buildings on either side. If he was lucky, there might be some trapped rainwater on a roof somewhere.

The alley ended and Peter stepped into the light of a street. Empty. As usual. He hadn't so much as glimpsed another tribute. A couple small animals, birds, and one faraway deer, but no people. Not since running from the Tesseract. Not since the last time he saw Rogue. He shook the memory away before the screams in his mind could get louder. _No time for that._

A still intact storefront gave a ghostly reflection that caught his attention. The boy who stared back at him was odd and not quite himself. Dark hair was plastered oddly to his head, dirt was all over, and even in the grimy reflection he could see the dark circles under his eyes. _Looking a little rough there, Pete._ He made an attempt to wipe the dirt away, but without water the more ingrained patches refused to budge. His hair was more compliable, poofing a bit after he shook his fingers through it.

He wouldn't be getting the sleep to clear the dark circles for a while. His time in the arena had been filled with finding a safe place to hide, rigging a few traps to keep it safe, and sewing his bag between scavenging for dinner and hiding. Lots of hiding. The few hours of shut eye he had gotten had been filled with nightmares that left him more tired than he'd been.

"Good thing I'm already used to no sleep," he murmured, absently rubbing one eye as he turned away from the glass. "It's overrated, anyway."

Back in Eight, he'd had a habit of working on projects late into the night. More than once Aunt May or Uncle Ben had woken him up from where he'd finally fallen asleep at his desk. It had gotten worse once he'd found his parents' old box. Once he'd gotten to the Capitol, his sleepless nights had only gotten worse.

The lone boy continued walking down the street, his boots crunching on the cracked asphalt. The main road was open and there was little cover, but he was putting off returning to the safer alleys. The sun would be set in a couple of hours and he wanted to soak up as many of the rays as he could. A bird zipped by and turned into an alley, chirping loudly and invitingly. Peter jogged over to where it had disappeared and his eyes lit up when he saw the mostly intact fire-escape.

A dumpster with a lid offered him easy access to the ladder and a last chance for dumpster gold. He propped open the lid and peered into the darkness with little hope of finding anything worthwhile. A sharp piece of metal caught his eye and a broad smile crossed his lips. Dumpster-diving was finally paying off. He cast one last look to either side, then hoisted himself so he could lean over without actually getting into the trash. His fingers stretched to the potential weapon that was just out of reach. He leaned farther, teetering precariously. One finger just managed to wrap around the tip of the metal and he tried to wiggle it loose. The movement dislodged a lump of dark material that rolled to another part of the dumpster where it clanged against the metal side. Peter cringed as the sound echoed loudly. In the shadows down the alley, something rustled in response.

"Hello?" Peter asked. "Whatever you're selling I'm not interested." No response. He reached again for the metal and wiggled more urgently until it came free enough for him to grab.

The scuffling continued as he let himself slide back to the ground quietly. His dark eyes strained to find movement as he advanced. Suddenly, a large rat scurried out from under some rubble and dashed toward a drain gutter. Peter grabbed a brick from the ground and chucked it at the rodent, barely missing as the rat's worm-tail disappeared down the drain.

"Didn't want to eat you anyway," His hands were shaking as he slipped the metal shard under his belt at his hip_. Calm down. Breathe._ His clenched them into fists, but it didn't help. "Jeez, Pete, if you can't handle a rat, what are you going to do when you actually have to fight someone?"

With his bag securely tied to his belt, he climbed onto the dumpster. It wasn't directly under the fire-escape, but he was close enough to reach it with a good jump. He caught the edge of the escape and swung lightly as he hung. The rusted metal groaned under his weight and a moment passed while he waited to make sure the whole thing wouldn't collapse. Carefully, he hoisted himself up. Nothing shifted beneath him as he stood and bounced a few times on his feet. Satisfied it was stable enough to support him, he began climbing upward.

A few sections had broken, but he traversed the gaps with ease. The boots he'd been provided were surprisingly flexible and didn't hinder his climbing ability as much as he feared they would. The escape ended before reaching the roof but he was able to scale the rest of the way using cracks in the wall. The last of the tension left his body as he stood on the roof. He removed his bag from his belt and moved to the edge closest to the sun before sitting cross-legged on the ledge.

The height made him feel safe. It was a false sense of security, but it was calming all the same. The sun's rays glanced off the broken windows of surrounding buildings beautifully. He could almost forget where he was.

* * *

_"Peter? Where are we going?" Gwen rushed to keep up with Peter's quick ascent of the fire-escape._

_"We're going to miss it if you don't hurry." He jumped on the railing of the escape and turned to take her hand and pulled her up next to him, keeping a hand on her back to steady her. "I'm going to lift you up, okay? Just grab the roof."_

_"What?!" Gwen didn't get a chance to protest before Peter grabbed her waist and lifted her into the air. She quickly grabbed the ledge and pulled herself up._

_Peter hoisted himself up and grabbed Gwen's hand, pulling her to the far edge of the roof._

_"Seriously, what are we . . .? Oh." Gwen's mouth hung open and her blue eyes were wide as she stared out at the scene before her. The sun was just setting and the sky was a hundred shades of orange, red, and pink that faded to dark blues and purples. The light reflected off the windows of the factories and made the whole district look like it was glowing. "This is beautiful," she said in a hushed tone._

_"Yeah, it is." Peter kept his eyes on Gwen's face, grinning in self-satisfaction at her reaction. The sun lasted only another minute before completely setting under the horizon, leaving the horizon stained a pleasant pink. He waited until it was gone before clearing his throat and unzipping his backpack to remove a container of chocolate chip cookies. "And now for the next surprise. A batch of Aunt May's best."_

_Gwen gave him a look. "How'd you get chocolate?"_

_He raised his hands in self-defence. "Uncle Ben got a bonus."_

_"Did he?" She was not convinced._

_"Hey, if you aren't going to eat them, I will."_

_"Peter! Come back here!"_

_He laughed and danced out of her reach, munching on a cookie as she chased him around the roof._

* * *

Peter opened his eyes with a sigh. Less than six months ago, everything had been so normal. Uncle Ben was still around, he'd finally gotten a shot with the girl of his dreams, and he wasn't in an arena with the constant threat of death hanging over him. It would never be that way again. "I changed my mind," he announced to the sky. "I'll take a batch of cookies instead of water."

He waited patiently for a few moments, but no parachute appeared. _No cookies for this rooftop sunset. No Gwen either._ He'd tried to avoid thinking of her since arriving at the Capitol. Norman thought it would be helpful to play the young love angle, but Peter had adamantly said no. It was one of the few things he'd refused. If the Capitol did have some vendetta against his family his didn't want it spilling over to her.

A rumble from his stomach reminded him it was dinner time. Peter dug his hand into his bag and grabbed one of the three cans there. His new metal tool easily pried open the lid revealing some sort of meat thing. He sniffed the contents and wrinkled his nose at the strange smell.

"Can't be that bad," he mumbled to himself. The lid easily bent into a scoop and he shovelled an experimental bite into his mouth. A shudder passed through him as the slimy texture touched his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow and resisted the gag reflex. Before he could think better, he scooped the rest of it into his mouth. _Definitely not as bad as I thought, but not good either._

A bigger bird cried as it flew across the sky, chased by smaller ones. They slipped between buildings and wound their way around the tallest one before diving toward the glowing blue of the Tesseract. It was still a few dozen blocks away, but his scavenging had brought him closer than he'd intended. No doubt the Careers had set up base camp there to protect all of the supplies that were left after the bloodbath.

* * *

_The boots worried him. Sneakers were much more his speed. If he couldn't climb or run his chances went from minuscule to non-existent. Peter bounced on the balls of his feet and moved his ankles in circles, trying to judge how much his motion would be limited while Norman went over the plan for the first day yet again. Peter knew it by heart: only go for something from the Tesseract if it was a small risk, find someplace high and hard to get to for shelter, find food, find water, and survive. Simple._

_"You're going to be fine," Honey assured at the end of the speech. "Norman has great faith in you." She looked to the older man who nodded in agreement_

_"Yeah. That makes one of us," Peter mumbled._

_"She's right, Peter." Norman stepped up and laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. "I see great things in your future."_

_Peter smiled and rubbed a hand over his neck. For a moment it was silent while Honey absently straightened his hoodie. "Um, I just wanted to say thanks. For your hard work. And tell the others thanks, too. Just in case I don't come back."_

_Honey pulled him into a tight hug that he readily returned. "You will come back._ Pensamientos positivos." _His mentor stayed where he was, a small frown on his face._

_A speaker gave a warning and Peter pulled back. His friend was wiping away tears from under her over-sized glasses. "One last picture?" He spread out his arms and gave a cocky grin in anticipation of the photo._

_The stylist shook her head. "I'll wait until you get back." She gave a small smile and put her hands on her hips. "This grey doesn't suit you. Your victor outfit is much more fitting."_

_"Can't wait to see it." He stepped up to the launch pad and the clear tube slid down around him. The sound of his breathing was magnified in the container, making him feel more enclosed._

_"Godspeed, Spider-Man." Norman's voice was muffled and Peter nodded to show he'd heard._

_The platform began to rise and his heart began to race. He cast one last wide-eyed look at Honey and Norman before they disappeared from view._

_The sunlight blinded him as his platform emerged from below ground. He squinted and brought an arm up to shield his eyes. The glowing blue of the Tesseract filled his vision, but it didn't hold his attention for long. The surrounding buildings towering over him were more distracting. A city. Something akin to relief filled him. He could work with a city._

_He glanced over to see Rogue preparing to run for the Tesseract. Her face was set in grim determination as she tucked her white streak behind one ear. The closest supplies were too far away to make it in and out without running into another tribute, especially when the determined look of the majority of the kids around him were on the supplies. It wasn't worth it._

_"Five. Four."_

_It was creepily quiet between the booming countdowns. Except for the masked kid from One who was singing._

_"Three. Two."_

_He took one last deep breath and time seemed to slow down. His muscles tensed._

_"One."_

_Peter turned and leapt from the platform as the klaxon sounded, dashing for the closest alley. The first sounds of fighting began impossibly fast. He sprinted across an open street to the next alley. Behind him, someone screamed._

_Alley after alley passed as he sprinted. His ran until his legs were numb and his breathing was ragged. A chain-link fence blocked his path, but he quickly scaled it without hesitation. He dropped to the other side and allowed himself to collapse to the ground. His hands shook as he tried to catch his breath._

* * *

Peter stood and put his hands behind his head, pressing his forearms to his temples. No matter what he did, he could still hear the screams. They echoed through his bones. Crawled through his skin. They made it impossible for him to sleep. A shudder passed through his body and he crouched to the ground.

Rogue was dead. No, _Anna_ was dead. The girl from Eight that he had spent the last few days getting to know. He should have stayed to help her. She was his district partner. That should have meant something. He hadn't even tried to stop her from going to the Tesseract. Instead, he'd run away and saved himself. Even before her face had flashed in the sky he'd known she'd died. She'd probably been one of the screams that wouldn't leave him alone.

Pepper, the blue girl from Ten, T'Challa. All dead before him. This was really happening. Kids and friends were dying. It was only a matter of time before it was his turn. A scream tried to escape, but he held it in. Instead, he sat with his back to the ledge and squeezed his eyes shut, making himself as small as possible. His breathing was short and rapid. His heart was racing. Sweat beaded his forehead as he shook. _I'm going to die and it's going to be for nothing. Nothing I've done has helped anyone. Because of me, Uncle Ben got taken. Aunt May is going to be alone. I didn't even try to stop Anna. _The thoughts rushed through his mind unhindered along with images of what might have happened to his district partner filled his thoughts. Bloody and terrifying.

After too long, he slowly unfolded from his position. A shaky breath escaped, but he was in control again. Norman would be less than thrilled he'd wasted time. Peter could almost see his mentor yelling at the screen about how caring was for the weak and those too timid to get the job done, or something like that. The image actually gave Peter the hint of a smile. The lanky boy took another deep breath and forced a wider smile on his face. "Back to business."

The sun was almost to the horizon. He had less than an hour of light and he still hadn't done what he climbed onto the roof to do. He retrieved the empty jar from his bag and began searching. A collection of odds and ends near the building's access door offered the best location. Just behind the pile of boxes and tarps, he found a quarter-filled bucket. The water inside was clear and appeared to have run off the tarp that was partially shielding the container.

"Jackpot." Peter grinned and cupped a handful to splash his face and neck. The cool water helped calm him further. A sip from his jar made him realize how thirsty he really was. He allowed a couple more sips before screwing the cap on tight. The water looked about as safe as he could expect to find, but he wanted to boil it once he was back at his hideout just to be sure. He gave one last look over the city before slipping back onto the fire-escape.

_How many of us are left?_ He ticked them off on his fingers as he went through the districts. The Careers were intact. Five's patriotic pair. Chess master Tony, who was probably a wreck after Pepper. The other fiery redhead, Sin. The genius from Six. Mr Grump and his silent-possibly-deadly counterpart. Little Ororo was still alive somehow, hopefully far away from creepy Cletus. Nine's girl and, last but not least, Kate and Kurt.

He ran a hand over his neck and chewed on his lip, pausing on a step momentarily. "Maybe I should have made an alliance." Norman had more than encouraged him to do so. He'd practically ordered Peter to try and join the Careers. _That went well. What was it I was supposed to get? Chimi-thingies?_ His score from personal assessments hadn't helped make him more appealing to potential allies, but he'd wanted to play it safe. No use catching the eyes of the stronger tributes last minute. Though maybe catching himself in his own trap wasn't the best way to impress the Gamemakers. _At least I got them to laugh._

The only real hope he had was Norman getting some sponsors on his side. Of course, that mainly hinged on Peter not being completely forgettable next to the more impressive tributes. What he really needed was a good moment in the spotlight.

At the end of the fire-escape, he lowered himself over the edge before dropping to the ground. He rolled forward on impact to a crouching position and froze. An uneasy feeling was in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn't just the usual nerves of the arena. Something was very wrong. He stood slowly and calmly walked toward the main road, his knuckles white as he gripped his bag. A nonchalant glance behind revealed nothing, but that didn't make the feeling go away.

The sunlight was quickly dying as he emerged onto the street. With the feeling of dread hanging over him, he wanted to stay in the remaining sun even though the quickest way back was through the alleys. It wasn't safe in the light, but it was flat out dangerous in the dark.

He quickened his pace, deciding faster was better. He took a sharp turn into an alley and went a few steps before looking behind him yet again. It felt like someone was watching him. Following him. Nothing moved, but the feeling persisted.

"My imagination," he said aloud. "Getting paranoid." He laughed nervously as he turned to start walking again. "Paranoid Peter. That nickname would be sure to get me sponsors," he said dryly as he started jogging. Whenever possible, he ran along the better lit main roads on his snaking path to the south. He was going a more direct route than he'd taken earlier and a shortcut through an alley ended with a fence. He did a run up the adjacent wall, pushing off so he could grab the top of the chain link. He swung over, keeping a tight grip on his bag as he flew through the air, and took off at a flat run when his feet hit the other side. It was a race now. He sped down the streets and alleys, vaulting over debris blocking his path. He reached his building as the sun finished setting. Twilight still cast a grey light and the few streetlights that worked allowed him to see enough to get by. The window of the apartment he'd claimed was five stories up. There was no easy way to get there. No fire-escape that just anyone could use. The only option was scaling the wall.

Peter tied his bag around his belt and began his ascent, his hands and feet easily finding the cracks in the wall as he climbed. There were a few spots where he had to swing and jump to make it to the next handhold, but that was what made him confident in his hideout. Only a few tributes would be capable of safely making the climb and if anyone did decide to try, he would most likely hear them coming long before they reached him.

He arrived at the window and slipped through feet first, careful to avoid knocking out the piece of wood that was propping it open while he was entering. The cord under the window he stepped over would have brought down an old bookcase on his head. Peter quickly moved to the other room, avoiding the other blind cord he'd strung across the bottom of the doorway.

"I really need to beef up security in this place," Peter muttered as he unloaded his goods onto a dilapidated table. He couldn't shake the uneasy feeling even though logic told him he was safe. Even if someone tried to get him from inside the building, they'd have to get past the minefield of glass he'd lined on the stairs and the heavy couch he'd pushed against the apartment door. _I just haven't slept enough. Exhaustion is screwing with me._ He rubbed his eyes and took a calming breath, but if anything the feeling seemed to grow stronger.

"The window." He quickly slipped back into the first room. _Idiot. Should have closed it when you came in._

Peter froze mid-step. The bookcase was rocking slightly. _Oh. Good. I'm not crazy. There really _is_ someone out to kill me._ He inched forward with his metal shard at the ready, his eyes darting around the darkening room. If he could just make it to the window, he could slip out and knock out the wood holding it up. A closed window would at least delay whoever had followed him. _Slow and steady, Pete. Halfway there._

Suddenly, a large mass dropped onto his back, knocking him to the ground and causing him to drop the metal piece. Peter yelped, immediately trying to reach behind him to no avail. Gritting his teeth, he firmly planted his palms on the ground and pushed himself up. He dropped one shoulder suddenly, offsetting his attacker, and rolled away. "Attacking from behind isn't–" His heart almost stopped when he saw his opponent. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Facing him was a spider the size of a large dog. A very large, eight-legged dog. With venomous fangs.

Peter let out a yell at the same the creature jumped and pushed him back to the ground. Its body was covered in fine, stiff hair that stuck into his hands as he tried to push it away. The multitude of legs churned over him, too many for him to fight off. The eyes were glittering in the light that came through the window. So many eyes. Below them the pincers that reached for him and made a horrible clicking sound.

A leg planted firmly in his right shoulder, cutting him through his hoodie. One hand held back the spider and the other desperately felt for his weapon. The mutt was strong and his arm was already beginning to give out. Finally, he felt the cool of the metal against his fingers.

"Get off!" He swung the shard at the monster's head where it embedded in the area of the eyes. The spider reared back, taking the metal with it. Peter kicked out and the spider tumbled away as he scrambled backwards, desperate to put distance between them in the small apartment.

The mutt rolled upright and scuttled sideways, hissing and clicking angrily. Its legs pulled in close and its body lowered to the ground in preparation to jump again. Peter made a last dash for the window, but the spider knocked him back to the ground yet again. The force of the impact hit his head against the floor and his vision swam as the spider crouched over him. In the seconds it took for him to recover, the fangs found their mark, burying themselves in his neck just above his left shoulder.

He couldn't hold back the scream as a burning sensation spread from the bite. It travelled up his neck and down across his chest, feeling like his skin was blistering. Peter beat at the mutt, but his arms were weak. It was becoming harder to breathe. The fangs worked in his flesh, kneading and pushing the venom into his body. He couldn't scream anymore. He couldn't fight anymore. He couldn't move any more. His vision blurred and he squeezed his eyes shut.

A sense of calm washed over him. The state between consciousness and nothing giving him a moment of clarity despite the pain. _Taken out by a spider. Never gonna be able to live this one down. Hope Aunt May isn't too embarrassed._ He could feel warm tears on his cheeks. _I hope she's not alone._

The darkness took hold and, finally, the screaming in his mind quieted.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	53. Chapter 52: Down the Rabbit Hole

**(A/N) Hey guys, as promised we're back with another update to make up for missing last Thursday's update. ****For those only getting to the party now, just letting you know that there was a Peter Parker update yesterday, so make sure you've read it before moving on to this one.**** And don't worry, we'll have our normal Tuesday update tomorrow for you all, and it's gonna be a good one. Of course, a lot of that's because this one right here – by the amazing Canuckle and featuring the equally amazing Wade Wilson (who's got his own freakin' movie coming out, for crying out loud!) – is also fantastic, so without further ado, I'm gonna leave you to it.**

**Big thanks to musicalocelot and sailorraven34 for their reviews, as always – you guys rock!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two – Down the Rabbit Hole**

**Nightfall, Day Two**

**Wade Wilson of District One**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, I can't do anything to change events anyway."_

– Anne Frank

* * *

"Don't touch it," Elektra said, her tone testy. "You're making it worse."

_But I like to touch it. Heh._

_**Don't think that's what she's talking about.**_

Wade chuckled and poked at the wound in his right shoulder. It hadn't gone clean through…and in spite of the fact that they had plenty of medical supplies, there wasn't a damn thing about it that was clean. Feverish and in pain, things had started to truly go downhill for our wayward hero within hours.

No, that wasn't right. Things had gone downhill from the moment he'd stepped into the arena.

* * *

Wade was teamed up with Thor, their mighty leader. The two had been valiantly fighting against Eleven and the Marvel dream boat from Five when he saw her. The babe in the purple cloak. What a time to make an appearance. She seemed to have simply materialized over Eleven's shoulder.

_Oh my God. It's the mystery woman. Holy shit. I mean …. that is her right? I'm not seeing things?_

_**No, we're seeing things…if we weren't we wouldn't see her at all. She's not real, remember?**_

"No way, she's real. I know it. We're just the only ones that can see her. It means we're on the right track," Wade mumbled to himself.

"Cosmic Abomination," She purred out as he fought alongside his blonde teammate, "You've been seeking me out in entirely the wrong way."

_**I really hate to be the party pooper here, but...reality check. Are you sure we can trust this woman?**_

_Of course we can. She's very pretty._

_**Beauty is a fine measure of trustworthiness.**_

"Hey babe. Couldn't keep away from me, huh?"

Before he realized it, there was a dagger sticking out of his right shoulder. Sucker went all the way in to the hilt. The pain and the realization that it had likely just barely grazed at least one bone jerked him back into the moment, the woman in purple lost in the haze of the bloodbath.

* * *

"Wilson, hold still, damnit," Elektra said firmly, through from the look on her face, the last thing she really wanted to do was work on his stupid wound. "It's been hours. I have to check it."

She just wants to get us naked.

"All ya gotta do is ask, princess. I'd do just about anything for you," Wade answered with a _'__Grrawr'_ added in for effect.

"Ugh, eew no…just, no."

_**Wade, you can't talk to her like that. She's our nursemaid.**_

"I know, I know…" he grumbled out, though Elektra didn't seem to notice that it wasn't directed at her. He avoided her disapproving expression by looking out from the Tesseract into the buildings and alleyways around them as the last of daylight was fading. "Place is creepier than shit as it gets dark."

He caught her smirking out of the corner of his eye, but before he could monopolize on it, he returned to watching the gigantic rabbits frolic.

Then he saw her in the shadows of an alleyway.

His sharp intake of breath had Elektra apologizing as she continued to try and clean his wound. He watched the purple cloaked figure slowly slip from the alley toward the Tesseract, only for her to disappear into thin air when she hit the light again.

"It's her," he breathed out, causing both Elektra and Loki to stop a moment and watch him as for once in his life, Wade W. Wilson was totally still and silent.

_Who is she? Why does she keep popping up like this? Years of no-show and today, it's almost like she's flirting._

_**You know who she is, Wade. You've always known who she is. Of course she's going to be here.**_

"But that would mean..."

"Wade, what the hell is wrong with you? I mean, you are above and beyond even your psychotic version of normal," Elektra said, stepping in front of him and blocking his view of where he'd just seen the purple clad goddess, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Get it together, man." He refocused on Elektra then looked toward Loki, whose expression was so funny to him, he couldn't help but break down laughing.

"He is completely cracked," Loki drawled out as Wade kept laughing from his spot on the ground near the centre of the Tesseract.

"He's been cracked for as long as I've known him, but yeah…it seems worse," Elektra said carefully. "What are you seeing now, Wade? Is there someone out there?"

"Oh, you know. The new norm. Apparently it's a barbarian bunny bonanza in my brain pan and I'm the only one invited," he chuckled as he watched two fluffy white rabbits fight over a bloodied patch of grass poking up between the ancient busted up concrete.

"Barbarian bunny…what was on that dagger?" Loki asked as Elektra looked more concerned.

Within hours of the injury, it had been apparent that it was no normal wound. Before anyone had even the opportunity to clean it, it already looked far too raw. At first, they chalked it up to Wade's distorted skin.

Wade on the other hand, didn't seem to be too terribly bothered by the wound – at least as long as his focus was on the giant rabbits that he had thought were mutts. Fluffy, white mutts that hopped around sniffing the splashes of blood left behind from the various injuries inflicted. He had chased after one and tried to decapitate it after the Tesseract cleared of all but the career pack.

As a result, his teammates took his sword away as he proved to his comrades in arms he was certifiably crazy. It also proved to himself that he was the only one that saw the massive almost cartoon like monster bunnies.

Case in point? If they were mutts, why weren't they going after any of them, and more importantly, why hadn't anyone else seen them? He had quickly chalked it up to just another figment of his vivid imagination and rapidly deteriorating mind, though the fact that they were ever present unnerved him. Why rabbits? Was there some mysterious symbolism that he just didn't get? Who the hell hallucinated bloodthirsty rabbits? Another notch in his belt that showed he truly had completely lost his marbles.

Honestly, he didn't care too terribly much. And he did get to see the babe in purple again. It was better than listening to Loki talk as if he wasn't even there while the rest of the pack was off hunting.

_Doesn't he realize we're crazy – not deaf?_

The voices in his head were far more interesting than what was going on around him. It had helped to draw his mind from the growing, throbbing pain that had encompassed his right arm and was spreading across his chest and into his neck. As the pain spread, he lost interest in everyone around him, actually losing the ability to interact with them as his mental condition continued to deteriorate.

_Can we please go lookin' for victims? Sittin' around with the little princess and the geeky kid are startin' to get on my nerves. I didn't realize the games were going to be so … boring. It's supposed to be fighty time! Fighty, fighty, blood, blood blood!_

_**Maybe we can dispatch the greasy kid. The blondes will be mad, but it would be worth it.**_

"No can do, boys … the boss lady took my blade. Just as well, I can't even pick up my arm. Shit," Wade said as he tried and failed again to raise the afflicted limb. "Though I'd love to give it a try …. stab a few of those rabbits with the big sharp pointy teeth. Oh hey …. some of 'em can fly. Whadda ya know."

"We have to keep this raving lunatic alive? Why? He's clearly going to die anyhow. Why not just do him a favour and…" Loki said smoothly, his voice like silk as he gestured cutting his throat. "It would be best for all of us, him especially. How is he going to keep up…and what happens once we get far enough into this? He's going to die anyhow. We should be more careful with our resources. This is like throwing pearls after swine."

_The way that guy talks, I almost wanna agree with him._

_**Did he just call us swine?**_

But, no smart-alec commentary came from Wade as his infection seemed to be seeping directly into his brain. He started to drift in and out of his consciousness for who knows how long, ignoring what little snippets of conversation he heard between Elektra and Loki.

When he was out it the rabbits no longer plagued his vision, though the woman he'd longed to see for so long became clearer in focus and seemed to get closer. To him, that was progress. He could hear her more clearly…feel her cold touch, smell the lingering scent of flowers, fresh dirt and something…old.

"It won't be too long now, darling," The purple cloaked woman said as she had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, gently stroking his cheek.

"Hey babe…are you real, or did these hallucinations just move a step further into the Twilight Zone," Wade asked. "I mean, they already got my vertical and horizontal on the fritz…don't really want 'em messin' with my tactile too, and I could swear I could feel your bony fingers on my cheek."

"Of course I'm real, you lunatic," Elektra said as she looked down at him, clearly exasperated by his decline in spite of her work. "I've been trying to keep those damned wounds clean. What the hell are you doing to make them worse anyhow?"

"Don't mind her, sugar lips. Apparently she's the jealous type," Wade cooed to the smiling cloaked woman just past Elektra's shoulder.

"Sugar…listen you masked freak, get up," Natasha all but barked out, trying to force him to his feet. "If you can't get up and around on your own, you're dead weight."

"Tasha, come on. He's wounded," Clint countered, trying to calm her down.

"NO. We aren't all coming out of this alive anyhow – he's already dead, he just doesn't know it yet." She glared down at him.

"I'm not the only one," Wade chuckled. Natasha looked irritated as she huffed, stepping back a few paces as the masked wonder groaned. Trying to move into the upright was proving more painful than Wade had anticipated.

"Come, Wade. You must get up. See if you can stand alone," Brunhilde said kindly, as Thor offered to do all he could to help him upright, wrapping his arms around his masked compatriot and effortlessly lifting him to his feet.

_Not the hot blonde I had in mind, but he _does_ have the prettiest hair I've ever seen._

_**I think the fever's getting to you.**_

"Darling, really – the little redhead is right. Just relax, let it take over," The purple cloaked woman said sweetly. "I promise I'll be gentle."

"I'd love to, but I don't even know your name," Wade said, a strain to his voice as Thor set him on his feet, his head spinning madly.

"How do you not know my name, Wilson?" Thor looked confused, having apparently missed much of Wade's inside conversations.

"Please, kill him now," Loki interjected. "He's talking to himself. Er…more." Thor seemed more stressed at the comment and directed Wade to stand on his own, trying to help him balance. The group as a whole held their breath as he stood, visibly shaking, his arms slightly out to help with his balance.

"That's a start," Elektra said quietly. "But is he mobile? He's been festering in spite of all we've done." The whole of the Career pack watched, all of them wary though for decidedly different reasons.

"Take a few steps, Wilson," Barton said clearly, his arms crossed and watching the lunatic carefully.

"Oh, no problem my friend, I've been doin' this since I was in diapers," Wade joked.

As soon as he was under his own steam, not even three steps in, his knees buckled and pain shot down his leg and up his entire right side as he crumpled to the ground. Gasping for breath, half screaming, half cursing as the rest of them began to fight in earnest over his fate.

"I told you, it's spreading, it's just a matter of time," the cloaked woman said urgently. "Don't fight it, just close your eyes and let go."

"Seriously, what do I call you? I mean... who are you, exactly?" Wade asked, largely ignored by his team now as the debate over his fate became overly heated, raised voices and all.

"You know who I am, darling. I am the Mistress Death."

"It's not a matter of honour! It's a matter of survival! If you won't let us kill him, at least use him to lure in some of the other tributes!" Natasha shouted, openly advocating dropping the dead weight.

_**Hey! Pay attention, jackass. They're talking about us over there.**_

"So, I'm going to die?" Wade mumbled, staring into the glowing green orbs of Death, flatly ignoring the voices that liked to bicker in his own head.

"Everyone in this arena will. Eventually. Some far sooner than others. No one escapes death," she replied.

"Repellent though he is, he is still one of us! I will not have you treat him as some low beast to be offered up as sacrifice!" Brunhilde was not one to change her decision based on anyone else's opinion, except perhaps Thor, who looked incapable of making the call, clearly torn on what to do as they turned to him for guidance.

The rest of their gang was openly starting to choose sides. Clint alone seemed to be remaining in neutral territory while the others moved to stand behind who they supported…some backing Thor and Brunhilde, others Natasha. As the two of them argued a bit more, Wade simply passed out. Not only was he listening to the women bickering, but the two voices in his head that generally gave him much entertainment and someone to talk to were also arguing about the woman in purple.

_I think we should just do what she says._

_**You would. You'd follow a pretty face into a fire ball.**_

"Fireball…no. We've done that once before. That's how I got stuck with you two."

_We were there before, you just weren't listening. I say maybe just listen to the purple lady._

_**She's trouble. Forget her. Kill the mouthy kid from Twelve…that's gotta be worth a little medicine. Don't forget, Al is watching.**_

_Al is __not __watching. She's _listening,_ at best. And to what? You talking to yourself? Crazy doesn't win sponsors. Especially when we haven't even killed anyone._

With no escape from both arguments, he simply succumbed to the pain, getting lost in the sensation of it washing over him.

Of all the tributes that were supposed to be in their alliance, Elektra was the only one to go to Wade's side. She just watched him for a while as he continued to converse to an invisible entity that only he could see.

At first his eyes seemed dull as he prattled on. The subject of his internal conversation was something that she was not entirely sure of. He was mumbling pretty thickly after all.

While the others tried to discuss his fate, she steeled herself and took a closer look at the festering, angry wound on his shoulder.

On closer examination than what she'd forced herself to do earlier, she found that the pebbled, angry red skin that was normal for him…looked a lot worse around the wound. Since the last time she'd cleaned it, not four hours before, it had blackened and lines of purple extended up his neck and over his chest across his heart.

She gently placed her hand on his neck and Wade's uninjured hand drifted up to cover hers as she tried to gauge how badly out of control his fever was. Burning up was putting it lightly.

More alarming than that was that finally, she realized what it was about him that she thought smelled so badly. The lingering smell of death warmed over was oozing from him, growing thicker and more obvious as time marched on. It seemed their decision was being made for them, all but how to handle it.

* * *

Very suddenly, Wade found himself in the old training room…but it looked different than he was used to. Perfect, clean white walls and the whole place stocked with fresh, unblemished training dummies. Looking down, he realized he held both of his katana – razor sharp and shining in the morning sun. He dropped them at once when he realized the skin on his exposed arms was smooth, tanned and frankly...perfect.

He spun on the spot to look in the mirrors that covered one entire wall of the training room, wrenching the mask from his face to expose a very handsome young man with no reason whatsoever to hide. He stared at himself for a moment, wide eyed.

He'd forgotten what he was supposed to look like.

"Perhaps this is truly where it should have ended," Death told him as she materialized next to him. "It's where it would have ended for anyone else if not for those damned doctors."

"My scars..."

"Scars don't follow you into the hereafter if you don't want them to. Come with me, Wade. Make it easier on yourself."

"How?"

"Make your choice, my love … either take up the katana and make that spark again, perhaps buy yourself a few more days of excruciating agony as that infection takes you over completely or, you can give me a single kiss and end this piteous existence."

* * *

"Wade, can you hear me? Are you … are you in there?" Elektra asked hesitantly.

"Sweetheart …. of course I'll kiss you. R-rabbits won't matter … swirly," he mumbled as she frowned at him.

"Guys," Elektra said quietly at first.

"NO. I won't let you drag me down over this!" Natasha had officially lost her cool, openly challenging Thor on his decision to stand by Brunhilde.

"GUYS!"

"None of us want to be murderers in cold blood! He does not affect our survival – he's no threat to anyone in his state!" Brunhilde argued.

"There's only one thing we can do, no choice in it really," Elektra said as they continued to bicker, no one actually looking anywhere near the man in question. As she pulled out the sai tied into her sash, Wade seemed to come around, his focus clearly on his district partner.

"Come on, Princess. I got a hot date I'm late for already," Wade said clearly.

She stared at him open mouthed and watched as his eyes glazed over again and he began simply moaning, apparently incapable of speech once again and very clearly in pain. She closed her eyes and steeled herself.

With one quick rough motion, the sai in her hand had sunk in deeply under his chin, up into his skull with a sickening crunch.

The bickering ceased entirely and all eyes fell on Elektra as his head fell backwards when she pulled the sai out again to the sound of a cannon.

_Thanks, murder princess._ Wade said clearly as he looked over the scene below, once again whole and smooth, arm in arm with the Mistress Death as he gladly welcomed her cold embrace.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	54. Chapter 53: Team-Killer

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our third update in three days – so make sure you check out the last two, featuring Peter Parker and Wade Wilson, if you haven't already! This one is certainly a behemoth, written by the wonderful JGrayzz so, of course, features Elektra Natchios (let's just hope that Daredevil Season Two will do as much justice to her as J's done here).**

**Shout-out to Idalove2read, musicalocelot, sailorraven34 and actresspdx for their reviews – we love hearing your thoughts, and we hope you'll keep sharing them with us.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Three – Team-Killer**

**Nightfall, Day Two**

**Elektra Natchios of District One**

**Written by JGrayzz**

* * *

_"You can tell it any way you want but that's the way it is. I should of done it and I didn't. And some part of me has never quit wishin' I could go back. And I can't. I didn't know you could steal your own life. And I didn't know that it would bring you no more benefit than about anything else you might steal. I think I done the best with it I knew how but it still wasn't mine. It never has been."_

― Cormac McCarthy, _No Country for Old Men_

* * *

As soon as the dagger sunk into Wade Wilson's flesh, Elektra knew she would break.

She had made a promise to herself a week ago. A promise that she would try to redeem herself. That her journey into the arena wasn't just an easy path towards freedom, but a test enacted by fate. An ultimate test towards her long, winding path to redemption. A path she's wanted to embark on since the day she was thrown into Crossmore Penitentiary like an animal.

Every night, tucked away in her cell, after the voices died down until there was nothing left to hear but the sound of her breath, Elektra would recite a mantra to herself in her mind – sometimes out loud. She couldn't remember exactly what the words were, but it hardly mattered. It was the message that mattered more to her. It was a message about who she was, who she could have been, and what she'll never be. And every night, she would tell herself, over and over, that one day, she was going to break free from her chains. She was going to break free, and she was going to run.

She would run so fast, that nobody would even see her. And if they did, they wouldn't see an animal, they wouldn't see a blur, they would just see a girl. A girl that, for all her sins and regrets, wouldn't stop running even if she got tired. And then they would see nothing.

Elektra knew she was a bad person, even at the tender age of fourteen. But this didn't stop her from dreaming. She recited her mantra until it became a prayer – a lifeline. She would do it until she saw the sun. Until she saw the light.

Elektra never wanted to hurt anyone. There was never any point during her time in the Capitol where she felt the need to saturate some untamed blood-lust like Johnny Storm seemed to think. Elektra would play the Game, but she would play it _her _way. The _smart _way. The way she'd planned on playing it for years as she rotted inside her murky cell.

Elektra didn't know exactly what it was that compelled her to put Wade Wilson out of his misery, and as the seconds ticked by in painstaking silence, Elektra couldn't find a justifiable excuse. Perhaps it was the silence that flustered her, or perhaps it was the fact that _everyone _was watching her. Not only her allies, but millions of other people in Marvel – crouched down in front of their television, mouths agape, or expressions vacant.

Elektra wanted to say something to her allies, to somehow clarify that the boy wasn't going to live much longer in the state he was in. That's what she imagined she would do, at least before she actually did it. She didn't think they'd be content with it, but she predicted they would at least collectively understand. She thought they'd be on the same page.

But she was wrong. More wrong than she could have imagined.

Elektra was frozen still, amber eyes transfixed on Wade Wilson's slumped form against the concrete. Her breaths came in short, stilted gasps, the chill evening air causing vapour to cloud her vision like some sort of formless creature, dancing beneath her nose and fading away.

Thick crimson dripped from her sai, still warm as it flowed down her hand and into the crevices of her palm, heating up her cold skin. It wouldn't have been so bad if the blood belonged to her, but the thought of Wade's life-essence staining her body frightened her so much, her precious sai slipped through her wet, shaking fingers and crashed near her feet.

She started to panic, her dark eyes quickly searching for her allies. Elektra looked back at Wade's slumped body, blood now pouring down his chest like a scarlet river.

Elektra couldn't see her directly, but out of the corner of her eye, Brunhilde was livid, charging at her with a force she couldn't possibly match even if she was ready. Brunhilde was too tall, too sturdy, too riled up. "Wh–What have you done?!"

Elektra tumbled to the street like a rag-doll, the concrete towers becoming a grey blur. She fell directly on her left shoulder, skin scraping against the pavement. Elektra didn't fight back – she didn't try to defend herself or even yell out in pain. Elektra's mind was too numb.

Brunhilde shoved her with her boot. "What wrong with you? Answer me at once!" Her voice was strained, almost hoarse; cracking a little as she yelled at Elektra's fallen form, but it wasn't because she was sad. It was exhaustion. It was stress. It was pain.

Thor rushed over, pulling Brunhilde away by the arm. "Brunhilde, stand down! We're a team here!"

Elektra had taken plenty of beatings before, but it had been years since someone had ever managed to drop her where she stood. Elektra wondered if Brunhilde wasn't so much as angry with her as she was just angry in general and needed something to attack. This was odd to Elektra, seeing as she could never imagine a cool-headed girl like Brunhilde to allow her emotions to ever get the best of her.

Brunhilde's cold eyes never left Elektra as she was led away by Thor towards the Tesseract. Even as Thor tried to counsel her, she continued pacing back and forth, hands hugged against her body like she was cold – bothered by something.

Elektra didn't want to look at anyone else, not really. But her eyes wandered in her numbed panic, hopelessly searching for someone who would at least show her mercy. Natasha wasn't even looking in her direction, but instead similarly pacing around with her hands on her hips, methodically dragging a sword against the ground as she went along. Elektra had seen the shift in personality coming, but not quite to the extent Natasha had demonstrated at the Bloodbath – eager to kill and draw blood.

It disturbed Elektra, but she kept these thoughts at bay, trying to ignore the red-haired girl as best she could. Natasha scowled at Brunhilde as she tapped the point of her sword against the ground. The two were definitely not on the same page.

Elektra gave a sideways glance at Clint; his hands were clasped behind his head, staring on at Wade's bloody, limp body like he was confused.

The archer was a mystery to her, even still. He stayed out of most of the quarrels that went on within the group, but wasn't completely impartial either, having been the only other member to have killed someone at the Bloodbath besides Thor. Clint had certainly made moves, but he was frustratingly difficult to pin down, and even when she thought she understood him, he turned it around and surprised her. Elektra admired Clint, but she wasn't sure the boy ever thought too highly of her, especially now after what she just did.

Elektra gritted her teeth and stared at her bloody hands – some of the blood fresh from open cuts after being shoved down to the pavement. Some of it, however, was Wade's. Elektra couldn't bear the thought of seeing his blood on her hands, so she briskly wiped her palms on the side of her pants, again and again until they were almost raw.

It hurt, but it kept her mind busy. She wasn't going to start thinking about Wade again – about the conversations they shared, the bundle of insanity that so often provided her with entertainment. Elektra couldn't picture his face clearly, though it was hard to forget. She had already forgotten what his voice sounded like.

"Hey," Natasha lightly kicked Elektra's knee with her boot, extending a pale, scarred hand. "Come on. Don't listen to them."

Elektra glanced at Natasha's hand, unwavering and covered to the brim with scratches and cuts, some old and some new. Dried blood crusted underneath her fingernails, presumably from her scuffle with Logan. Elektra didn't want to admit it, but even in her numbed state of mind, Elektra felt the slightest twinge of fear. A small flutter of nerves and adrenaline racked through her core at the thought of taking the girl's hand. It was a simple gesture, but now that they were _here, _it didn't seem right.

Natasha raised her eyebrows at her, "I'm not waiting all day."

Elektra shook her head. "I'm fine."

Natasha tilted her head at her, the smallest of smirks playing on her ghostly pallor, "No, you're not."

Natasha dropped her hand, smacking it loudly against her pants before she swivelled on her heel. She stopped however, and craned her head back. "You've got blood on your face, you know."

Elektra frowned as the girl trudged off, dragging the sword along the crater-filled street behind her. Elektra quickly wiped her nose, only to find a smear of blood on her wrist.

_Shit, _she thought. She believed the blood must have come from Brunhilde's assault. Elektra was so shell-shocked at the time, numb from the adrenaline, that she completely blocked out the pain. Brunhilde hadn't just shoved her down. She socked her in the nose. It was a wonder Elektra hadn't been knocked unconscious.

Elektra did what little she could to quell the blood, and for the most part, wiped most of it away, though the spots she couldn't clean would inevitably dry up on her face, making her look far more primal than she intended.

Elektra pulled herself to her feet with assistance from a yellow vehicle that was tossed upside down on the street. Her entire body ached, mostly from the pain and the stress, though it was entirely possible she hadn't eaten enough. As a matter of fact, most of the alliance hadn't eaten since the morning of the launch. Even Thor starved himself.

Elektra's stomach made some fierce noises, some so loud she wondered if Clint could hear it at the distance he was at from the Tesseract. She needed to eat, but it would be inappropriate. Elektra knew consuming anything at a time like this was bound to earn her some questionable looks from her allies.

Brunhilde had seemed to calm down some, at least enough for Thor to sit her down so they could discuss things reasonably, or as reasonable as Thor could make it in his current state. Elektra peeked under from her dark cowl at the two, sitting under the glowing blue light of the cube-shaped Tesseract. Thor's expression was forlorn and stone-faced, while Brunhilde's was stoic and pensive – calculating, looking as if she was mulling some idea over as she always seemed to be.

At first glance, the two were difficult to tell apart; large, burly, both with hair that messily cascaded down their backs. It was interesting to Elektra that the closer she got, the more indistinct they became when trying to compare them against each other. Whereas Brunhilde was calculating and reserved, Thor was emotional and almost impulsive.

Elektra could see this easily as Thor massaged his temples and bounced his leg, impatiently trying to reason with the girl on whatever matter they seemed to be discussing. Elektra had a _strong _feeling it was about _her. _She could tell because Thor kept looking at Elektra, and not in an entirely friendly, curious way either. This look was different. It was piercing, stern, but _lost._

Elektra sighed as what was left of the sun sank beneath the horizon in symbolic fashion. For the next fifteen minutes, Elektra crouched down against the yellow vehicle, hands on her chin, waiting desperately for _something _to happen. The wait was agonizing, which became worse and worse as total darkness fell over the arena like a shroud. The towers became shadowy colossi, looming above and around them. The blue of the Tesseract provided only a small source of usable light, and Clint began the process of getting a fire going in some rusty barrel.

A wispy, shadowy figure appeared from the darkness, and Elektra almost thought it was Wade coming back from the dead to haunt her, but she knew that was impossible, seeing as Wade's body was still fallen over near the Tesseract.

"Quite cold, isn't it?" Loki's ghostly smile appeared seemingly out of thin air, and Elektra didn't know whether to be reassured by this or not.

"Yeah, I suppose so," she mumbled.

Loki rubbed his hands together, blowing in to them before he leaned on the car near her. "Wish they had some bloody _heaters _in this Gods-forsaken place. It'd be the _least _they could do, really."

Elektra nodded, though she wasn't all there. She wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, least of all Loki.

"You did the right thing, you know," he said, in a convincingly sympathetic voice. Elektra took most of what Loki said with a grain of salt. She'd seen people like him before, back in prison. They were always like that – trying to get in good with the wardens before their parole hearings.

"You shouldn't listen to my brother. He's a fool…a buffoon. Him and our..._cousin,_"he spat.

"They could fall in a pit for all I care, the whole lot of them. The boy was _dying – _we all knew it. _You _knew it. And _they_ knew it, but they didn't want to admit it. I just don't get it." Loki shook his head and sighed.

Elektra didn't know what stance to take, nor did she care. Loki's business with his brother was his own. She could tell the two were distant as of late, especially with Brunhilde asserting her authority over all of them, which Loki particularly disliked. Elektra knew this was a person who liked control – over people, over things, over systems. Yes, Elektra had definitely known people like him. From her experience, those kinds of people either ended up in a box, six-feet under, or behind a desk, pulling the strings and making the moves.

Loki was currently not in control.

"Why is it _you _had the gall to do what nobody else here could do? Why is that? Thor claims to be a leader, but he doesn't have the bloody sense to do what needs to be done!" Loki threw his hands up as he talked with Elektra, and she simply sat against the metal of the car, glaring intently, nervously chewing on her thumbnail, focused on Thor's lumbering figure.

Loki snickered to himself. "This is a mess, _all_ of it. This alliance is falling apart and it hasn't even been two days yet. Can you believe that?"

Elektra _could_ believe it. She anticipated it from the start.

"You should have been the leader, you know that? Let's face it, you have all the qualities of a proper leader; the common sense, the focus, the _drive. _What do they call the leader of a wolf-pack? What is it...an alpha, right?" Loki asked her in a low voice, lightly brushing her shoulder.

Elektra never planned on being a leader of anything. She _wanted_ to be alone. But if she would have sneaked off, the Careers would have tracked her down and killed her for being a threat and a traitor.

Still, Elektra didn't work well with people. At all.

Elektra tilted her head in a curious sort of way. "Alpha?"

Loki smiled, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight. "That's right._ Alpha._ These people are just too blind, too _weak." _Loki leaned in closer. "They just can't see it. But _I _can."

Elektra scoffed at him, and fiddled with a loose pebble on the ground, chucking it at a street sign. "I think you're looking at the wrong person here."

"Am I? You've killed before – I know you did before Thor even told us back at the meeting. You know how I knew? Because I could _see _it in your eyes. You're a killer, but you're not crazy either. What you have, is a gift." Loki seemed quite convinced with his theory, which almost amused her. How could he have _seen _it in her eyes? It doesn't make any sense. And yet, he actually seemed to believe it.

"My brother has too much heart – he tries to hide it, but he could never fool me. He gets...too attached, you see. And _Natasha_...that girl is dangerous. Too impulsive, too angry. Just look at her," Loki said, nodding his head in Natasha's direction.

Natasha paced back and forth, hands on her hips as she seemed to be muttering something to herself. The girl was indeed angry – and had been ever since the Bloodbath, where she had some sort of panic attack that caused her to fly in an intense rage. Nobody could approach her, not even Thor. She was upset because they had only killed two people – she was confused, humiliated, and angry with Logan for getting her injured. She threatened to hunt him down and skin him alive.

"Natasha wants to move, and Brunhilde wants to stay put. In the state that girl is in, do you really believe disagreeing with her is the _best _option right now? Do you see what I'm getting at here? One day, the two of them will clash, and I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be here to watch it go down."

Elektra's eyes widened a little, surprised at what Loki seemed to be insinuating. "So...you plan to leave?"

Loki shrugged. "Well, not now, of course. _But_...if something..._drastic _were to happen within the alliance, and I have every reason to believe it will – then yes, suffice to say, I most likely will have left by then."

Elektra looked away. "I see."

Loki leaned a bit closer than Elektra was comfortable with. Elektra had a personal bubble with a proximity of up to twenty feet. Elektra had a strong dislike for anyone who breached this bubble radius. Loki was definitely in her bubble. "Say I were to leave. Say something ugly happens here and a good time opens up for me to ditch. What would you say if I asked you to come with?"

Would she go with? Elektra narrowed her eyes. She was becoming increasingly paranoid now that this might be a test of some sort. A test, she believed, to determine how faithful she was to the alliance. She could see Thor putting him up to this.

"No," she stated. There was no emotion there, from what she could tell. If Loki picked up on even the slightest slip, he would definitely know. He was the type of boy to linger on even the smallest of slip-ups, using them to his advantage for later.

Surprisingly, Loki scowled at her, which made her scowl in return. "Well, that's disappointing to hear. Why in the bloody hell would you stay _here?_ I thought you'd be...eager to leave after what happened."

"Well, then you were wrong," Elektra quipped as she threw another pebble.

In truth, Elektra had indeed considered for a few minutes just running away, but she quickly dismissed this idea. If Elektra had learned anything from her years of wandering the streets and rotting in prison, it was that running away was a coward's way out. Elektra never ran from anything or anyone, she charged them head on and hoped for the best. She knew the psychological toll it would cost her, but it was better than tucking her tail between her legs and calling it quits.

"You'll consider it, though, won't you?"

Elektra flinched as Clint cursed in the darkness. A cloud of embers from the fire sparked around him, causing him to cough and spit.

Elektra didn't want to answer the boy, out of paranoia, but there was always a chance Loki was telling the truth – maybe, perhaps, he _did _want to leave the alliance. It sounded like a death-wish, at the moment. After all, the Careers _did _make a pact. If Loki left, if _she _left, wouldn't that count as an act of betrayal? Loki is Thor's brother, but does the pact mean more than family?

"I don't know. I'll think about it," she said, tucking her chin in the crook of her arm.

This answer seemed to lighten Loki's spirits. "That's _delightful_ to hear," Loki climbed off the car, patting Elektra on the shoulder. "Well, you'll be fine, I think. I would have done the _same _thing in your shoes. It's not _your _fault they're weak, hmm?"

Elektra didn't even get a chance to retort before the boy vanished into the darkness. Loki was a peculiar boy, and it bothered her that she couldn't get a read on him. He was officially worse than Clint.

The seconds ticked on as Elektra waited near the car, eyes shutting as she waited for them to make a decision – on what they were to do, where they were to go, and _her. _Whether she liked it or not, she had killed a member of the alliance, digging herself into a hole that would be tricky to climb back out of. She didn't think what she did was entirely _wrong, _and she was firm on this belief. But Brunhilde had a different opinion, and Elektra couldn't hate the girl for that. Loki spited anyone who didn't agree with him, but Elektra wasn't like that.

Was she?

Elektra's vision was darkening, fatigue clouding her mind and senses. Until she saw a large, much darker shadow come into her field of view. She jumped awake, instinctively searching for her sai on the ground, only to realize it was gone.

"Elektra, do not fear, it is I, Thor," Thor put his hands up, trying to reassure her with a smile, but she barely noticed it was there.

"I wanted to speak to you, over what happened earlier," Thor shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at Elektra almost nervously under his dirty blonde hair. Even now, in the arena, Thor remained as shy and uncomfortable as he was in the Capitol.

"Aye, I understand why you did what you did, you know. I'm not the only one, either - the others, more or less, believe you to have been in the _right._"

"And what do you feel?" she murmured, in a slightly nervous tone.

"Well...I really cannot know. I'm not sure I'm supposed to _have_ a choice in the matter." Thor crossed his arms, the familiar stern-faced demeanour taking over.

Thor was smarter than she thought, for remaining unbiased. Thor _was _a good leader, despite what Loki seemed to think.

Elektra rubbed her eyes and sighed. "So...what are you going to do?"

Thor stared at her, but it was that same unfocused, lost look he had earlier. "Brunhilde wants me to keep my eyes on you, at least until you can earn her trust back." Thor shrugged his shoulders at her, as if the boy didn't quite understand either. As if he was ashamed of Brunhilde's reasoning.

Elektra put her knee up, shrinking back a little. "But...I don't understand. You told me that most of them _agreed _with what I did."

Thor nodded. "Aye, that I did. Unfortunately, it's a lot harder to convince Brunhilde than you think. What you see with Brunhilde...is sort of what you get. I tried to make her understand, but I think...I think the arena is beginning to affect her." Thor shook his head, mentally searching for some sort of answer. "Maybe it's just this whole thing, but...Brunhilde isn't taking this well, not at all. She seems to believe that your actions were made out of spite, or something of its ilk."

Elektra shook her head, because she knew that wasn't true. Wade Wilson was admittedly annoying, but she never _hated_ the boy. She never wanted him to _die. _She never wanted to _kill _him. Elektra liked Wade. He was mad, but it was a madness she grew comfortable with.

Thor rubbed his temples as he walked back and fort. "I do not know. I tried to make her understand, but there's no point. She doesn't trust you, Elektra, and I don't believe she'll change her mind on that."

It was nothing new, at least for Elektra. Most of her life, she had always had enemies. Every day, she had someone who either wanted her dead or close to it. Elektra had always admired and respected Brunhilde, and it was a shame she had grown to distrust her, but it had been only a matter of time. She couldn't blame her. If Elektra were Brunhilde, she'd be leery of herself too.

"So, having told you that," Thor raised Elektra's twin sai in the air, old dried up blood from Wade still on one of them. "I have no choice but to take these from you, until the time is right."

Elektra scoffed and narrowed her eyes, straightening up in a knee-jerk reaction – almost as if Thor were holding up dead kittens. "_Wait _a second, what for?"

Thor sighed. "It's Brunhilde's idea. To make sure you won't be...a threat, to the alliance. I'm sorry, but Brunhilde would have kicked you from the pack had I not agreed to do this."

Elektra was slack-jawed, and a familiar surge of anger rushed through her body. Her face flushed, but she bit down on her lip, a tactic she always used to steady herself. "Thor, you don't _have_ to do this. You don't always have to listen to her."

"You don't understand..."

She _did._ She did understand. Thor knew how to lead, but Brunhilde was always holding him back. Ever since the meet on the roof, Elektra had noticed that Thor always ran back to her whenever he made a decision. It always bothered her, especially when Thor claimed numerous times that solely _he_ was going to fill that role.

"You're the leader, aren't you?" Elektra stood up, glaring at Thor, holding as much anger at bay as she possibly could.

Thor looked utterly frustrated, with her, and with everything in general. "Aye! Aye, I am, but without her I'm nothing. I feel better when she's here, when Loki's here. I _can't _do this alone, Elektra. I'm not like you or Natasha, or Clint."

Elektra collapsed to the ground again, annoyed with the whole ordeal. If she knew it would have caused this much of a fuss, she wouldn't have taken care of the boy in the first place. She would have just let him die, slowly and painfully, succumbing to infection.

Thor knelt down and tried to smile at her again. "Look, it's going to be okay. You'll get these back soon enough. You'll just have to show her you can be trusted."

Elektra nodded with a bitter smile. "That should be easy."

Thor lifted Elektra to her feet. "Why don't you come join us near the fire? It's rather cold over here, and...rather dark as well. You can never be too careful."

Elektra nodded, though she was content to stay put in her spot near the shadows. And she had to bite down on her tongue especially hard so she wouldn't inform Thor that if she only had her sai, she'd be able to defend herself in the dark just fine.

Her eyes fell on her sai clenched in Thor's fist as she walked behind him, silver glinting under the moonlight. Being separated from her sai was like having a piece of herself being torn away.

Elektra was angry, bitter even, almost as bitter as she had been throughout the Capitol. Anger wasn't a good thing to feel in the arena – it clouded her vision too much, made her see things that weren't there. But this was going _too_ far. For as logical as Brunhilde made herself out to be, this decision to handicap her because she showed Wade _mercy_ just didn't add up.

Elektra pushed her hair back and looked at the sky. Thick patches of clouds covered up the stars like a blanket. Elektra always loved looking at the night sky, but it seemed as if every time she tried, something got in the way. Elektra kicked up gravel in the ground with the sole of her boot, exhausting her anger in small bursts.

Elektra spotted Loki then, studying her near Clint's barrel-fire, warming his fingers. Elektra wasn't entirely sure if Loki had heard her conversation with Thor, but she wouldn't put it past him to eavesdrop. Loki nodded at her under the glow of the fire, and Elektra half-nodded back. She wasn't sure what the gesture meant to him, whether Loki took it as some sort of acknowledgment or something else entirely.

But for Elektra, all she could think about was the proposal Loki offered her earlier – about leaving the alliance for good. And with everything that was happening, Elektra was almost convinced Loki might just have the right idea.

* * *

Natasha's patience was wearing thin – Elektra noticed this almost as soon as she sat down near Clint's fire at the Tesseract. The mood was palpably negative, tense, and miserable. Thor spent most of the time digging through the mountains of supplies they gathered, cursing every time he didn't find food. Clint proposed that the Capitol did it on purpose – trying to trick the tributes into believing any backpack they took would suffice, when in fact only half of them even contained a medical kit. His theory was that it was all a ruse to keep the tributes moving.

Thor slammed one of the backpacks down in frustration, sweeping back his blonde mane with a tremendous degree of impatience. Brunhilde barely even looked at the boy, a contrast from the sharp attentiveness she held for him back at the Capitol. As Thor had mentioned before, there was a rift that had formed between them. Whatever bond they shared before, hardly seemed to matter now.

Elektra heard Clint heave a sigh from behind her. "Uh, guys? Yeah...this fire isn't going to last us much longer."

Thor paused halfway through tearing open a medium-sized, but mostly empty backpack. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Uh, no, I wish I were. I've run out of matches," Clint ceased his poking at the fire and crouched down, blowing into his hands.

"By the gods!" Thor threw the backpack down and stormed over to see for himself, and Elektra almost didn't want to hear his reaction. After numerous mishaps, she'd wondered how the boy didn't drop dead from a heart attack.

"You used up two boxes of matches _already?_ And you're sure you didn't leave any lying around?" Thor didn't even bother waiting for an answer, already on his knees patting the ground for any loose matches that might have fallen out. Elektra hated to admit it, but it _was _quite amusing seeing the large boy sniffing around the ground like a dog.

"I'm not_ stupid_, Thor. I wouldn't just let a match go to waste like that," Clint didn't know what to do with himself, and looked rather awkward as he waited for Thor to scour the ground.

"I wasn't calling you stupid, _Clint. _But...by the gods, I couldn't find anything." Thor dusted himself off, giving Clint a stern regard as he passed him.

Everything was going to hell, from half of the backpacks being empty, to Wade's infection, to their disappointing Bloodbath performance. Absolutely nothing was working out as Thor had originally planned. Elektra watched Thor toss backpacks into the fire with worried eyes, and at the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder how far they could keep going like this before the Gamemakers decided to get them moving.

Wilson Fisk delightfully informed Elektra that if Thanos got bored, he had the power to kill anybody he wished, and that didn't just apply to outliers either. Then her escort proceeded to show her a compilation of clips in Avenger Games history of all those instances, particularly the ones where Thanos fried tributes with lightning bolts.

Elektra had never watched an Avenger Games on television before the Capitol – she never quite understood what all the fuss was about. Back at home, when she was younger, she always thought it was some sort of horror show. The glimpses she'd seen of people dying looked so fake, she thought only stupid people would buy into it. And how wrong she was. The Avenger Games were more real than she ever imagined.

"Is it _wise_ to just..._waste _supplies like that?" Loki crept into the foreground, slender fingers balanced precariously under his chin like he was displeased..

Thor dismissed him with an indignant shrug. "Not now, Loki."

Loki rolled his eyes, crossing over towards the Tesseract. "Then _when, _dear brother?" Elektra hid a smile. Loki's snark pompousness was almost as entertaining to watch as Wade's insanity was.

Loki rummaged through one of the larger backpacks, tossing out several packages of dried fruit and crackers as he whistled quietly to himself.

Clint did a double-take as he helped Thor shred up pieces of plastic and fabric. "Hey! Save some food for us, will you?"

Elektra looked on with interest as Loki began sneaking food into his pockets. She wouldn't say anything, because she never said anything anyway, but his behaviour was too peculiar to spoil.

She'd thought that's what they would be doing the entire night. Thor muttering to himself as he threw in fabric to sustain their meagre fire, and the rest of them hunkered around like statues until daybreak. But Elektra had almost forgotten about Natasha, pacing the outskirts of their camp like a rabid dog, almost erratic in nature. Something must have finally slipped in the girl, either that, or she was telling the truth when she ran over in a frenzy, watering at the mouth practically as she revealed she had just seen a light in the distance.

"I _know_ what I saw! You people just want to keep sitting here, waiting to die, then be my guest. But I can't, and I won't. Not _anymore_." Natasha was livid, eyes wide and teeth grit, holding back as Elektra would when she was angry. The girl just couldn't take sitting around anymore. It made sense.

Clint, who had been watching Natasha with intense regard for the better part of the last hour, suddenly got to his feet. "I saw it too. Like an...orange light or something, high-up in a building. Electricity, maybe, or some sort of indoor fire. It looked pretty far, but we might be able to catch up to whoever it is if we hurry." Clint gestured down the dark, gigantic, vacant street, lined by ghostly towers on either side.

Thor's face was incredulous. "_Okay_...Wait, wait, wait. Alright, let us just think about this for a second. It could be _anything, _right? It could be a...mutt, or a trap for all we know."

"Or it could be a _person,_" Natasha hissed.

"I say we stay," Brunhilde announced as she hopped down from her perch. "You'd be a _fool_ to hunt in this hour. Tributes could be hiding anywhere, waiting to ambush us."

Natasha found this to be oddly amusing. "Then why don't _you_ stay here? While _we _do what we promised we'd do." Natasha glanced at Thor as she said this, jabbing her curved sword into the ground hard as she spoke.

Natasha kind of had a point. Weren't _Careers_ supposed to be hunting and slaughtering tributes? Exploring the arena, being a _threat_? For the most part, while they made a slight impact in the Bloodbath, all of the outliers got away with minor injuries. The Careers had gone on a "hunt" yesterday, but only because Natasha was _insistent _on tracking down Logan.

Thor grumbled lowly, taking more empty backpacks and throwing them into the barrel, fuelling the dying fire. Thor seemed to be _ignoring _their predicament. This didn't go well with Natasha.

Elektra could hear Natasha gnawing on her teeth, hand squeezing on the pommel of her sword until it was quivering from the pressure. "He's not listening, great._ Fine, _me and Clint are going to hunt whether you like it or not, Thor. So if anybody else cares to join us, speak now or sit here and _freeze_ to death."

As Natasha went to grab one of the loaded backpacks, Brunhilde stepped over and towered in front of her, bumping the girl back. "_Put. It. Down," _she hissed, shoving the girl and making a grab for the pack, only to find Natasha holding her ground. Natasha may have been a foot shorter, but she definitely wasn't weak. "Natasha, I am _not_ going to repeat myself."

Natasha didn't like this one bit. Loki scrambled away from his spot near a traffic cone, sneaking away like he suspected what was about to happen. Elektra stared after him, confused, as he plopped himself down near her, opening his jacket and revealing a backpack hidden underneath. "It's _now_ or_ never," _he whispered.

_Paranoid, much?_

Elektra scowled at him, arching her eyebrow. "It's going to be _fine_, Loki."

Clint hesitantly went to Natasha's side, trying to cup her shoulder and steer her away. Needless to say, it did not work out well for him.

"_Seven hells._" Thor had seen it coming a mile away. If he seemed impassive earlier, he certainly wasn't anymore; springing to his feet like a cat, and jogging over to separate the two girls before they started killing each other too.

"Calm yourselves!" Thor snatched the backpack easily from both of their grasps, tossing it to the ground several yards away. "What are you, twelve years-old?"

"_She's _the one who wants us to freeze to death! Who is _she_ to stop _me _from leaving, anyway? _She's _not even the leader!" Natasha exclaimed, storming away.

"Natash—damn it all!" Thor didn't bother going after her, instead tossing Brunhilde a long, weary look. Thor Odinson was clearly at his wits end.

Brunhilde couldn't even meet his eyes, shamefully bowing her head like she committed some sort of sin. "I'm sorry. But...Natasha is a threat..."

Elektra was shocked when Thor uncharacteristically walked away from her. Brunhilde's mouth snapped shut, her fists clenching tightly at her side.

Loki nudged Elektra in the shoulder. "What did I tell you? It's only going to get worse from here, you know. The more we wait – "

"Loki! Quit bothering her and get over here!" Thor yelled.

Loki panicked and tossed the pack in her face, leaving Elektra in an annoyed stupor.

_That boy is going to get me killed, _she thought.

Before she knew it, Elektra was alone once more, as Thor began to make a set of demands, one of them including the removal of Wade's body from their camp so the hovercraft could retrieve it.

Elektra couldn't bear looking as they carried the masked boy into one of the shadowy streets. A part of her wanted to say goodbye or something—maybe make some sort of speech. But everything was happening too quickly, and the idea of making a speech about a boy she killed made her shiver instinctively. It just didn't feel right.

Elektra sat huddled near the barrel of the dying fire. She and Loki had been given the responsibility of tossing some of the junk from the street into the fire while Thor discussed their next plan of action with Natasha. Loki made Elektra do all the work, though he did contribute a candy wrapper.

The hovercraft descended so quickly, Elektra almost missed it. A claw-like instrument latched itself onto the gangly boy's corpse, and rapidly ascended into the air. Elektra caught only a brief and final glimpse of the boy's trademark red mask, before he was gone. The alliance fell into a forlorn stupor for a bit, bowing their heads in respect, despite the fact they never really cared for him too much. Elektra wanted to feel something—anything, but all she could think about was the moment where her sai pierced his throat, and how she would have liked to see what his eyes looked like, as the light left them. Not out of some sadistic desire, but out of the strangest idea that maybe she owed him that much.

_Goodbye, Wade, _she reflected. Even though she ended his life, Elektra knew it was for the best, and she always did. She needed to end his suffering, and now the boy was at peace, wherever he was now, chowing down on his chimichangas while he flew around in space beating up aliens, like he always dreamed of doing.

Clint appeared in front of her suddenly, wearing a sullen expression. "I guess we're moving out."

Elektra rose to her feet. "Right now?"

Clint nodded. "Guess Thor agreed with Natasha. Brunhilde wanted us to rig the place up with traps. Luckily, I knew a thing or two about mines, and now we've got the whole area covered...So watch your step," he smirked, casually strolling away.

The next several minutes were agonizingly silent, as they went about packing up their materials and making a torch. Brunhilde had a nasty scowl on her face throughout the ordeal, and Natasha was tapping her sword, eager to finally set out for good.

Elektra shrugged the large pack over her shoulders – it had to be at least fifteen pounds. Stuffed with medicine kits, blankets, and food that could probably last her a couple days if she was conservative. She was weaponless, of course, which still didn't make any sense to her. She felt the need to confront Brunhilde about it, but decided it wasn't worth the argument. She would have to get her sai back another way.

Elektra paced around, watching Thor intently, as he discussed something with Natasha. Probably another argument of some sort – the usual. Elektra stopped near Clint and Loki, who appeared to be having a fruitful conversation.

"The mines are all set-up around the perimeter of the Tesseract. Anyone tries to step in and grab a pack...and _boom_, they're gone." Clint looked a bit proud of himself as he bragged on to Loki.

Loki, though, wasn't so easily impressed. "Well, wouldn't that mean our supplies would burn up as well? Didn't think about that, hm?"

Clint snorted. "_Actually, _that's only a _fraction_ of the supplies we have here. It's classic baiting, Loki."

Loki rubbed his chin for moment. "I don't follow."

"You know? _Baiting. _Like fishing. You lure them in with bait – in this case, a small mountain of supplies in the mouth of the Tesseract. They'll go in like flies, because why _wouldn't _they? The rest of the supplies? Well, my friend, the _real good _stuff is scattered – hidden underneath all the rubble around the area." Loki caught on and grinned devilishly.

Clint leaned in closer, nudging Loki in the ribs. "And you think they'll have the time and the sense to be checking underneath rubble? _No! _And why?"

Loki rose a finger in the air. "Because of the bait."

Clint laughed. "Because of the _bait!"_

Elektra rolled her eyes and wandered away. Elektra was almost sure Loki wasn't _that _stupid that he didn't understand what Clint was getting at. Loki is saving that precious information for later, for when he decides he'll ever need it. Loki has the uncanny ability to deceive people into thinking he's insufferable. The boy is much smarter than he leads on to be.

"Everybody got what they need? This is the last time we'll be here," Thor carried a torch and an excessively large backpack. She thought she could see her sai sticking out from one of the pockets.

Elektra scanned around at her allies, all of them were completely decked out with heavy backpacks, and a weapon hanging from their belts and shoulders. Thor carried his silver war-hammer, strapped to his belt, Brunhilde with a broadsword on her back, Clint with his bow, Natasha with her throwing knives and curved sword, and Loki with his wicked dagger. Elektra felt bitter again, but clenched her teeth and ignored it.

"Alright, let's move out." Thor took the lead, torch in hand, as the Careers set forth into the darkness.

* * *

"Where did you see the light at, Natasha?"

"Down this street, up ahead, up in one of those buildings. It was pretty far away."

Elektra could barely see anything in the darkness. Thor barely got one torch made with the kindling of fire they had left, so in the end, they figured one would be enough for all of them.

Well, they were wrong.

Navigating the pothole, rubble-laden terrain was harder than it looked. Loki especially, kept complaining about stubbing his toes on jagged rocks and small glass shards.

Elektra at first suspected the arena was some crude twist on the Capitol of Marvel, but that didn't make any sense, considering how advanced and sleek the architecture was when she was there. She had never seen any city like the Capitol before, and she'd be able to recognize a tower from the city instantly. The Capitol had lots of blues, silvers, and vibrant hues. This place had lots of browns and dull, faded colours, with overgrown foliage creeping up the sides of nearly every ounce of matter, adding on a putrid shade of green. Whatever the arena was supposed to be a representation of, it was obviously of something that happened long ago, in a time before the Games, and possibly before Marvel.

"You do realize that was several_ hours_ ago, right?" Loki asked, trailing so close behind Elektra he was practically stepping on her heels.

"Quiet, Loki," Natasha growled.

The Careers maneuverer through the streets in a single-file line – marching forward like ants. The buildings loomed over them like implacable giants – seemingly resistant to the depravity of the Games. Elektra felt a great sense of being smaller than she actually was. A pawn on a chessboard. A blade of grass in a great savannah. Elektra had never known an arena could be this large.

"_Wait_," Clint hissed under his breath. Thor came to a halt, quickly looking behind in question at the rest of them.

"What is it?" Thor waved the torch around him, the small aura of light their only guidance in the darkness of the streets.

Loki bumped into Elektra's back, hard enough that it rammed her forward a bit. She scowled at the fidgeting boy behind her, his fingers practically a hair's width away from gripping her waist in fear. In return, Loki shrugged, glancing nervously in every direction – including the ground itself.

Clint narrowed his eyes, bowing his head slightly as if he were listening for something. "I heard _something_."

Elektra tried to listen as well, but heard nothing. Just the sound of crickets, or the occasional groaning of the skyscrapers. The arena itself, for being so unbelievably massive, was disconcertingly silent.

"Clint, please tell me the noise did _not _come from behind us," Loki whispered, hovering over Elektra's shoulder now.

Clint, still listening intently, shook his head slowly. "I don't...I don't think so."

Suddenly, a loud _thud _echoed in the darkness ahead of them. Loki almost _screeched _from behind Elektra's form. Natasha immediately unsheathed the knives that dangled at her hip, followed by Clint who immediately knocked an arrow, taking aim with his bow at the brimming darkness. Brunhilde froze in place, a hand hovering over the sword on her back.

Elektra _was_ envious, again reminded of the fact that her weapons had been confiscated by Thor earlier. What help would _she _be if someone or something attacked them?

Thor shone his torch ahead, but the radius of the light only illuminated so much – it did little to brighten their path. "Show yourself!" Thor challenged, reaching for the hilt of his hammer.

The seconds ticked by, with no response from whatever lurked in the shadows. The noise itself didn't seem too close; it could easily have been a street sign falling over. But then again, things don't usually just _fall _over. Not in the Avenger Games they don't.

_TING._

Whatever it was that made the noise, had gotten closer. It became apparent now to the Careers that _someone _or _something _was walking through the streets ahead of them.

Loki grabbed onto Elektra's arm in fear. "By the Gods, _something _is out there."

"Reveal yourselves! This is a warning! Submit now, for we are heavily armed!" This time, Thor unsheathed his hammer, as Natasha and Brunhilde went forward at his side.

Again, there was no response. There they stood, frozen in combat-stance, for the next minute. Elektra couldn't help but find it odd that if it _were_ another tribute, they'd have no source of light. It's possible they'd have put it out if they saw Thor's torch, but why stay in the streets, when there's so many other places to go?

When the next sound came, it set off an alarm from one of the vehicles in the street. The sound was so unexpected, that it caused Loki to literally jolt. Loki was behind Elektra one second, and the next, he had run off into the closest entrance into one of the massive skyscrapers, to their left.

Clint sent loose an arrow by instinct, and it seemed as if whatever had been hiding, had suddenly sprang forth to attack them. Elektra didn't wait around to see. When Loki bolted into the building, Elektra followed in pursuit. She could hear curses from her allies behind her, and flashes of white and orange light.

The building was dark, but vacuous. It was some sort of office, or it had been. Most of the windows had been broken, or were cracked. Shelves were toppled over, and tables thrown about. It was a mess.

Elektra breathed hard as she stalked through the ground floor, scanning for Loki. No sooner than the thought crossed her mind, that she felt a slab of wood strike the back of her head. "You've made a _big_ mistake you _mewling quim_!"

Elektra rubbed the back of her head once, before ripping the wood from Loki's hands. "It's your_ ally_, you idiot!"

Shock dawned on Loki's face, though Elektra could barely see his ghostly visage in the dark. "_Bloody hell_, I – Why, I thought you were someone else! I...I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Of _course_ not," Elektra whispered harshly.

The alarms stopped suddenly – along with the blinking lights, rendering the entire street completely silent and dark once more. For a second, a feeling of overwhelming fear chilled Elektra's core.

Loki gasped, and began to feel his way around. "Bloody hell. This might be it, you know? We might be _dead_."

"Shut it, we're fine." Elektra glanced around wildly, trying perhaps to decipher the darkness from darkness. She knew it was futile. Despite Loki's whining, the boy had a point. If the Careers left them, they might very well be screwed. Loki had a dagger, and Elektra had nothing. They were helpless.

"I see them!"

"Why the hell are they in here?"

Familiar voices echoed through the complex, and heavy footsteps followed. It was her allies, no doubt.

Brunhilde was the first to appear, and she looked stressed out beyond belief. "Why did you both run off?" Her eyes were narrowed, flicking from Elektra to Loki as if they were both equally marred in distrust.

"Loki bolted when the alarms went off – I ran after him. That's it," Elektra held her ground.

It was quite clear to Elektra that Brunhilde didn't believe a word she was saying. Just the way the girl narrowed her eyes at them told Elektra that this was something familiar to her. As if Brunhilde _always _distrusted people, and was always trying very hard to make it seem like everything was alright.

Thor came into view quickly enough, gently nudging Brunhilde away, looking carefully between Elektra and her. "There you are. We were looking all over for you both. What happened?"

Loki rose from his knelt position, chuckling lightly. "It – It was nothing, brother. We thought we saw someone poking about in here. We were _merely _trying to check the place out is all." Elektra almost snorted. Loki lied for absolutely no reason other than to saturate his own ego.

The look on Thor's face told Elektra he didn't believe it in the slightest, but that he also didn't want to pursue the matter any further. He shrugged, "Well, whatever the case, I'm glad we found you. We searched the area outside, but didn't find anyone or anything. Whatever or whoever made the noises, is gone now."

How was that possible? Elektra found it hard to believe something _that _close could just disappear. It set off a _car alarm_.

"What the hell is this place?" Natasha nudged over a desk with her sword, jumping back a bit when it collapsed and sent a dust cloud in the air.

Clint knelt down and examined an old, unmarked book. "Huh. Some sort of office, maybe?"

Thor sighed as he went over toward a doorway, using the torch to read the old label. "This door leads to some stairs. What do you guys think?"

Brunhilde gave him another one of her trademark narrowed glances. "I think it's a horrible idea. Who knows what's up there? With all the floors this tower has, there could be anyone or anything waiting to attack us."

Thor cast a weary glance at the rest of the group. "Should we try?"

"I mean, we could probably get a better look at the arena from a higher distance. See what we're dealing with," Clint said, rubbing his chin in thought.

Thor nodded. "I like that idea. I think we're capable enough to handle anything, as long as we move quickly. Any objections?"

Brunhilde huffed, pacing around in a circle. "This is not a good idea, Thor."

"Aye, but it's better than walking out _there_ in pitch-dark, isn't it?" Thor shrugged, and used his shoulder to push open the emergency door – slowly and with great apprehension.

Thor poked his torch into the dark stairwell, illuminating the winding concrete staircase. As expected, it was dark and empty. "Aye, it's clear," Thor muttered.

Brunhilde was the last to enter, closing the emergency door tight as they stuffed themselves into the compact steel stairwell. The torch was dying, but still burning bright – enough that they could see just how massive and endless the stairwell rose above them. It looked to go on forever.

They climbed – for how long, Elektra couldn't exactly tell. It felt like hours. By the time they reached the thirtieth floor, as so indicated on the brick wall by a sign, Thor decided to cut it short.

The room they entered was seemingly no different than the one they came from. Same toppled bookshelves, same scattering of papers and supplies, but the first thing they noticed most of all was the gaping hole in the wall facing the south.

Clint was the first to jog over. "_Whoa_. How do you think this happened?"

Elektra leaned on one of the desks, trying to regain her breath from the hundred steps they must have climbed. Natasha herself immediately collapsed on the floor, as did Loki. Brunhilde tried hard to emulate the appearance of being perfectly fine – though her breath came out in sharp, long pants.

"Couldn't we have used like...I don't know, the _elevator _or something?" Natasha complained.

"I sincerely _doubt _the Gamemakers would be stupid enough to install working elevators in this place," Loki replied.

Natasha raised herself up, turning to meet her new challenger. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Loki smirked. "They want us to suffer, that's why."

"They can't make _me _suffer. I've been training_ years_ for this. They can keep trying."

"Dear girl, it doesn't matter if you've trained ten years or ten minutes, they'll still zap you with lightning if they feel so inclined."

This wasn't the first time Natasha and Loki butted heads. Loki seemed to enjoy being playing devil's advocate – pushing people's buttons for no reason than to keep himself entertained. Loki found out quickly enough that Natasha was not one to back down from any challenge, even if she _was _wrong. Loki liked to banter, and Natasha liked a challenge. It was their little game.

Elektra rubbed her forehead, which was dripping sweat. As the others continued scavenging and bantering amongst each other, Elektra did what she did best: keep her mouth shut and let the pieces fall where they may.

Elektra watched Thor closely as he checked around the office – looking through file cabinets and drawers. His curiosity was interesting to note. It didn't seem like Thor was looking out of necessity, but more out of habit. To do _something. _To keep himself busy. Before he walked over toward the far side of the office – the darker side, he handed over his torch to Brunhilde, who sat furtively near a window.

And then she saw it.

A shadow that didn't quite fit in with the rest. A large, dark splotch that seemed to dangle from the corner of the ceiling. It didn't move like an object or a light fixture – it moved like a living thing, creeping downward just as Thor was flicking through a dusty book on the floor. Nobody else seemed to notice. Brunhilde was looking out the window, and Clint was surveying the landscape. Loki and Natasha were bantering.

Something large was creeping near Thor, and when Elektra yelled his name, it was instinctual.

Quickly, Thor moved, just in time before the creature jumped down and landing firmly on a cabinet, crushing it under its own weight. Brunhilde leaped forward with her broadsword, and Natasha sprang to her feet like a cat, a dagger produced in her hand so fast it almost looked like magic.

The creature resembled a grotesquely mutated spider – hairy and pitch dark with pincers that extended for several inches. Elektra watched with disgust as the creature shot some sort of foul green liquid out of its mouth, that upon impact on the wall, dissolved it within seconds.

"It's spitting acid!" Clint warned, knocking twin arrows and shooting them both at the spider mutt.

The spider was surprisingly quick, and even as Natasha tried to slice at it with her sword, it dodged with blinding efficiency. Thor didn't bother with trying to taunt the creature with false swings as Natasha did – he instead went for all-out offense, swinging his hammer with brutish strength, crushing anything in its path.

Despite their team-work, the spider was fast enough that hardly any of their attacks seemed to make contact. Elektra didn't know whether to attribute it to their innate apprehension to kill a giant spider, or if it was due to the genetic engineering of the mutt.

The unexpected happened where Loki – instead of freezing on the sidelines, decided to join the fight, swinging his dagger wildly at the creature, laughing wickedly before each swing.

"I've got an idea! Brunhilde, use the torch to distract it. I don't think it likes the light!" Clint yelled.

Brunhilde nodded, and swung the torch at the mutt, flames piercing the air in a circular motion. Clint was right – the creature scattered, and seemed to trip over itself as the light from the fire got near.

Natasha took advantage of this immediately, lunging forward and sending two twin dagger into the creature's body while it was disoriented. Thor followed suit by crushing it with his hammer.

After a twitch, the creature was still.

"_Oh_, _by the Gods_, that thing is hideous. What – What the hell was it?" Loki held a hand over his mouth, as if he were going to be sick at any moment.

Clint nudged the creature with his boot. "Must have been one of those _mutts_ they talked about in training."

"If we're lucky, that will be the only creature we face tonight," Brunhilde muttered to herself.

Thor shook his head, his face pale. "I can't believe that thing tried to attack me." Thor glanced at Elektra, nodding at her, "I thank you. If you wouldn't have noticed..."

Elektra didn't like being thanked, but she forced a bitter smile. "No problem," she said quickly.

It could have been her imagination, but Brunhilde appeared to nod at her as well, but Elektra wasn't sure. It was strange to help people. All of her life, Elektra was always out for herself. That was just how she worked.

"Guys? If you're done being mushy, I think you're going to wanna look at this," Clint said as he stood near the gaping hole of the building, looking across the city landscape.

All of the Careers huddled around, staring off into the darkness, forty stories up. Elektra felt a kind of rush as she stood near the hole. Was this what being a Career felt like? _Kings _of the arena? Had any other tributes had a chance to see this? Aside from the towers and war-torn streets, it looked to be relatively calm. Elektra could almost see the Tesseract's dark-blue hue from their vantage point. Their former camp was desolate now – a death-trap for anyone who tried to take a share of the bait.

"Hm, it's as large as I thought it to be. There's no way we're going to be able to locate anyone – not in one day," Thor sighed.

Clint looked amused. "That's why I called you guys over here. Don't you see it?"

Loki glared at the boy. "You seem to forget we don't have hawk-eyes like yours."

"Wait a minute...he's right. I _do _see something. Over there, a block down, near the top of that building. You see it?" Thor gestured with his hammer.

"That's it! That's what I saw earlier. See, I told you I wasn't_ lying_!" Natasha grinned wolfishly from ear-to-ear.

Elektra saw it then, it was easy to miss if she looked too quickly. But if she narrowed her eyes, she could just make out a tiny, orange dot, high-up the air, just casting enough light to outline the edges of the building it was coming from.

"It's a light," Elektra breathed.

"Definitely. There's a smaller light just to the right of it – probably a match of some sort. And who uses torches and matches?" Clint asked, smirking.

"People. It's people," Loki whispered. "We–We're not really going to go over and...Thor?"

Thor ignored him, transfixed on the lights in the air before them, clenching the hammer's hilt tight in his palm. "Loki, if it's not them, it's _us_. Remember what I said in the Capitol? That we're going to have to do things we're not proud of. This is one of those things."

"Possibly two or three of them," Clint muttered to himself absentmindedly. "There are shadows up there, interfering with the light, making it flicker more than it should. I think they're further away than I first thought, though - that torch is probably a fire, and the match a torch."

"So we're doing it then? We're going to pursue them?" Brunhilde asked.

"Aye. This is what we do. If we didn't do it, then we wouldn't be _Careers, _would we?" Thor shouldered past Brunhilde, grabbing something from his backpack on the floor.

Elektra felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, gently steering her around, until she was face to face with Thor. "Elektra, I think you've earned these back." Thor suddenly placed her twin sai daggers within her palm.

Elektra felt a lot of things as Thor handed back her weapons, but mainly, she was confused. She couldn't help but to glance over at Brunhilde – only to find that the girl wasn't paying attention. "Uh–Thanks, but...why?"

"Because you showed that I can trust you. You didn't just save _me _back there, but you saved my kin as well, when you ran after Loki," Thor spoke, the genuine warmth clear in his deep voice. "So, for that, you've not only earned my gratitude, but my respect."

Elektra clenched the sai tight against her chest, the cool silver a welcome feeling against her skin.

Thor leaned forward a bit closer, as to make sure no one else would hear. "_She _may not think you belong here," Thor gestured to Brunhilde, "but I do."

Thor _smiled _softly before he turned away. Elektra hadn't seen Thor smile since the Capitol.

Elektra felt whole again with her weapons once more at her side. A strange feeling of bliss and excitement rushed through her; a feeling she's missed. Elektra tried to ignore the thick blood stain which cloaked one of them – a sharp and painful reminder of the boy she'd killed earlier. Pushing the memories aside, Elektra slid the daggers behind her waist, making a promise to herself that the day she'd part with them again, would be the day she took her final breath.

Once more, the Careers looked out across the arena, watching the light flicker in the air, their adrenal glands beginning to pump once again. Thor turned and looked at each of them – if not through them. And with great purpose and totality, Thor said the very words that he knew they could all agree upon.

"The hunt has begun."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	55. Chapter 54: The Grieving

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with what is **_**technically **_**our Thursday update, even though it's coming on a Sunday. Unfortunately, we had a couple of chapter problems on our end, but Taila did some great work on her end to sort everything out – she's a regular lifesaver! So, thanks to her, I've got an awesome chapter here for you all, as we catch up with the Stark whose family name unfortunately doesn't tend to have the odds in their collective favour. The Sunday update will instead go up tomorrow, so don't worry!**

**Big thanks again to Idalove2read, musicalocelot and sailorraven34 for their reviews since our last update – you guys rock! To sailorraven34, just to clear things up, Elektra's actually sixteen, but had been imprisoned since she was fourteen – not quite so young and innocent, but still going through some pretty terrible stuff for any teen to endure!**

**As always, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Four – ****The Grieving**

**Night, Day Two**

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

"_Since you've been gone, I've been lost without a trace. I dream at night, I can only see your face. I look around and it's you I can't replace."  
– _The Police_, Every Breath You Take_

* * *

Tony Stark was, more or less, a walking encyclopaedia.

He could name every element known to mankind and then proceed to list the usages for every single one without fail. He could pick apart the most complex machinery and then put it back together, better than before. He could clean and stitch up any wound – you're welcome Sin – and do so with minimal risk of scarring or permanent damage.

But it seemed that there was one thing he couldn't do; he couldn't protect the one's he loved.

And, by the gods, it was slowly tearing him apart.

His mother had been the first straw; losing her to illness at a young age had been a heavy weight on his shoulders but he'd continued living. If anything, he'd thrown himself into his studies and his experimental creations, expanding his mind while pretending that he didn't feel that the blame fell on his shoulders.

His mother had been murdered by bacteria, and over the years he'd learnt that there was nothing he could have done. Tony Stark wasn't to blame for his mother's death and only time had helped him realise that.

But the death he had just witnessed, the blood that had littered the overgrown streets fell solely on his hands and no amount of time would make him believe any different.

His Pepper was gone and like the idiot he was, he'd let her slip right through her fingers.

"I never thought I'd see the day that Tony Stark actually shut his mouth," Sin muttered beside him, bringing him back to reality. Despite the amusement in her tone, he could hear the underlining exhaustion and pain filtering through.

Tony swallowed thickly past the lump in his throat, debating how to answer. "And people say miracles don't happen," he finally mumbled, looking down and playing with his fingers nervously. He heard his ally let out a small snort, the sound disbelieving as it echoed down the drawn out tunnels. "I'm sorry, is it really so hard to believe that I'm not in the mood to talk?"

Sin scoffed, her chest heaving before she whined lowly in pain. "I read somewhere that talking about it can help," she voiced quietly, her throat constricting as she swallowed, one hand coming up to rub around her wound.

"You've _read?"_ Tony demanded, a strained chuckle leaving his lips. "An actual book? Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we've witnessed another miracle."

As he saw the spark light up the other woman's eyes, he waited for her to snap back with the usual spitfire. He could deal with the insults and the comments about his character, because anything was better than being spoken to with a soft voice and told everything was going to be okay.

Because everything _wasn't_.

"A miracle is the fact that I was injured when I found you," Sin growled, snapping the boy back to the present with brilliantly coloured eyes.

Despite the voice in his head telling him to back down, maybe raise his hands in surrender, Tony only cocked his brow in challenge. "Even if you hadn't been impaled by – and I'm going to go with birdbrain from Two – I have a feeling we'd still be here, arguing like school children over a toy," he informed her, dropping his head back against the stone wall behind him.

"As if, I would have dropped you the minute I laid eye—Wait? What's a birdbrain?"

Tony opened his eyes again, turning so he could witness the scowl on her face slowly turn into a frown of confusion. "You know? Clint? Boy's got eyes like a bloody hawk..." he muttered with a frown of his own, staring up at the crumbling ceiling. "Hence the whole birdbrain thing," he finished somewhat distractedly.

Sin, to Tony's immense surprise, chuckled coolly. "You have names for everyone don't you?" she asked softly, her eyes drooping in what was undoubtedly exhaustion. Tony spared her shoulder a quick look_, and also most likely blood loss, _he added mentally.

"Not everyone," he replied, forcing himself to his feet with a pained grunt. "Only a couple..."

Sin watched him, no doubt studying him as he ambled over to pick up his backpack again, digging through it for the medical supplies. "What about... The girl from Twelve?" she questioned, her voice managing to come out even softer than before.

Tony carefully peeled back the bandages from her arm, chuckling softly. "The dark haired girl? Uh, well, she's good with a bow and arrow, like a mini-birdbrain?" he offered, wincing when the red headed tribute hissed in pain. "Sorry..." he whispered, biting his lower lip as he studied the wound.

Out here, if the wound didn't kill you it would be the infection that would, and he honestly wasn't fond of the reddening skin around her wound. _Please tell me the skin's just irritated by the air down here, please don't tell me she's dying..._

"Ngh," Sin yelped again, shooting daggers at her temporary ally as the man prodded around the wound experimentally. "How about...the big one? The one with Creed as his mentor?" she asked next, leaning over slightly to watch what the tribute did to her wound. "James?"

Tony shook his head. "He prefers Logan, last time I checked," he informed her, smiling weakly as he carefully applied more of the cold cream to the wound. He watched the blood fizzle with sick fascination before leaning back on his haunches, waiting for the effect to die down. "He's seems vicious...like a badger or something?"

"Badger?"

Tony scoffed, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I haven't slept in like twenty-four hours; leave me alone," he grumbled, his brow coming together as he frowned in thought. "Badger? Wolf? Wolverine?"

Sin snorted again, her eyes once again slipping shut. "You should've stopped at Badger."

"And you should've stopped _before_ the arrow punctured your shoulder."

Silence fell as Sin moved to stare him down, refusing to so much as wince when the movement put pressure on her shoulder. Sparing her wound a small look, Tony paled, watching blood begin to ooze lazily with the strain caused from her stubborn position.

"Uh... Sin?"

She didn't respond to the call, her eyes narrowing in thought as her eyes trailed over his face. Tony shifted under the intense look, his throat convulsively moving with a swallow as he trailed his fingers through the cream, feeling it fizz against his skin, killing off bacteria. When the deafening silence was broken by the _drip_ of her blood hitting the concrete, Tony snapped back into action.

He hastily applied more of the cream, making sure to cover the whole immediate area as he scowled over at her disapprovingly. "Okay, save the macho act for when you're _not_ about to bleed out through your shoulder!" he scolded, spinning on the spot to find the rag he'd used to clean the wound the first time. "Women are so difficult," he grunted, hesitantly beginning to sooth the reddening skin around the injury.

"_Women_ are the difficult ones?" Sin demanded, turning her body partially again, attempting to make eye contact.

Defiantly, Tony nodded, his mouth set in a hard line. "If you aggravate this injury you might be looking at either permanent nerve damage and scarred tissue or the possibility of infection," he snapped. "Save the tough act for someone who'll actually believe it alright?" He furiously scrubbed the skin, only stopping when his patient let out a pained cry.

"Watch it!"

Tony all but threw himself away from her, the rag slipping through his fingers as he muttered a promise to never offer his help again. He ignored the burn of tears as he forced himself to his feet, beginning the age old tradition of pacing the length of the corridor. One hand lifted to muss up his hair as he noticed his partner falling silent, eyes flickering between the flowing water and the jerking pattern he'd started.

Sparing her shoulder a look, feeling concern despite his frustration he happily noted that the wound had stopped bleeding. Yet the shade of red around the irritated skin still made the genius worried despite his desperation to ignore it.

If Sin was to die of infection, wouldn't that be a stroke of luck for him? It would be another tribute he wouldn't have to kill himself because as far as he knew, Pepper was the only fallen child.

"Quit it with the pacing, Stark!" Sinthea barked, her head hitting the stone wall with a sickening sound. "God, can't you sit still and shut up?"

Tony turned a glare on her, forced from his thoughts. "Wasn't it you who was just complaining that I was too quiet?" he questioned sarcastically, cocking one brow as his hands fell against his sides.

She snapped her mouth shut, her emerald eyes blazing darkly as she slumped against the wall. "Cover it up again," she commanded, gesturing to the open wound on her shoulder. "I don't want the shitty air down here infecting it."

Tony didn't voice his concern that it may already _be_ infected, instead growling under his breath as he stormed forward. "It's New York."

Sin blinked, looking down her nose at him. "I'm sorry?"

Tony grunted again, frowning as he concentrated. "I said it's _New York_. An old city, a landmark," he added in a dull drone, sighing heavily. "I use to read about the old world; apparently New York was like the Capitol in importance, and all of Marvel in population..."

The red headed tribute let out a dramatic sigh, seemingly against the history lesson. "You read a lot back in Three?"

Tony chewed on the inside of his cheek, opening his mouth before snapping it closed as he mulled over his words. "Yeah, I guess I did. Once Pepper and I stopped being close...I just, guess I didn't really know what to do with myself," he admitted with a small shrug. "What about you? Six can't have been terribly entertaining."

"I was in the work force by the time I was seven, remember," Sin announced with what once would have sounded like pride, but now only sounded tired. "Apparently no one there had what most know as morals."

Tony nodded in time with her words, understanding her anger as well as her own employment. Everybody, no matter what district they were in, needed money.

"Family?"

Sin tensed at his words, eyes slowly moving from the itching wound to the handsome face inches from her own. "I'd rather not go into that Stark," she warned, shooting him a small look. "My family is my own and we are going to keep it that way."

"As long as you extend the same courtesy to me," Tony began slowly, wrapping a pure white bandage around her shoulder. Small flecks of blood dotted through the material, but Tony ignored it, instead continuing to wrap her arm firmly. "You should put your tank top back on," he reminded her with a vague gesture at her bare stomach and arms. "I don't doubt that you want to go down in a raging fight full of bad effects and crippling blows, so dying from a cold would really be an ego blow."

Sinthea nodded before tugging at her shirt, trying to get it over her shoulders with little progress. Sighing, Tony carefully pried it from her hands, pushing the shirt over her head before encouraging her to thread her arms in. "Take it slowly..."

She hummed in response to his worrying, sharply exhaling when Tony moved her injured arm. A whispered apology was her answer before he settled her shirt, tucking it securely around her middle. "Thanks," she grunted.

Tony nodded, shifting back and putting distance between them. "Do you want your jacket? Think you'll be okay without it?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine, Stark."

"Tony," he corrected her. "It won't kill you to call me by my first name."

She watched him wince at his choice of words before slowly speaking again. "Tony..."

He smiled over at her, leaning back and closing his eyes in exhaustion, a safe distance away from the woman. It had been a while since they'd first come down, but their chances on the surface weren't exactly increasing. Tony could understand war wounds and patch them up but he wasn't sure if the injury on his ally's shoulder was getting better or getting worse.

"When should we surface?" He turned as he voiced the question, shifting himself so his upper body faced his companion. "We're going to run out of food and water eventually you know?"

Sin nodded her agreement, eyes narrowing in thought. "If we spend too much time down here they'll flush us out," she pointed out. "They'll find a way to make us leave, maybe send a few tributes our way... or maybe spawn some abomination to gnaw on our flesh."

Tony hummed softly. "Attack of the giant sewer rats."

He expected a form of amusement, maybe a snort or a chortle but instead he got a startled look. "That's not a thing is it? I mean...they wouldn't make us fight rodents of unusual size, right?"

He shook his head, throwing in a warm chuckle and hoping it sounded comforting. "Well, maybe not _unusual size_."

"Stark!"

His small chuckles escalated into full blown laughter, one hand moving to clutch his stomach. Tears finally escaped his closed lids, and luckily his body and mind wrote them off as joyous instead of allowing them to bloom into agony. A few minutes passed, and his ribs began to burn with the laughter, finally forcing him to calm and wipe his eyes with a drawn sigh.

"I fail to see the source of your amusement..." Sin grounded out, her teeth clenching awkwardly.

Tony grinned over at her lazily, lightly tapping her side with his elbow. "No, you _see_ the source of my amusement, you just don't want to take the blow to your severely inflated pride," he countered with another chuckle, winking in her direction.

"As I was saying, if we don't leave within a respectable time frame they'll move us themselves," Sin repeated, rolling her shoulder experimentally. "The sooner we leave or at least move positions, the better."

"You're still injured..." Tony started unsurely.

Sin grunted, swallowing back her cry of pain as she waved a hand in his direction. "And that means shit to them, we stay here; we die."

Tony shifted in place, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. "We'll leave in the morning...You need to rest," he instructed. "And I want no arguments, Sinthea."

Sin studied him before nodding slowly, seemingly accepting. "Finally taking charge huh?"

"Finally taking orders?"

She growled in response, blinking when a blinding smile lit up his features. "I wouldn't push it too far, Tony," she murmured, already settling back. "Wake me up in a few hours, you need sleep as well."

"Of course," he waved a hand in her direction, opting for another warm smile as she slid her eyes closed. "I don't exactly have a watch on me, but I suppose counting the minutes will be a fun pastime," he mumbled, his voice slowly lowering as he noticed her breathing even out.

While he knew that they should get some sleep, he wasn't exactly keen on his hours alone. Alone meant time with his thoughts and his thoughts at a time like this wasn't exactly...well, he wasn't keen to explore his own mind. He loathed to think about what his imagination was conjuring up, and didn't doubt that the nightmares he'd suffer during his well-deserved rest would be enough to make him fall on his own sword.

All the more reason to keep himself busy or avoid sleep and his mind altogether.

Sin made a small noise, her mouth falling open slightly as she drew in haggard breaths. Tony refused to admit he jumped at the sudden sound, instead resettling himself against the stone walls and blinking carefully, pushing back his exhaustion.

It was a silent agreement that when one rested the other stood guard, in case someone found their way down to them and caused a literal shit storm. And wouldn't that just make his _fucking_ day.

Tony harshly ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the dirt and grime he could feel caking the skin. He was tempted to rinse his face in the water flowing not three feet from him, but doubted that it was clean.

Then again, he doubted that at this point it would matter.

Moving closer to the once sewage laden water, Tony frowned at his reflection, recognizing the red flecks dusting his cheek bones and neck. He started breathing harder, one hand ripping his jacket off and throwing it to the side while the other ran through the grey water experimentally. Deciding it was clean enough he pulled his shirt over his head, the thin material light in his hands before he dipped it in the water carefully, soaking a small portion. The water didn't smell or stick to his skin but he still hesitated before wiping his face, bringing the soaked cloth across the heated skin roughly.

_Get it off, get it off..._

He wasn't stupid and he knew whose blood it was, he knew that the red on his cheeks and skin belonged to someone he loved. His chest constricted, feeling like a ten thousand pound weight was dropped on it as his grey tank top came back, decorated with spots of red.

_Pepper..._

Sighing he let the shirt hang limply in his fingers, one knee drawn up while his free hand spooned up the water to the back of his neck. He needed a plan he if was going to survive, and while he knew New York was from an older generation, there was bound to be mechanics littered though the ancient buildings.

There had to be something he could pull together from the scraps to save himself...

With a small frown, he slowly looked over his shoulder, studying the woman now sleeping deeply against the rotting stone. He was still confused as to why he'd helped her, as to why he'd dragged her down here after she'd all but collapsed onto his lap.

Her life had been in his hands and he'd chosen to save it.

Why? He wasn't entirely sure, but the thought of allowing a woman to die without him trying to stop it or the thought of pulling out the arrow only to stab it somewhere more permanent sickened him. She'd said that she and Pepper had formed an alliance and that they were going to conquer the games together...

Pepper had trusted Sin, and that was the only reason the latter was still breathing.

Tony grunted quietly, turning to stare at the sword he'd readily hidden beneath the material of his backpack. _Pepper_ was the one that trusted Sin, not him... In truth, she was only an obstacle to him surviving. It would be so easy to take her out now. Hell he still had the arrow, and if using the same weapon she'd been injured with to kill her didn't endear him to Thanos then he didn't know what would.

Sin made another noise, her mouth curling into a frown as if she heard the thoughts running through her partners mind. The action was almost endearing and Tony sighed loudly, looking back into the water and staring at his faint reflection.

He didn't doubt that soon Sin would be the one to hold the bullet or blade with his name on it. But for some reason, the gleam his weapon made when the light hit it made his stomach tie itself in knots and he _knew_.

He couldn't kill Sinthea Schmidt.

"Damn you Tony Stark," he muttered to himself, moving away from the water and slumping against the wall. The distance between Sinthea and himself was still decent; a small voice in the back of his head reminding him that she was a ready killer.

With another world worthy sigh, he felt his eyes slip closed, the dark world of his nightmares coming up to snatch him.

* * *

"_Tony..?"_

_Tony moved quickly, spinning on his heels only to slump in on himself. "Pepper?" he questioned, frowning lightly at the strawberry headed woman as she moved forward. "I thought you were past talking to me."_

_She smiled faintly, coming to sit across from him, dropping her plate of food. "What happened to playing nice, Tony?"_

_Tony shrugged, realising he honestly just couldn't care anymore. "Tomorrow I'm being sentenced to death, forgive me for being testy," he drawled, spooning some food into his mouth. When Pepper continued to smile, he felt his hackles rise. "And why, exactly, are you so god damn happy about said death sentence?"_

"_I'm not happy, I'm giddy," she corrected, pointing her fork in his direction. "But, not about the whole death and blood thing."_

_Feeling intrigued, Tony gave her his full attention, refusing to adore the way the light glinted off her hair. "And what pray tell, are you giddy about then?" he demanded._

"_You."_

_Tony's heart fluttered in his chest, his mouth suddenly drying out as Pepper leant forward. "I'm sorry?"_

"_You and me are going to be a team," she decided with a sharp nod of her head. "Once the countdown ends, you are going to head east and find me, understood?"_

_Tony opened his mouth to argue, but a small look stopped him short. "Okay, fine, east," he relented. "Why?"_

"_Feels right," she shrugged. "Oh and Tony?"_

_A dark head lifted once again, nodding again. "Yeah?"_

"_It's good to see you again, I mean...close up, instead of far away," Pepper frowned, swallowing thickly. "I missed you. A lot."_

"_I miss you too, Pep."_

* * *

"Tony? You still awake?" Sin's voice was thick with sleep and the faint hoarse tone made Tony move quickly, rooting through his bag for the metal canister of water he'd collected while shaking the dream from his mind.

Smiling again, he nodded, already thinking of a lie. "Yeah, it's hard to sleep when every noise down here sounds like my impending death," he commented sarcastically. "Drink, you'll feel better," he ordered, pushing the lip of the bottle against her mouth.

She took a few mouthfuls before she pushed it away, licking her lips absently. "Thanks," she whispered, wiping a hand over her eyes and ridding them of any sleep. "How long was I out?"

Tony shrugged his shoulder gracelessly, taking a sip from the bottle himself. "I don't know, but it can't have been more than an hour," he guessed, absently wondering how long _he_ was out for. Running a hand through his hair, Tony took another quick sip before capping the water. "You can rest more, I don't mind."

"I do," she countered, straightening up. "Sleep. Even a few minutes are better than nothing."

As if on habit, Tony's eyes flew to the sword hidden now under the material of his jacket. "I'm not exactly tired yet; you might as well catch a few winks..." The lie slid of his tongue easily and he shifted in discomfort.

He had spared her, but would she spare him?

"Tony listen, I'm not in the mood to argue so why don't you just—" Her words ended sharply, voice seeming to die in her throat.

Tony stared over at her in alarm, brow drawn together as he flitted forward. "Sin? Sin, what's wrong? Is it your shoulder?" He quickly moved to hold her shoulder still, studying the white to see if red had tainted it.

"You know," she started evenly, her eyes flicking up to him. "I wasn't wearing a shirt because I was injured. _You_ don't have that excuse."

Tony blanched, looking down at himself. "You're not serious? You got choked up because I'm _shirtless?_" he demanded, reaching over to tug the shirt over his shoulders. "Better be careful or I might think you're swinging in my direction," he teased half-heartedly, one hand also looking for his jacket before remembering what hid behind it.

"Tony, you could be the last man on earth and I still would never _swing in your direction_," Sin informed him with crossed arms, the pain in her shoulder not stopping the stubborn action.

Tony opened his mouth to reply, a scathing retort on his lips before a sound echoed down the long tunnels, startling them both. He shot to his feet, scrambling to cover Sin with his body as more sounds reached his ears, each more deafening then the last.

"Tony..?"

He whispered a reassurance over his shoulder, not even understanding the gibberish that left his lips as he focused on the tunnel entrance. He recognised the sound now as footsteps and mentally tried to prepare himself for what was about to come.

Death... And considering that there was only one set of footsteps coming towards him there were three options.

Either Sinthea…

Their guest...

Or him.

"Shh, you'll be fine," he soothed absently, leaning forward to pull his sword out from under his jacket. The blade made a grating noise against the stone and he winced before folding himself into a crouch, protectively hovering over the injured woman.

He was honestly surprised the woman hadn't snapped at him for being possessive or treating her like she was fragile but he knew once they were safe she would tear him a new one.

_If you can even keep her safe..._

He tightened his grip on the hilt of the blade, narrowing his eyes at the entrance to their little abode. Pepper had counted on him, and he'd let her down...

He wouldn't do the same to the small red head behind him.

"Stay here," he commanded, slowly straightening up and stalking towards the door.

The heavy metal contraception was strong but it was unmovable, hanging wide open and allowing anyone access. He'd attempted to move it on more than one occasion but each time had resulted in a grinding noise that screamed down the halls.

He took one more step forward, ready to confront what was on the other side when a shadow appeared, blocking out the light and casting darkness over widening chocolate eyes.

_Sinthea...Me..._

_Or them..._

His eyes squeezed shut as a startled noise echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. Tony honestly wasn't sure if it came from the woman cowering behind him, the stranger standing tall and proud before him, or if it fell from his own open lips – but he didn't give himself time to figure it out.

All it took was one smooth movement – a second, if that.

And the person began to choke on their own blood.

"_Tony!"_

Stumbling back, the genius felt his blade slip from the stranger's chest as his partner screamed out behind him. As he moved away, he noted that the blade tugged lightly, stopped by the torn and ripped flesh of the body it had impaled.

"I-it's okay," he soothed the girl behind him, watching as the person fell to their knees. "I-I'm fine..."

His brain realising their guest was all but dying, he turned to deliver a soft smile upon the injured woman lying against the wall. Sin stared back with her lips falling open, eyes painted by shock as they flickered back to the gasping stranger.

"Who is it?" she whispered over their hacking, swallowing back whatever emotion she was feeling.

Tony realised he'd turned his back too long and spun awkwardly, almost falling into the waters behind him as he did so. His eyes latched onto the quivering form and pulled it apart in his mind; examining it from every angle available.

_Female, small... Red head from Two?_

"Wanda."

Tony frowned, turning to look towards his partner again. "What did you say?"

Sin blinked, looking between the girls dying features and the very much alive ones glaring at her. "It's Wanda – isn't it?" she repeated. "The quiet one?"

Slowly, Tony turned to watch the girl choke and writhe; recognizing the soft hair and gentle features with horror. He knew this one; she'd been quiet enough in the earlier days he'd spent with her, but her smile was something memorable – not that he'd been lucky enough to be graced with one during their stay at the Capitol.

"Oh my god," he whispered, backing away and dropping the blade.

She was innocent; probably looking for shelter, somewhere to be safe and he'd impaled her without a second thought. He felt his throat burn, bile climbing up but swallowed it back when more words reached his ears.

"Nice," Sin murmured. "I didn't think you had it in you Stark, but I'm impressed."

_Impressed. She's _impressed_..._

Absently, he nodded and straightened up; if he was to show any weakness the woman behind him would respect him less than she already did. He swallowed back the pain and guilt rising in his chest, and ignoring the burning behind his eyes as he turned to face the red head, weighing the sword in his hands.

He forced a smile onto his lips. "You owe me."

Sin snorted and relaxed, all previous tension gone. "Sure, I do," she rolled her eyes. "Why not? Might as well let you keep your little dreams."

Tony snorted loudly, too loudly, before he went to sit beside her, finally noting the woman had stopped hacking up all within her stomach. He turned to look down at the twitching body, meeting bright eyes and watching as the light left them. Her body slumped, his heart along with it, just as he sat down; the blade hitting the ground beside him with a loud clang.

Tony Stark.

Genius, playboy, _murderer._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**


	56. Chapter 55: Attack on Team Awesome

**(A/N) Hey guys – as promised, we have what should have been our Sunday chapter right here for you all now! This one signals the end of the first round, so there might be a day or two's delay before we return to the Capitol to see what's going on, but don't worry, it won't be too long! Since this is coming hot on the heels of the last chapter, featuring Tony Stark and written by the amazing Taila-tai, I'd advise you to make sure you've read the last one before you look at this one here, featuring Kurt Wagner and written by the equally-amazing Ophelia Claire (formerly Ophelia Lokisdottir).**

**Big thanks to WhoPotterAvenge-X Kane for their review – and yep, the less you see of a tribute the better, because whenever they turn up there's a chance they might die. It's just that kind of fic.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Five – Attack on Team Awesome**

**Night, Day Two**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Claire**

* * *

"_We're all working together, that's the secret." _– Sam Walton

* * *

Kurt dropped his armful of wood next to Kate's with a dull clatter. It was mostly old lumber scavenged from the nearby derelict buildings. Kate, from her rooftop perches, had spotted a huge patch of wooded area a mile or so away, but when Kurt suggested they check it out, Logan had shot the idea down.

"Trust me," he'd said. "The woods are going to be the Careers' hunting grounds right now. A forest has a hell of a lot of ways to hide and they are going to find them all." Kurt and Kate had agreed.

"Decent haul?" Logan said as Kurt tossed down his wood. The huge teenager was balanced on a pile of rubble, punching a brick-size hole into the ceiling with his "claws." Similar holes dotted the ceiling, allowing tiny peeks into the room above.

"Yeah. You've been...busy," Kurt said.

Logan glanced down at him. "Hey, if I bite it, it ain't gonna be from suffocatin' from smoke in my sleep."

Kurt shrugged and squatted down next to the wood piles. He stacked some smaller pieces together and picked up two jagged metal rods that Kate had torn from a sign. He struck them together, creating a few sparks that settled down on the wood chunks and smouldered gently. Kurt blew lightly on the sparks and they flickered into tiny flames. He added handfuls of the dry leaves and plant matter that had blown into the building over time and the fire leapt a little higher. Kurt leaned two larger pieces together for the fire to catch when it got higher, the brushed his hands off and stood up.

"Nice work, Elf," said Logan from a new perch. He shielded his eyes from some dust that rained down as he stabbed the ceiling and muttered a curse. Kurt almost blushed. It was just a little fire, but it made him feel good. More adept. Able to survive. Able to _last_. Kurt grinned to himself and ventured outside once more into the arena night.

The sky was cloudless and millions of stars glittered overhead, brighter than any Kurt had seen at home. He was almost certain they were artificially created, or brightened, but there was something comforting about them all the same.

When Kurt was younger, he would have strange dreams at night. Not nightmares, so to speak, but a recurring vision of a woman. He could never tell who she was- her face was always in shadow. She would speak to him, ask him to come home. She would plead with him, tell him she still loved him and wanted him back with her.

Kurt thought it might have been his birth mother.

The dreams would wake him up and leave him feeling strangely torn. Sometimes he would wake up with hot tears trickling down his cheeks. He would go and wake Margali, who would wrap her arms around him and press her cheek to the top of his head. Then, if the weather permitted, she would take him outside and they would sit on the porch.

"Look up there, Kurt," she would say, pointing at the stars twinkling above them. "Do you know how much I love you? I love you for every star in the sky. I love you for more stars than you can see. And the stars know that too. If we are ever apart, look up at the stars and remember how much I love you." Then she would kiss his cheek, ruffle his hair, and carry him back to bed.

Kurt felt tears prickling behind his eyes as he gazed at the night sky, but he felt...almost at peace. "Love you, mama," he murmured.

He rested a hand on the hilt of the sword tucked into his belt. He drummed his fingers on the grip before absently letting them drift down to the blade, feeling for the slippery material of his precious blue ribbons. He traced the fabric as he wandered, tangling it through his fingers as he glanced around.

* * *

_Kurt's mouth was as dry as the street they circled. He clenched his fingers in and out as the time ticked closer and closer to zero. His heart hammered so heavily he felt faint, but there was no fainting now or he'd be out of the Games before they started. He'd seen the clip, from a Games past, of a girl losing her balance and toppling from the platform. The pedestal had promptly exploded, and when the smoke had cleared, the tribute had been replaced with a smear of blood and scorch marks._

_Kurt swallowed thickly, looking to his left and right, trying to spot a friendly face for what could be the final time. To his immediate right was Wanda – but her gaze was focused on the Tesseract. Nothing would be coming from her. Where was Kate? He scanned the semicircle of tributes not blocked by the Tesseract, but Kate must have been on the other side._

_He found Logan a few pedestals away, poised to spring from his pedestal. Etta crouched to his right, also looking ready to fly. Logan was looking everywhere, taking in as much as he could._

_In the final seconds of the countdown, Kurt squinted at the Cornucopia, glowing blue in the sunlight. Plenty of weapons, backpacks, various tools, and other boxes and bags were scattered near the outside. The mouth of the box was facing to the right, blocking his view of the inside. Before he could pick out anything specific, however, he registered a robotic voice calling the final numbers._

_"Three...two...one...Let the Twenty-Fourth Avenger Games begin!" _

_A harsh klaxon wailed, and the tributes sprang from their pedestals. Some ran for cover in the buildings and streets, and others ran for one another. Kurt jumped down on the posterior side of his pedestal, watching for an opportunity. He could see a single sword leaning up against the side of the Tesseract, out of the way of a lot of the action. That archer boy from Two was awfully close to it...there! His attention was diverted and he was sprinting away. Kurt ran for the sword, glancing about wildly. As he drew close, a smaller silver flash caught his eye. He scooped up the dagger as he ran before snagging the sword with his other hand and peeling away down a street. Part of him wanted to try and find Kate or Logan, but he knew it was suicide to stay there any longer than he had to. He was the wrong person to be in the Games. He worried about people. It was in his nature and he couldn't help it, but it would kill him if he wasn't careful._

_He ran through the streets, darting down random alleyways until his legs ached, then scaled a fire escape and sat to rest. He studied the blades that he had stolen. The sword was shorter than most of the ones in the Training Centre, with a steely grey blade and dark grey hilt. Brown leather was wrapped around the grip. Kurt pulled up the sleeves of the rust-coloured sweatshirt the tributes had received and untied the ribbons wound around his wrists. He tied each around the base of the blade before tucking the sword through his belt and the knife alongside it._

* * *

A figure emerged from the doorway of a nearby building and he dropped behind a large, mossy chunk of concrete, peeking out. Kate was picking her way over the collapsed door, a few cans cradled in the crook of her arm. Kurt darted from hiding spot to hiding spot, evading Kate's notice. He thought she had seen him duck down, and she was still looking at his original hiding spot. He straightened, leaning on the new pile of rubble. She jumped, glancing his way before laughing.

"How _do_ you do that? I could have sworn you were just over there!" Kurt grinned and clambered over the rubble to join her.

"Did you find much?"

Kate shrugged. "A bit. There's some old gross stuff that's not useable but there's preservatives and things. No coffee yet." She peered up and down the street as she dropped the tins into her backpack. "Where's Logan?"

Kurt jerked a thumb back towards the building they'd claimed as their hideout. Or, as Kate liked to put it, The Nest. Kate scoffed slightly but shrugged and began navigating the overgrown street. "We should probably quit foraging for the night. I don't wanna be out and about if the Careers come around. Or some of the others, for that matter."

Kate shuddered slightly.

"Let me guess – the Six girl?" Kurt asked. He'd seen the venom in the girl's eyes and the cruel smile on her lips. Not to mention she was a legacy.

Kurt hopped over a thin stream of sludge flowing through the middle of the street. Their street was what looked to be former apartment buildings and small stores, not terribly tall but no huge windows in the fronts to give their position away. The brick buildings were crumbling, cracked, and covered in vines and moss.

They drew level with "their" building, a brown-bricked apartment. Greenish-brown ivy climbed the walls and in and out of several of the windows.

As they approached the rubble piles that had fallen around the base of the building, the sky lit up red with the Marvel emblem and low, brisk strings began to play. Soon, a sonorous brass section joined in. The anthem, for some reason, always made Kurt want to scale a building and go leaping across rooftops.

As the music died away, the emblem faded and was replaced with the scarred boy from District One, Wade. He had been strange, certainly, and his weird habits of talking to himself had made Kurt a bit uncomfortable, but he had certainly not been lacking in confidence and had demonstrated the skills to back it up. Kurt's surprise turned to worry when he imagined what could have taken out a Career on the second day. Wade's was not the only surprising death so far, either. Last night's recap had revealed the death of T'Challa, which had been both shocking and saddening. The young man had been pleasant to most and at least cordial to all, if they didn't threaten his district partner. Kurt wouldn't be surprised if the Panther had died defending the little girl.

The worry, in turn, was replaced by...well, Kurt didn't know what, exactly, as his district partner's face flashed across the sky. He felt Kate place a hand on his arm, but he didn't need it.

Was that right?

Yes. He wasn't upset. He barely knew the girl. The first time he'd talked to her had been on the train to the Capitol and they'd barely interacted after the chariot ride.

Sure, he was sorry for her family back home – he knew she had a twin brother, and if Kurt's bond with his siblings was strong, he could only imagine theirs. Kurt imagined that...what was his name? Pete? Pietro, that was it. He imagined that Pietro had died a little when Wanda had. He could only imagine the pain that losing Amanda or Stefan would cause, but the bond the twins must have shared would have run even deeper.

No more faces followed Wanda's and the sky went dark.

"You ok?" Kate asked.

"Yeah, actually. I am," Kurt replied, and he meant it.

Kurt pushed the door open – one of the only working doors on the street – and they picked their over debris into the entrance hall. Logan burst from their room down the hall, claws bared, expression murderous, but relaxed when he saw who it was.

"We gotta get a signal of some kind so I don't end up stabbin' one a you two," he grumbled. Kurt and Kate followed him back to their room. The fire was burning more strongly now, and Kate dumped the contents of her backpack onto the floor by the flames. Logan sliced open some of the cans and they picked through the food.

Kate spent the next half hour seeing what she could and could not roast on one of Logan's extra claws over the fire.

And eating every result.

And then attempting to convince Logan and Kurt to try her cooking attempts.

Kurt tried a few of the less questionable items – the canned fruit developed a delectable crispy shell while the inside stayed moist and juicy. Logan sat in the shadows just outside the firelight, until Kate began wheedling for him to have some of the canned pears she'd toasted. Kurt joined in after a minute or so, and eventually, Logan scooted closer and took the proffered claw. He tore off a chunk of fruit with his teeth. In spite of himself, some of the gruffness faded from his face.

"This ain't half bad, Trickshot," he said, before biting off the rest of the pear.

Kate pumped a fist in celebration. "Kate Bishop: Wolverine Tamer," she crowed delightedly. Kurt laughed. Logan huffed but the hint of a smile played around the corners of his lips.

* * *

Kurt put another large piece of wood on the dying fire as they prepared for bed. Logan's ceiling holes were doing an excellent job of keeping the room smoke-free so far. Hopefully they'd continue through the night. Kurt was taking the first watch. He bunched up his sweatshirt and tucked it behind his back as he leaned against a rubble pile. Logan and Kate lay with their backs to the fire. Kurt listened to their breathing gradually slow to an even, relaxed pace. Logan made little snuffling noises as he slept. The only other sound was the fire crackling and popping, sending the occasional spark into the air.

Today, he decided, had been marginally better than yesterday. After escaping the Tesseract bloodbath, he'd spent the day simply wandering the streets of the arena, searching for food and water. Eventually, he'd come upon a river, and had the idea of swimming across and taking refuge on the other side – which was quickly removed from his mind after heading down to the bank. The smell and look of the filthy water was enough to turn his stomach right away, and if that wasn't enough, while throwing chunks of rubble into the water to test for depth (and possible unfriendly inhabitants), one of his rocks had appeared to smack against an invisible wall and explode.

_Oh, yeah. The forcefields._

Kurt was a little more careful of where he went after that.

As his shift grew longer, Kurt amused himself by taking a thin stick and slowly burning it shorter and shorter. He was absentmindedly smearing the ash between his fingertips when he heard a noise that was definitely not the fire or sleeping Logan.

It was a door scraping open. Not the door to their room, but the door to the building. Then there was a skittering, scuttling noise. And it was getting closer.

Kurt scrambled to his feet and hurried to his sleeping allies, shaking them awake. "Guys, there's something coming!" he hissed. Logan and Kate were on their feet within seconds. Kate was clutching her knife, and – did Logan _sleep_ with those claws on?

The skittering sound drew closer, and then three enormous spiders burst into the room. The hideous things were the size of dogs, with legs that easily spanned two feet. Each had eight beady black eyes that reflected the firelight and gave them a demonic appearance. Or more demonic then they already appeared. They were shiny, black, and hairy. Kurt nearly threw up when he noticed the shiny, black, wickedly sharp pincers protruding from the spiders'...mouth areas. He watched in horrified fascination as the spiders drew closer, unable to look away, until a blazing stick launched past his head and landed in front of the creatures. The spiders hissed and scuttled away from the torch.

"Let's move, Kurt!" It was Logan who had hurled the stick. Kurt tugged the sword out of his belt with shaking hands. The spiders were regrouping, charging in a tight pack towards the tributes.

"Split up!" Kate yelled. They scattered, hoping to confuse the spiders, but the mutts were intelligent. Each creature chased after a different tribute.

Kurt raced past the fire, grabbing the stick he'd been burning. It had fallen into the flames and a smaller flame was burning on the end. He jabbed the makeshift torch at the spider and it retreated, clicking its pincers nastily. It climbed up a nearby wall and launched a stream of sticky white webbing with deadly accuracy, smacking the torch out of his hand and extinguishing the flame with a sputter.

As he fought, he heard the distant _boom_ of a cannon going off. His stomach dropped to the vicinity of his knees and despite being locked in combat, he spared the briefest of glances to see if the cannon had been for one of his allies.

He let out a breath when he saw both of his friends still very much alive. They too had heard the cannon and had had the same idea as Kurt, but all of them were quickly forced to return their attention to the mutts.

Logan had his spider in a corner, slashing at it with his claws. The spider was evading most of the strikes, but Logan was keeping it trapped. He got a lucky strike in and sliced off the bottom half of two legs. The spider let out a keening wail.

Kate was holding her own too, but her short knife forced her to get uncomfortably close to the creature.

Kurt jumped as his spider hissed angrily and sprang off the wall. Kurt threw out his sword frantically and the spider slid neatly onto the end. It shrieked and twitched, its hairy legs snagging his grey tank top. Greenish ooze spurted around his sword and splattered on his tank top. Grimacing, he shook the creature from the end of his sword and hurried to help Kate. She had succeeded in slicing several thin cuts along the spider's shiny abdomen but it was attacking with more vigour than before, if possible. She danced around it, slashing and stabbing but only managing superficial blows and making the horrid thing more riled up.

The spider launched a string of webbing at Kate, knocking the dagger from her hand and pinning it to a wall. The spider charged at Kate, who was backed up against the wall, tugging at her dagger.

"Kate!" Kurt shouted, and tossed his sword at her. She caught it smoothly and swiped it down, slicing across the spider's eyes. The beady black orbs burst open and the spider squealed and skittered backwards.

Over in Logan's corner, his spider was lunging and snapping its pincers at his legs. It snagged his trousers and ripped a chunk of fabric off – right before Logan slashed and ripped one pincer clear out of its face.

The spiders were gone before the tributes realized what had happened, their shrieks echoing down the hall.

"Is...is everyone...all right?" Kurt panted as he caught his breath, bracing his hands on his knees. He received affirmative noises from his allies. "Is everyone _actually_ all right?" This statement was accompanied by a pointed glance at Logan (and his ankle). Logan gave him a scowl in return, though it lacked ferocity.

"I'm fine, Elf. Really." He spread his arms and tugged up his pant leg. "Not a scratch. You good?"

Kurt nodded. He straightened up and pointed at the spider carcass with his sword. "Should we take this outside, or-"

Logan shook his head. "A Career sees this outside, it's as good as a big sign that says 'Here we are, come attack us.' If there's a kill, they'll know someone has been here recently. We can put it in another room."

"We," as it turned out, only needed to be Logan. He hefted the carcass by the legs and carried it up a few flights of stairs. "We can dump it in the river later," he said. "Tomorrow. We should try and get some sleep. I'll take the watch shift."

Scaling the stairs behind him and trying not to step in the gunk dripping from the spider corpse, Kurt gave Kate a look that said _"I'm so glad we have him"._ Kurt gave her a half smile. He was glad she was starting to warm up to the boy- it was a welcome change from that morning when they'd run into one another. Kurt was good at reading people and Kate had initially been incredibly apprehensive about Logan being anywhere near them.

Understandably, of course. The boy was a walking powerhouse. With _claws_. But Kurt could see right through Logan's tough outer layer to the opposite persona underneath. He was a brutal fighter when he had to be but he had a soft side that Kurt was determined to continue bringing out. Kate had had seemed so much more relaxed after getting Logan to try her campfire food and Kurt wanted to see more of that.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: ?, District ? – Killed by ?**


	57. Chapter 56: Reaper Men (& Women)

**(A/N) Hey guys, we return after our long delay, and I'm here to issue an apology for that, along with an explanation. It's a simple enough explanation really, which makes it a bit unsatisfying – I started up my final year of college, and wasn't prepared for the increased workload that it entailed. We've moved from doing essays and exams only at Christmas and May to a program of continuous assessment, which means we're graded on pretty much everything we do, and are required to do a lot of it. Throw in the fact that I was made Games &amp; Tech Editor for one of the college magazines, was forced to take on about twenty extra hours a week at work when someone left – which has recently gone back to its normal weekly amount, thankfully – just meant that all my time was taken up doing things I couldn't get out of.**

**However, we're back now, and I'll be implementing a few things with our writers to put less work on my end, so we can get back to our normal upload schedule, and you can get back to reading and enjoying this fic. And boy, is there a lot to enjoy to come – I couldn't be prouder of how this story has shaped up so far, and how it's going to continue. For those out there who thought we weren't coming back – I've stated time and time again that no matter what happens, this fic will be finished, so don't panic. Nothing like this should happen again, but if it does, just know that we'll always be coming back. We're fully committed to seeing this story through, things just didn't work out so well on my part, which caused our setback. If you ever do get worried, feel free to send us on a PM, or visit our forum (same name as the fic), which can be found on the first page of Hunger Games forums. **

**Finally, I'd like to thank everyone that reviewed to voice appreciation for the fic, or concern that it wasn't going to continue (which basically amounts to the same thing). sailorraven34, WhoPotterAvenge-X Kane, TeenageAvengerSurvivingSchool, VengefulVixens, I-OfTheHawk, Idalove2read, GeekyComicBookGuy and the various guest reviewers – thank you for bearing with us, and I hope you'll enjoy what's to come. And I'd like to thank our writers, who stuck with me with a kind of patience that I wouldn't have been able to muster in their position, and bore with me without complaint. **

**Thank you all, and as always, enjoy.**

**\- .. -. -.. .-.-.-**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Six – Reaper Men (&amp; Women)**

**Director Nick Fury, Agent Phil Coulson &amp; Skye**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

_"ALL THINGS THAT ARE, ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION. AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOMEDAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS._

_Death took a step backwards._

_It was impossible to read expression in Azrael's features._

_Death glanced sideways at the servants. _

_LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?" _

― Terry Pratchett,_ Reaper Man_

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

_"We cannot always build the future for our youth, but we can build our youth for the future." _

― Franklin D. Roosevelt,_ Great Speeches_

* * *

Fury found the President on the balcony of his office, looking down on the frost-covered courtyard where several of his "children" were undergoing their daily sparring routine, under his careful eye. Fury walked to his side, surveying the fighting youths with an eye trained from countless hours spent surveying the Games.

He had to hand it to Thanos – many people in the Capitol allowed their entire lives to be dictated by the Avenger Games, but none had brought it home with them quite in the way the President had. Being a child of Thanos – of his blood, or, as in the case of many of the majority, adopted – every day was a constant struggle, surrounded by those who wanted you dead. Namely, your brothers and sisters. Being of Thanos' own blood offered no advantages, in this world – you lived by the sword, or you died by the sword. No mercy would be shown.

Thanos glanced over at Fury, at offered a small smile. This was generally the best time to meet the President, when he was watching his children spar, briefly at peace with the world around him, before his madness made itself apparent once more.

"Ah, Director. Just the man I wanted to see," he boomed, and Fury inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "It has been an…_interesting _few days, to say the least. The Games have certainly begun, with very few deaths, as you foretold. The Career Pack is weak, _brittle_…an interesting change from last year, but one that has not paid off, I fear. The death of Wade Wilson was an unforeseen, yet satisfactory, twist. The girl from One…she had potential – she's not afraid to do what must be done."

"I'm confident we'll keep you interested, sir. Coulson's team have come up with several interesting mutts – you've already seen the first group, the spiders. I have another working on an old robotics project we've had in the works for quite some time – it should be operational in the coming days, or so I'm informed. And we've still got plenty of surprises in store that I won't go into now – we've got to keep _some _things secret, after all."

Thanos nodded sagely, an almost hungry look in his eyes. "Of course, Director, of course. I'll be looking forward to seeing if Peter Parker is able to escape your mutts' clutches. There's always something less satisfying when a tribute falls to a mutt, unless it's particularly well done. The wyvern from three years ago, for example."

Fury sighed internally. The wyvern had been the brainchild of Mojo Adams, his predecessor – it had killed six of the tributes that year, before succumbing to its wounds. Fury had personally considered it far too crude and gaudy, lacking the subtlety of his own implementations. Anyone could create a monster of unfathomable destruction – at least, anyone with the same kind of facilities and staff that the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. had access to. The trick was to develop a mutt that was potentially lethal, but capable of being killed – or at least, evaded – by a tribute with enough skill or sense to do so.

He had been quite pleased with the spiders. Fitzsimmons had really outperformed themselves there – he would have to send a commendation over to Coulson, when he had the time. Thanos said something, and he froze, realising that he hadn't been paying attention, lost in his own thoughts – an action that could warrant execution, depending on the President's current mood.

"My apologies, sir, I didn't catch that. Gallowglass had just knocked Thane to the ground, but took too long to deliver what would have been the finishing blow, allowing Thane to recover quite spectacularly. He may have just broken his brother's nose."

Thanos glanced back to the courtyard below, with an almost fond smile spreading across his face. "Ah, yes. Impressive, aren't they? My life's work: creating the perfect implements of death. Some of them are close, too. So…so…close," he trailed off, his eyes losing focus as though looking at something far off in the distance.

"I was asking you about Wade Wilson. Who do you think he was talking to, in the moment before his…demise?" Thanos asked quietly, his voice a gentle rumble.

Director Fury glanced over at the President, his brow furrowed, confused. "Who knows what was going on in his head before Elektra shoved her blade in there? The wound he received was infected, anything that he said in his final moments were just the ravings of a madman. It wasn't even like he was all that balanced before the Games, anyhow."

"Yes. Yes, I do believe you speak the truth, Director," the President replied, with a slight hint of regret to his voice. "And yet, _perhaps_…" he whispered a moment later, his words trailing off into the air, before lowering his head and sighing mournfully. A moment passed, and his melancholy seemed to fall off him, as he turned to face Fury.

"How are your own children doing, Director? John and Amanda?" he asked, with thinly veiled curiosity, and Fury frowned, feeling uncomfortable at the direction their conversation was heading.

"They're both fine, sir. I didn't get to spend as much time with them as I would have liked when they were kids – their mothers were keen to keep it that way – and we've never been all that close since," Fury replied, looking away.

Thanos nodded slowly, leaning on the balcony railing and resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "And yet," he began, after a moment or two had passed, "they both signed on with S.H.I.E.L.D. With all the opportunities open to them, they followed in your footsteps, achieving unprecedented results in the academy, and now find themselves in high-ranking positions."

"I had nothing to do with that, if that's what you're implying," Fury replied grimly.

"No, Director, they earned those positions entirely through their own merit. If it had been otherwise, you would have heard from me before now," the President murmured. He glanced away from Fury, now looking down on the courtyard, and his children.

A moment passed, and then Thanos cleared his throat, turning back to the Director. "The thing about children, Director, is that they never cease in pushing away at the boundaries you set. You care for them, you nurture them, and they only ever repay you with disappointment, falling down at every hurdle placed before them, breaking every trust."

He paused, and seem to mull something over in his head for a moment. "Loyalty – that is a trait I value above all, because it's so hard to find. Behind that, competency. I'm surrounded all around by traitors, schemers and spies, but as long as they continue to do their job…well, I'm inclined to turn a blind eye. As for those who fail to live up to my expectations…"

Fury stirred slightly, aware that the President was scrutinising him closely, and continued to watch the youths sparring below. Gallowglass had left the field, forfeiting to Thane after his nose had broken, and several of the other groups had broken up as well. Fury's eye was caught by one of the last remaining pairs – two young women, sparring furiously with twin blades, one's skin dyed blue presumably to match her father's, the other's green.

Nebula and Gamora, perhaps the two most high-profile of Thanos' offspring. Perfectly matched, as far as Coulson could see, and he had seen a lot of fights in his time as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Nebula seemed to gain the advantage for a moment, sweeping Gamora's feet out from under her, only for the green-skinned woman to roll and kick out at Nebula's own legs, knocking her to the floor as well.

"Even I have a dark side, Director," Thanos rumbled, causing Fury to look away from his fighting daughters, and the President smiled widely, though his eyes held no hint of amusement. "It doesn't do to test me, in the long run."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

_"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes." _

― Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Hound of the Baskervilles_

* * *

"Strange is looking for you," May informed him, as he entered the section of the fifty-second floor that had been assigned to them as their quarters. She had been waiting for him, knowing that he'd turn up at eight a.m. on the dot, as he did every morning.

"Strange?" he asked, confused, wondering what the head of Conditioning and Rehabilitation could want with him. "Fitzsimmons haven't had any mutts escape again, have they?"

"No," May replied, looking just as confused as he did. Or rather, her expression barely changing, as usual, but Coulson had learned to tell her mood by several subtle tells. "He just said he wanted to speak with you – claimed it was urgent, and to be kept as low-key as possible. Said it would be in everyone's best interest if it was kept between the two of you."

Coulson whistled through his teeth. "Sounds serious. Guess I better not keep him waiting."

Despite saying that, he did peer around the office for a moment, sighing internally as he noticed the pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

"Skye around?" he asked May, as he hand reached into his left trouser-pocket and probed the thumb-drive he had put there.

May only shrugged, and turned as if to leave, causing Coulson to roll his eyes and sigh.

"Still got a problem with her, I guess," he commented wryly, and May shrugged again.

"Still don't understand why she's here. You had her update Zola's algorithms for the Reaping, and ever since then she's just been running through drills with Ward, or spending time with Fitzsimmons. What's the endgame here, Coulson? What do you have planned for her?"

Coulson smiled thinly. "I thought you just came on as a pilot – you seemed quite happy with that desk job I dragged you away from? Now you're questioning my personnel decisions? What is it with insubordination these days…?" he asked, trailing off mournfully.

"I think that went out the window when I had to kill that bird thing that Fitz released last year. And when I signed on, you said that we'd be picking the ops, making the calls. _We, _Phil, not just you. I know what you and Fury are working on, but I don't see how Skye fits in."

"Then let's hope no one else can, either," Coulson replied, aware that she had used 'Phil' rather than 'Coulson' – something she only did when she was worried about something – and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Look, look, I know you have your reservations, and I'm damn sure Ward does – he's been _very_ clear about them – but Skye's here to stay. I'm asking you to trust me on this, okay? We need her."

May stared at him for a moment, before letting out a terse sigh. "Fine…but there had better be a damn good reason at the end of all of this. We don't need loose cannons running around, Phil. We need to be able to trust our agents – like I'm trusting you right now. But I'll just say…she worries me. I _don't _trust her."

With those final words, she turned and left for real this time, leaving Coulson in her wake. A moment later, Ward entered the room through one of the doors behind him, and Coulson turned to face him, remembering the thumb-drive once more.

"Have you seen Skye?" he asked, pushing May's doubts from his mind.

Ward shrugged. "Not since weapons training."

"She stop saying 'bang' when she pulls the trigger?" Coulson asked wryly, realising that the thumb-drive was just going to have to wait – he had put Strange off long enough as it was.

"Mostly," Ward said, sounding tired and frustrated, but also that little bit amused. "Now, if she can just learn the difference between the safety release and the magazine release, we'll be making real progress."

* * *

"I'm here to meet Dr Strange," Coulson explain to the Sentinels at the door, but they had already begin to move aside as he walked up to them. Strange must have told them to expect him, because Coulson didn't recognise either of the Sentinels, who looked as though they had come straight out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s academy. Not good enough to be drafted as an agent, not regarded enough to become part of the Nova Corps, and not interested enough in flying to join S.W.O.R.D. That was the standard Sentinel M.O., as Coulson saw it.

May served in S.W.O.R.D. for a while, when she had just started out, before catching Fury's eye and being elevated to a place in S.H.I.E.L.D. Of course, technically they were _all_ part of S.H.I.E.L.D. – strictly speaking, Coulson and his colleagues didn't even exist, at least on paper. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent worked from the shadows – after all, they _were _a spy agency. They could only operate if their existence was considered nothing more than a rumour.

"Ah, Agent Coulson, you took your time," the good doctor announced, as Coulson entered his office, a tad reproachfully.

Coulson offered a sheepish smile by way of apology. "I'm sorry, there were a few things I needed to tie up first, and the traffic was _terrible _on the way down."

Strange raised an eyebrow, looking confused. "But…your office is in the same building?"

"Yes…"

A moment of awkward silence passed, before Strange decided to cut to the point. "Regardless, Coulson, I'm glad you're here now. An…event has occurred, and it's of the utmost importance that it's dealt with as soon as possible. However, I'd prefer not to talk about it here…" He said this with an almost imperceptible nod towards the door, where the two Sentinels stood guard on the other side, and Coulson inclined his head slightly in understanding.

"Where would you suggest?" Coulson asked, folding his arms.

"The mortuary would be preferable – it's where we keep those who fall during the Games, as we prep their bodies for the return home. There's something that I'd like to show you there, which will help you understand why I sent for you. It's only a short walk away."

Coulson nodded again and motioned towards the door, signalling for Strange to lead the way. The doctor walked to the door, opened it, and asked the Sentinels to inform anyone looking for him that he had just stepped out for a few minutes, and would be back in the next half hour or so at the latest.

They left the Sentinels behind, walking at a casual pace in order not to raise suspicion, silence falling between them until a reasonable distance had been passed.

"One of the…subjects had been tampered with before they were delivered here," Strange explained gravely, stroking his beard gravely as the pair marched towards the mortuary. "Their tracker is missing – cut out of their arm inexpertly, with a sharp knife. There was no attempt to conceal the wound; perhaps they were hoping that we'd attribute it to predators in the arena between time of death and time of retrieval. Or perhaps-"

"Or perhaps they were just stupid," Coulson finished, seeing where Strange was going. He cursed internally, knowing that they should have seen this coming. The Games provided ripe pickings for those with a tendency to collect things, and many of them had more than enough money to make it worth a Sentinel's while to desecrate the corpse they were returning to the Capitol. Even the President indulged in it, which practically gave his seal of approval to the hobby.

You couldn't move down some of the main streets without vendors trying to sell you bits and pieces of a previous runner-up. One had even tried to sell him the finger bones of Carl "Crusher" Creed, the "Absorbing Man" – so called for the number of punches he had been able to take and shrug off like they were nothing.

There had been eleven fingers on the tray the vendor proffered at him.

"Whose tracker was it?" he asked hoarsely, as they came up to the doors of the mortuary, where a pair of Sentinels stood guard – a result of the theft, presumably, as he couldn't remember seeing them here before on one of his rare visits. He didn't like spending too much time down here – it peeled back the reality of the Games just a little further than he was able for.

"Anna Marie Adler," Strange replied, as he waved off this new pair of Sentinels, one of whom opened the door for them with a respectful salute. "It's…well, it's gone rogue."

Coulson chuckled dryly, feeling that it was expected of him, and then felt slightly embarrassed, as Strange gave no sign that he had intended what he had said as a joke.

"Ah," he said weakly as they entered the room, shivering slightly as the cold hit him. "I suppose there's a fairly short list of people that could have taken it, right?"

Strange looked affronted. "Unfortunately not, Agent Coulson. If there _had_ been, I would have ensured this remained a purely internal affair, and retrieved the tracker myself. There are approximately two hundred people who had the opportunity to have stolen it, as the body was mishandled and delivered to the wrong section of this facility, and left there unattended for several minutes before the error was realised. Those in charge have been suitably demoted and punished," he finished with undeniable relish.

"Do I want to know what you've done to them?"

Strange smiled. "I placed them under the command of your science team. I hear that…Fitzsimmons can be trying taskmasters, to say the least. The rate of injuries in their immediate vicinity is nothing short of remarkable."

"They're very…keen," Coulson offered, embarrassed to think that part of his team had been targeted as unknowing punishments. "We certainly have been burning through lab assistants lately, but…well, you know how it is."

Strange nodded sagely. "Why, of course. Fury places a lot of faith in your team – otherwise someone else would be in charge of preparing the muttations for deployment. I've dabbled in genetic modification, and I fully understand the risks to it – just be thankful that your team merely prep these creatures, rather than being tasked with creating them. Herbert and Nathaniel risk a lot more, which is why I wouldn't use them to punish my inferiors.

He looked away, and the light flashed off his horn-rimmed glasses, obscuring the look on his face. "After all, Agent Coulson, there _is _a difference between punishment, and execution."

Coulson inclined his head slightly, having heard the rumours about Dr Wyndham and Dr Essex – both the relatively tame ones, and the ones that were considerably more disturbing. He had only met them in person on one or two occasions, but the impression that he had formed of both men left him with little doubt that the truth was far more…sinister, than the rumours had managed to be.

"Well, if that's the case, it'll be pretty difficult to work out who took the tracker," Coulson murmured, returning to the original topic. "But I've got a good idea where it's ended up – maybe I'll be able to find out who stole it there."

"I've heard many stories about your skill as an agent, Agent Coulson, but none had suggested that you're _this _good. How do you know where the tracker is – the tracking function has somehow been disabled, even though that's _supposed_ to be impossible, and the item itself looks pretty much like every tracker available on the market, and you haven't even seen the body yet."

Coulson smiled. "My apologies, doctor – by all means, show me the body first before I make any assumptions."

Strange looks slightly put out, but he moved over to the nearest shroud-covered body, and delicately pulled the sheet back to reveal the pale, washed-out features of Anna Marie Adler. He drew the sheet back further, exposing her both torso and the single puncture wound from the arrow that had killed her. It had been a hell of a shot by Barton, Coulson had to admit. The arrow had pierced her subclavian artery, causing her to bleed out almost immediately.

_She didn't suffer, at least,_ Coulson thought, looking at down at the deathly pale features, and was perturbed by her clouded, open eyes, which stared back at him accusingly. He reached out and closed them, earning an odd look from Strange, who seemed confused by the action. Guy spent so long around dead bodies he probably didn't even think of them as people, any more. Only a little while ago, this girl was alive, with hopes and fears and dreams.

One little arrow ended all that.

He glanced at the wound that had been opened up to remove the tracker, but it couldn't tell him anything beyond what Strange had already told him, further strengthening his previous hunch. The fact that it had basically been hacked out of Anna's harm spoke of a rush-job, by someone not used to handling knives, meant that they could rule out any of Strange's assistants, at least.

"Fine, I've seen the body, your story checks out. Anything else?" Coulson asking, surprising Strange with his brusqueness.

"Well…no, I'm afraid," the doctor replied, his shaggy eyebrows tightening together as he frowned. "You're confident that you have a lead, from the information that I have provided?"

He nodded, already reaching into his pocket for his communicator, and turning towards the exit. "Dr Strange, there's only two people out there with the funds to purchase something like this. If it had been the President, we'd both be dead right now, and so would a lot of other people. So, if we're done here, I have a collector to visit."

* * *

"Agent Coulson, my benefactor presents his compliments, and wishes you to follow me," the red-skinned girl informed him, her hands clasped together at an uncomfortable angle, her accent crisp and precise.

"Of course," Coulson replied, nonplussed, having only arrived at the Collector's mansion moments before, with the full intent on bashing the doors down if they didn't let him in immediately. The problem was that, well, that actually _did_ seem to be letting him in immediately.

People weren't supposed to do that. It's wasn't _fair._

The girl turned on her heels and led him into the building's grounds, through the main gates and the large courtyard after it, where Coulson tried not to stare to hard at the weird and disconcerting menagerie of creatures Tivan had collected. Toxic green, two-headed flamingos, purple piglets with elongated snouts, and other animals that seemed a mish-mash of at least three or four different creatures, and more still that shuffled unnaturally along the ground, leaving trails of grey slime in their wake, making him think of the horror-vids he had seen as a child. In the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw a raccoon dart up a nearby tree – way out of place with all the rest of the unnatural creatures here, which is what made it noteworthy.

He stepped over a small, yellowish squirrel-looking thing, and shook his head slowly. He never would understand some people's tastes. Wealth went to the head like the most intoxicating liquor imaginable, and made you make the worst decisions.

The red-skinned door opened the door for him, and he followed her through into Tivan's home. If he had thought the animals outside were strange, they hadn't been enough to prepare him for the decadence that lay without, as all laws of taste and sense went out the window, and Coulson was bombarded with an explosion of noise, colour and tassels.

There were tanks in which mysterious, enshrouded figures moved, and Coulson hoped for Tivan's sake that they weren't human, because he'd be forced to do something if they were. There were exotic-looking plants in every colour of the rainbow, as long as it was vivid enough to make your eyes want to bleed from the inside.

Something moved from behind one of the plants, and Coulson's hand snapped to the side, resting on the holstered pistol strapped to his hip. The plant's petals parted, and out came the raccoon that he had thought he had seen earlier, looking at him with mournfully accusing eyes.

_Relax, it's just a cute little raccoon,_ he thought, though the voice speaking inside his head didn't sound like his, and he cocked his head to the side, perturbed. _I bet it's gotten lost, somehow, and I should just open that nearby window so it can scoot out when I leave._

Coulson had taken a step towards the window before he caught himself, and turned back to the raccoon, staring at it with a certain degree of concern.

"Bark," the raccoon offered, unhelpfully, and Coulson felt another wave of confusion settle over him. Did raccoons bark? In fact, it hadn't even sounded like the raccoon had barked at all, but had instead…said 'bark'?

He couldn't open the window, at least not without asking – god knows how many of the things Tivan kept in here would escape. The racoon had made its own way in, it'd have to find its own way out. But Coulson's interest had been piqued by the strange – or rather, not strange – creature.

"Did you just _say _bark?" Coulson asked, having forgotten about the girl he was supposed to be following, having lost sight of her after discovering the raccoon.

_What? That's ridiculous. Whoever heard of a talking, _he thought, and smiled ruefully, mentally chastising himself, before wondering once more where that thought had come from.

"Whine?" the raccoon offered this time, a tad hesitant, and then paused, as though it was labouring under considerable. A second or two paused before it 'spoke' again, this time with a great deal more confidence. "Growl. Hiss. Snarl."

"Whoa there, little buddy," Coulson replied, making calming gestures, realising his hold on his gun. "No need to start anything."

_Maybe I should get out of here, and leave Mr Raccoon to whatever he was up to before I so rudely interrupted him, _Coulson thought, nodding sagely. A sharp scream sounded out behind him, and he glanced back to see that the red-skinned girl had returned, and was staring at the raccoon in horror.

_Oh, fuck._

"You again!" she exclaimed, making to dart at the raccoon, waving her hands in front of her as if to shoo it away. "If the master finds you in here again, he'll have a special cage for you, I'm warning you! He's already told the guards to shoot you on sight, you little beast!"

_Dumb broad, needs to lay off the red meat a bit – I mean, look at her complexion! Then again, by the size of her, maybe more red meat would be the answer. You can't tell me that's meant to be healthy – girl looks like a starved tomato._

Coulson smiled at his own internal monologue, so out of character for his usual thoughts, and for some reason in an accent that he wasn't quite familiar with, though it stirred up memories somewhere in his head.

The raccoon gave one last "snarl", before darting away behind the flora that covered the room, disappearing from sight and presumably running back the way it came. The red-skinned girl sighed in relief, and turned back to Coulson, looking both apologetic and affronted.

"My apologies – the master's collection does attract the worst of the local fauna. There's something about his collection that attracts them, and we've yet to find a suitable way of keeping that one out, I'm afraid. The rest don't seem as cunning, but that raccoon just keeps getting in."

"I understand," Coulson replied with a slight smile, and waved off the girl's apologies. "I used to have a cat, when I was a kid. Lola. No matter how carefully we locked up behind us, she always found a way of getting out and causing chaos around our street. We used to joke that she could fly – it seemed to be the only possible option."

The girl smiled in reply, but made no comment – perhaps something a mundane as a childhood cat held little interest for an employee of the Collector. She led him through a set of winding corridors, before they entered into what he could only assume was the main exhibit of Tivan's collection – a giant hall, filled from wall to wall with relics of past Games. Authentic ones too, if Coulson was any judge.

The target of this venture sat alone in the centre of the room, glancing through files on a holo-screen, perhaps trying to find a new place for his illegally purchased possessions.

"I present to you, Taneleer Tivan, the Collector," the girl announced, and Coulson forced a smile onto his face, walking down the stairs towards the other man, proffering his hand as Tivan rose to greet him. They shook hands solemnly, and Tivan gestured towards the seat at the other side of his desk, returning to his own chair and deactivating the holo-screen.

"Thank you, Carina," Tivan murmured, and the girl bowed deferentially and left the room, leaving Coulson alone with the Collector. "Now, Agent Coulson, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Coulson sat down, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. "It's business, not pleasure, I'm afraid. We've had an item stolen, and I believe it's now in your possession."

"Oh my!" the Collector exclaimed, feigning surprise. They both already knew what Coulson was here for, of course, or else Tivan wouldn't have had someone waiting to show him in when he had turned up. He must have informants in S.H.I.E.L.D. – a concerning thought, if true. "Whatever would have you make that accusation, Agent Coulson? I can personally attest that everything in my collection has been purchased through the correct avenues and dealerships."

Coulson sighed, his patience already wearing thin. "Mr Tivan, let's cut to the chase here. I don't know how you managed to disable the GPS tracker, but I do know that it's somewhere here in this room. What _you_ probably didn't know is that all of the trackers have a built-in self-destruct capability, which can be triggered from just about anywhere in Marvel from my office. However, to spare us the inconvenience of dragging you over there, I brought the remote with me."

Saying this, he reached inside his jacket, and removed a small, slim-looking black device, placing it on the table. He let it rest there for a moment, to make his point, before continuing.

"We began installing them early on, in the unlikely event of a tribute escaping the arena," he explained. "They're strong enough to completely disintegrate the arm that the tracker's implanted in, and will cause quite a lot of damage to the rest of the body. It pretty much guarantees death on detonation, so I _really _hope you haven't left it in your desk drawer."

He smiled, and watched Tivan squirm for a moment, several beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his face.

"I'm going to press the button now," Coulson said, and reached for the remote, causing the Collector to react.

"Don't!" he begged, standing up, and Coulson picked up the remote anyway, holding a threatening finger above the feared button.

"But you don't have the tracker, Mr Tivan, so there really shouldn't be a problem. Should there?"

With an expression of mixed fear and anger, Tivan opened his desk drawer and removed the tracker from it, tossing it onto the table with a grunt.

"Is there even really a self-destruct system?" he asked bitterly, as Coulson reached for it and pocketed it.

He stood up from his chair, and tossed the remote over to Tivan. "Of course there is. That remote just doesn't activate it – it opens my garage door."

"You have some nerve, Agent Coulson," the Collector replied, his jaw clenched and his fingers curled into fists, looking fit to explode.

"No, Mr Tivan, that honour is all yours. We can either take this matter up with Director Fury, who'll probably want to get the President involved, or you can tell me right here and now who you paid off to steal this for you, and then we'll pretend like nothing ever happened. Of course, if I catch something like this in your possession again, then all bets are off."

He sat back down in his chair, and crossed his legs casually. "Now then, start talking. And could also please pass the remote back over. I'll need it when I'm going home tonight."

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

_"Pressure is a word that is misused in our vocabulary. When you start thinking of pressure, it's because you've started to think of failure." _

― Tommy Lasorda

* * *

Skye stood in the firing range, her hands sticking uncomfortably to the pistol's grip, sweating uncontrollably. _Okay then, _she thought to herself running through her mental checklist. "Safety off." She pressed the button, and then jumped slightly as the magazine popped out of the bottom of the gun, landing on the floor with a clatter.

"Bang?" she murmured weakly, and sighed, bending down to pick the magazine up, and clumsily slotting it back into the pistol. She set the gun down on a nearby table with a sigh, and put her head in her hands, a headache starting to build.

_That's enough practice for today, I think. _She shook herself and picked the gun up again, carefully releasing the magazine – deliberately this time – and returned them both to their storage units, knowing that Ward would do his nut in if she left the gun out.

She left the firing range and made her way to Fitzsimmons' lab, as she generally did after an exhausting day of failing whatever targets Ward set for her. The two scientists were busy bickering at the far side of the room, and since Skye didn't feel like getting involved in yet another of their arguments, she instead started looking through the various objects around the room, all in various stages of development.

She reached to pick up a small black tablet, only for Fitz to catch sight of her, and charge to her side.  
"No! You do not touch that!" he admonished, slapping her hand away and shaking his head sternly. "Two semesters minimum of holographic engineering before you touch this!"

Skye rolled her eyes, holding her hands up in mock-surrender. "All right, all right. I get it. I didn't go to your stupid S.H.I.E.L.D. academy or whatever."

Fitz picked up the tablet and moved it to another nearby table, to what he judged to be a safe distance from Skye and her curiosity.

"How did training with Ward go?" Simmons asked, coming over and shooting an accusing look at Fitz, who met her gaze calmly, feeling that justice was on his side.

Skye sighed, and shrugged. "About as well as usual. He left after a while – said he couldn't watch me confuse the safety and the magazine release anymore, and left me with some drills to run through. They didn't go so well."

"That's too bad," Simmons replied sympathetically, placing a reassuring hand on Skye's shoulder, and then smiled. "But hey, I know something that'll cheer you up!"

Skye raised an eyebrow, and Fitz groaned behind her, leaning on one of the tables and putting his head in his hands.

"There's a _party!" _Simmons exclaimed, and Fitz groaned again, now thumping his head off the table.

"A…party?" Skye asked, confused.

"Happens every year," Simmons gushed, smiling happily. "Once the first few days of the Games go by, things settle down a bit, and S.H.I.E.L.D. throw a bit of a party to celebrate and allow the different departments to mingle."

"Oh…" Skye replied slowly, not quite sure if she shared Simmons' enthusiasm. "That sounds…that sounds great. But I don't really have anything to wear…"

Simmons' eyes lit up. "Then that means that we need to go _shopping!"_

Behind them, Fitz groaned again.

* * *

Skye shifted uncomfortably in her new dress – pink, cut to just above the knee – and looked around for Simmons, who had disappeared pretty much immediately after they entered the ballroom. Fitz had promised he'd turn up at some point, without much enthusiasm, but he probably _would _end up here, or else risk Simmons' wrath.

Giant plasma-screen television sets were placed on the walls of the room at regular intervals, depicting a variety of highlights from the Games so far, focusing mainly on the deaths. Skye still wasn't entirely sure how she felt about her work so far – Zola's declaration that Cletus Kasady and Elektra Natchios had only been reaped because of her had left her with a certain amount of guilt. When they died, their blood would be on her hands, and she still wasn't sure how she was going to cope with that.

Thankfully, she hadn't been forced to yet, as both were still alive and kicking. Her guilt had subsided somewhat when she realised what a monster Kasady was – he would have been executed long ago, if he had just been a little bit older. Natchios had also joined the Careers, marker her as a killer – it would have been so much harder if she had been responsible for drafting Ororo Munroe, or one of the other younger, helpless tributes.

But as it was, she had still been forced to confront her hand in things when Kasady had slaughtered that girl from District Three, grisly tearing her body apart. Then Natchios had pushed a knife through the throat of one of her allies, though at least this could be seen as a mercy killing rather than straight up murder, given the condition the Wilson boy was in.

She turned away from the nearest screen as they began playing the girl from Three's death again – Pepper Potts, that was her name, she remembered, as it flashed up on screen. Seeing that the first time had been enough. She didn't need a repeat performance.

"Lost your friends?" a voice asked behind her, and she turned to face the smirking features of Ian Quinn, who was wearing a crisp grey suit with a white, open-collared shirt, looking every inch as if he owned the place.

"You could say that," Skye replied with a weak smile, praying for someone to come and rescue her from this situation, or for an excuse to present itself to leave.

"You know, I've been meaning to speak with you," Quinn murmured, drawing a little closer than Skye was comfortable with. "I don't think I made the _best_ first impression. I have a feeling your Agent Coulson isn't my biggest fan."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Skye replied, and meant every word of it, something that Quinn evidently noticed too, his smile only growing wider in reply.

"Well then, I must apologise. We've gotten off on the wrong foot – but trust me, I'm not such a bad guy. Well, for a marketing executive," he added with a laugh, and Skye eyed him critically.

"I thought you were Mr Duquesne's lackey?" she asked, and Quinn's nostrils flared slightly, though no other signs of irritation betrayed him.

"I work closely with Mr Duquesne, yes, but most of the time I process new ideas from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s army of scientists, and implement them into viable areas within the Capital and the districts. I've always believed that information should be free, and every day another step is taken to make that dream a reality."

"And it's amazing how rich one can get off distributing 'free' information, isn't it?" a new voice asked, as a young woman in a black dress, imprinted with white flowers, walked over to them, having evidently caught the end of Quinn's explanation.

Quinn forced a laugh, and inclined his head slightly to the speaker, though Skye couldn't help but notice that she didn't in return, all but ignoring Quinn.

"Ah, allow me to introduce you to a colleague of mine," Quinn gushed, stepping back to allow the two women to shake hands. "Skye, meet Raina. Raina, Skye."

"Just Skye?" the woman asked, smiling, and Skye smiled back nervously.

"Well, technically it's 'Agent Skye', but yeah, just Skye. And you?"

"Just Raina," the woman in the flower dress replied. "Well, _Doctor_ Raina. I work in the Conditioning and Rehabilitation department, on the thirty-first floor."

"That's Dr Strange's department, right?" Skye asked, memory flicking her a card.

"It is indeed," Raina confirmed, "although I work more closely with Dr Whitehall and Dr Faustus, who are similarly high-ranking members in our section. They answer only to Strange, and I answer only to them. And you're a part of Task Force VII, yes? Coulson's squad?"

"I guess Mr Quinn here has been talking about me," Skye said, glancing over at Quinn, who smiled widely in response to her accusation.

"Only a little," Raina replied, also glancing over at the man who introduced them. "You're one of the few people here who _didn't_ go through the academy, and you're on Coulson's team, no less. You've definitely attracted enough attention all on your own. Plenty of people are keeping an eye on you."

"How many is a few?" Skye asked uneasily, feeling the same anxiety about her own lack of training that she had been experiencing more and more lately. Every time Ward lost his temper in frustration at her slow progress, every time Fitz snatched a prototype away from her prying hands, every time May shot a disapproving look in her direction.

"Don't worry about it," Raina replied soothingly, evidently reading something of Skye's thoughts in her expression. "I'm one of them too, if that helps. Dr Whitehall and I have a mutual friend who saw potential in me, and helped get me a job here. I had a hard time of it at first, but I kept my head down and proved my worth. If Coulson picked you out for a reason, then it means he believes you have something to contribute, Skye. And from what I hear, Coulson's a pretty smart man."

"That he is," a familiar voice murmured behind them, and they both turned with a start to see Coulson eyeing them critically.

"Mind if I borrow my agent for a moment, doctor?" Coulson asked, and Raina gave her assent, saying that she hoped she hadn't taken up too much of Skye's time.

"Not at all," Skye replied, and meant it, glad to have been rescued from Quinn's clutches. "It was nice talking to you, Raina. And you too, Mr Quinn." The last sentence was added almost as an afterthought, but it was only then that Skye realised Quinn had disappeared – he must have left when Coulson appeared, or shortly before.

"Oh," she replied, confused, but was saved by Raina's parting words.

"I'll pass on your compliments to Ian, my dear. Now, I'll beg your leave and leave you two to talk."

She turned on her heels and walked away, making her way over to a pair of men in grey suits, who were arguing animatedly over some point or other – the first younger and in better shape, with immaculately combed grey hair and glasses, the second older, balding, and a little heavier, sporting a bit of a paunch.

"An interesting girl," Coulson commented, following Raina's progress, and Skye murmured in assent, before turning back to him.

"You had something you wanted to tell me?"

Coulson looked pained. "Not here, I'm afraid. Your party-going is being cut short. Follow me."

Skye heaved a sigh of relief, and followed Coulson out of the ballroom and back to their quarters.

"Sorry to drag you away, but this important-" he began, as they left the room, but she cut him off.

"There's no need, seriously. I was praying for a chance to get away, and now I have," she explained, grateful. "Simmons disappeared the second we got there, and Fitz was putting it off as long as possible, and I didn't see Ward or May there at all."

"May doesn't really do parties," Coulson confided to her, looking happier now that he didn't have to worry about dragging her away from the party. "I caught sight of Ward as I came in – he was talking to an old mentor of his, Agent Garrett, and a member of Garrett's team, Agent Triplett. Would have stopped for a chat – Garrett's an old friend of mine, leads Task Force VI – but Fury had asked me to pass something on to you."

"The…the Director asked you to pass something on to me?" Skye asked, half-nervous, half-excited, unable to believe her ears. "What does he need done that he needs to send on to me? Surely he has dozens of people who can do anything I can do?"

Coulson glanced over at her, and held his tongue, holding up a finger to sign that he'll explain in a moment, as they reached the elevator. One had just arrived on their floor, and a mournful-looking Fitz stepped out, sporting a rather dashing suit and waistcoat.

"Oh, hey guys!" he said, a little more life flashing into his face. "Has the party ended?"

Skye barely suppressed the smile that threatened to rise up at the note of hope in his voice, but shook her head slowly, and saw Fitz's face fall slightly.

"I'm just taking Skye back to run through a few things with her. Got a few things I need her to check out back at the lab – don't worry, we'll be joining you in no time," Coulson replied reassuringly, patting Fitz on the shoulder, and pushing him gently away from the elevator and towards the ballroom.

_What? _"We'll be…going back?" Skye asked weakly, and Coulson shot her a confused look.

"Of course, I try never to miss these parties. We're kept so busy, it's nice to find some time to unwind every now and again. Words to keep at heart, Skye."

They got into the lift, leaving Fitz to walk sheepishly towards the party, and then the doors closed.

"Can you tell me now?" Skye asked.

Coulson glanced at her, and then removed a small metallic device from his pocket, thumbing a button before waving the device around in each direction of the elevator, apparently listening for something, but only receiving static in return.

"Okay, we should be good," he replied, pocketing the device before catching sight of Skye's look of confusion. "Just wanted to make sure we're not being listened to," he explained. "A lot of the rooms here are bugged, and some of the elevators too. Spies listen in on everyone, you know, and that includes each other."

He reached into another pocket, and withdrew a small thumb-drive, which he passed over to Skye with a certain air of mystery.

"This, Skye, is a thumb-drive."

"I can see that," she replied tersely, barely restraining herself from opening with _'Duh' _instead. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"It'll give you access to some coding that's being worked on in another part of this building. Fury just wants to make sure that it's all up to scratch, but doesn't want…certain groups knowing that he's checking. I was hoping you'd be able to give it a look."

"How long will I have with it?" Skye asked, her interest already piqued, excited at finally being given something to _do _since joining Coulson's team.

"Well, that's the problem. You'll have about thirty minutes before you'll get booted out of the system – that's about as long as the thumb-drive has been engineered to give you access for. Any longer and we'd be risking the chance of detection, even if almost everyone in the building is out partying."

Skye tapped the thumb-drive thoughtfully, a sense of unease stealing over her. "This sounds pretty…well, illegal, Coulson. Why's Fury going to all just trouble just to have me check over a few lines of code?"

Coulson hesitated. "It's…complicated, Skye. Very, very complicated. You'll understand some of it when you see what you're dealing with, but I can't share the rest with you right now. A lot of things are going on that you're not aware of, and you're not ready to find out about it all just yet. Just…trust me, will you. I'll explain everything to you when the time is right, I promise."

Skye stared at him for a moment, her unease still present, and then glanced back to the thumb-drive in her hand. In the end, her curiosity won over her reservations, and she nodded her assent.

"Good," Coulson said with a sigh, as the elevator doors opened in front of them, and they exited, making their way swiftly to the lab. Coulson removed another device from his pocket, some sort of GPS tracker, rather like the ones that were implanted in Inhumans to keep track of their locations. They were also used on the tributes in the Games, if Skye remembered correctly.

"What've you got there?" she asked, and Coulson glanced over at her sheepishly, looking up from the tracker.

"Just something that I had been asked to track down. I just want to get Fitz to take a look at it in the morning, to make sure it hasn't been tampered with. Nothing important, just a favour for an old friend."

His tone of voice made it pretty clear that he wasn't willing to open up any further about the tracker, so Skye let it be, far more interested in any case in the thumb-drive that he had placed in her possession.

She burst through the doors of their quarters, surprising the Inhuman who had been sweeping up the floor in their absence, and moved past her without a second glance, almost picking her pace up to a jog for a moment before remembering that she was wearing heels. She staggered, and probably would have fallen if Coulson hadn't grabbed her by the arm and steadied her, and she mumbled an apology about being too excited to wait.

Coulson let her go with a roll of his eyes, and Skye barged into the lab, booting up her laptop without further delay. She plugged the thumb-drive in, her fingers flying over the keys as she gained access to the code in question, her eyes widening slightly as she took it all in.

"It's…it's some kind of artificial intelligence…" she murmured, and shook her head slowly. "The Ultimate Robotics Operating Network."

"We call it Ultron, for short," Coulson explained helpfully. "You do what you need to do, just let me know if you see anything that looks out of place. We can't run the risk that it's been tampered with, even a little bit."

Skye was about to reply when Coulson's phone went off, its ringtone blaring some sort of disco-pop anthem that went out of fashion decades earlier, and Coulson drew it out sharply, starting a little when he caught sight of the caller I.D.

_"Be quiet," _he mouthed to Skye, and she nodded, turning back to the code on her laptop, though straining her ears to eavesdrop on Coulson's conversation.

"What's going on, Amanda?" Coulson asked, falling back into his professional, no-nonsense voice he kept for matters of the severest importance. A woman's voice said something unintelligible on the other end of the line, but Skye could catch the urgency in her voice.

"They captured _who?" _Coulson asked, and then swore, causing Skye to raise her eyebrows in surprise. "And you can't– ah, I see. Dammit, yeah, I understand. You can't send your operatives in after him? Of course, of course. We'll do our best, I promise. Goodbye."

With that, he terminated the call, and pocketed the phone once more. Skye glanced back at him and cocked an eyebrow. "What was that all about?"

"You have twenty-six minutes to finish going through that code, and then I want you to start packing," Coulson replied. "I'm calling the rest of the team back too, they'll help you get prepped if necessary."

"Get prepped for _what?_" she asked, confused once more.

"When I asked you to join S.H.I.E.L.D. I promised you a front row seat to the strangest show on earth, right?" Coulson murmured, his face ashen, his voice devoid of its usual mirth. "Well, today's your lucky day, Skye, because we're going into the field, and _you're_ coming along with us. Now get through that code, and get ready. We've got a rescue mission on our hands."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)/strong/p**  
**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson./strong/p**  
**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton./strong/p**  
**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett./strong/p**  
**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady./strong/p**  
**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios./strong/p**  
**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark./strong/p**  
**18: ?, District ? – Killed by ?**


	58. Chapter 57: Doubt Flourishes

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with another update for In the End, You Always Kneel! Chapter's up a little later than planned, as I spent this weekend worrying over my dog, after she was diagnosed with renal failure. She spent forty-eight hours at the vets on a drip, taking certain drugs designed to help with her condition, but unfortunately her condition continued to worsen, and we were forced to have her put to sleep on Monday. So, as a personal favour, I'd like to ask you to think of her – Rascal, my little Westie, who was best friend for the last fifteen and a half years of my life. Keep her in your prayers, or send good thoughts her way, or whatever you're comfortable doing. She was the best dog anyone could ever have asked for, and I'm going to miss her.**

**So, moving on from that moment of sadness, I'd like to give a big thanks, as always, to actresspdx, I-OfTheHawk, Idalove2read and our guest reviewers! Glad the Terry Pratchett references went down well – Rocket went full Gaspode, to be sure (don't worry about not getting this, for all the non-TP readers). There's been some impatience as to who the mysterious cannon was for – will this provide answers? Only one way to find out – read on!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Seven – Doubt Flourishes**

**Night, Day Two**

**Elektra Natchios of District One**

**Written by JGrayzz**

* * *

_"Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free."_

— Jim Morrison

* * *

"Where do you suppose they've gone?"

"I can't really tell," Clint said in a coarse, slightly exhausted, whisper. "Think it's gotten darker. They've put the lights out – I can't tell which room they were in anymore."

"That's what I fear," Thor sighed, standing as still as the towering structures above them in the street. "That it can _only _get darker."

Clint stood beside him, bow drawn in hand, looking down the run-down street with alert eyes.

Once the Careers had spotted the small torch-lights in the distance, they set out at once, descending the stairs faster than they had gone up. None of them wanted to wait any longer than they had to. None of them disagreed. Even Loki, as lazy as the boy seemed, perked up at the thought.

After the spider mutt had attacked them, they knew staying inside any of these forsaken buildings was a death-trap. As Clint had said, there's never only one. If the mutt was any indication, the Gamemakers were getting restless.

They needed action. They needed blood.

And like little blood-hounds, the Careers obliged – off into the night with their swords at the ready. With everything that had transpired, Thor was done waiting around. Thor didn't even have to _say _they needed to leave. They knew what had to be done.

It was easy to tell their morale had improved slightly since they'd spotted the tributes. Despite their feet and muscles still aching, and their throats pleading for a spot of water, they collectively seemed to be imbued with renewed vigour.

And thirty seconds ago, Thor had almost assumed they'd lost track of their prey, as the lights went out in the building before them. Loki immediately tried to persuade his brother into giving up the search, earning him a scolding from Natasha; who politely reminded the impish boy about where they were and what they were doing. And for once, Thor didn't come to his brother's defence.

However, they continued on their way towards the building, confident in their ability to search through every square inch if necessary. No one could hide from the pack, or at least, not for long. The Careers stalked behind like tigers in the grass, on light feet.

And yet, despite Clint's careful eyes, they'd still lost sight of the figures.

"They couldn't have just _disappeared,_" Natasha hissed.

"Well, you never know," Clint said with his characteristic smirk, eyes still narrowed ahead.

Natasha gave him a warning glance – probably the third time she's done so in the last five minutes. Natasha's irritability looked like a permanent shift in her enigmatic personality. Elektra still couldn't quite believe the little red-haired girl had pulled them along on a string the entire time. That her naive, ditsy persona was a mere _ruse _back in the Capitol. Actually, Elektra _could _believe it. She just couldn't believe the switch happened so suddenly.

They were paused behind a collapsed pillar, trying to regain their breathing after the run. Now it was a matter of patience and deliberation. Elektra had a feeling the game of cat and mouse would last the entire night, if they kept it up at this pace, and if they did indeed have to search through the entire building. Her feet were aching and probably blistered from all the constant running, but they were only a few dozen feet away from the building now, even if they'd spend the rest of the day searching every nook and cranny.

Whoever the figures might be, they were definitely not stupid. Choosing to find a place to stay during the night, to set up camp, was definitely the wiser option. In the Avenger Games, nobody wanted to lurk around in the darkness because they were afraid of running into each other – in particular, afraid of running into the Career pack. If you had any degree of common sense, you wouldn't take the risk. These tributes were no different.

"Wait a minute, I think...I think I see them again," Clint mumbled, peeking out over the edge, his sharp eyes somehow picking out movement in the dark windows before them.

"What are they doing?" Natasha rose up on her heels enthusiastically, almost resembling an excited puppy. It was particularly disconcerting to Elektra how the girl managed to stay hyped. Thor lightly brushed Natasha's shoulder, presumably as a warning to calm down.

"They're just...standing there. Talking, I think."

"Well that's _daring _of them, isn't it?" Loki too, peered over the edge of the stone column, tapping his fingers rhythmically along the surface.

Elektra couldn't see anything, but she trusted Clint's word – his eyes were uncommonly sharp, no one could deny. He suddenly snorted to himself. "You see that?"

Thor shook his head. "See what?"

"That one's leg is messed up. See the way they're leaning on it?" Clint pointed at a distant window, and Elektra nodded slightly, even though she actually couldn't see a thing.

"Aye, if that's true, we_ should_ have an easier time." Thor sounded almost unsure.

One thing Clint also noticed was that the figure with the limp was holding a staff of some sort – likely a spear. Interestingly enough, they possessed the largest weapon, or so he said.

Elektra watched Natasha as the girl nervously bit at her finger-nails beside her, her dark eyes focused intensely on the distant figures. And then, a smile lit up the girl's eerily pale face. "Hey, what do you say me and you just run up there and stick 'em. They'll never expect it."

Elektra hesitated. For a moment, she didn't even know the girl was talking to her_._

"_Uh..._Thor probably wouldn't be happy," Elektra murmured, sliding back down behind the rock.

"Thor? Thor _what_? I don't care what Thor thinks. Thor and the others won't be able to catch us if we run fast enough." Natasha raised an eyebrow, tilting her head at Elektra and looking at her for the first time since after she'd killed Wade.

Elektra didn't know what to think. The girl was mad, obviously. Constantly in need of quelling her boredom, constantly complaining, constantly getting into arguments. She'd gone completely mental since the bloodbath. Elektra had only just earned her trust back from Thor after the mutt incident. To break that trust by sprinting over with Natasha would most likely result in Elektra getting her neck personally wrung by Brunhilde. Wasn't even like they could see exactly where the tributes were, after all – Clint was the one who could see them.

Natasha waited for a response, jerking her head as if she actually expected Elektra to agree with her. Elektra's mind searched for some sort of reasonable answer – a valid explanation of why Elektra could not, and would not, spring from their position and compromise their hunt by running over and charging through the building until they found the tributes, and then stabbing them – but was almost frozen in some strange mental stasis. Her mouth moved but nothing seemed to come out. It made her look unbelievably and unnecessarily stupid.

Fate intervened when Clint and Thor began shuffling and whispering quickly. Natasha gave Elektra one last strange look before snorting and scooting back up to peek. Elektra was left feeling very frustrated with herself, as usual.

"Two of them are gone, and where to I don't know exactly..."

"You don't think they spotted us…?" Brunhilde asked.

"I don't see _how. _We've been in the dark this entire time. Unless they've got someone else scouting around..." Clint jokingly looked behind him.

Loki took it seriously, and abruptly turned around, bringing his blade up in defence. Elektra rolled her eyes. As if Loki could actually _use _the damn thing.

"I doubt it. They're not all gone, though. The one with the limp is still up there, by the window," Clint pointed out.

"So pray tell, what…exactly are we going to do now?" Loki smiled up sarcastically at his forlorn brother, who returned the look with a frown.

Thor sighed and tapped his knee in frustration, "I'm not sure." Everyone, including Elektra, glanced at Thor with a blank, hopeless look. And in that moment, Elektra realized just how much the group relied on Thor's word. "Perhaps...we should wait. The other two could have slipped out another entrance – it may be that they've heard us, or say our movement, and are coming to investigate."

"_Forget that. _We can't just sit around all the time," Natasha scoffed, adjusting a lace on her boot. "We're Careers, not a bunch of scared little _sheep_."

"And what do you suggest we do, Natasha? Get up and just _run over _to them? They could have laid down traps, for all we know. The building is a potential minefield," Thor snapped.

Natasha crossed her arms. "Well how would we know if we don't even try?"

Elektra sensed another argument brewing on the horizon between them. Already, Brunhilde looked on-edge, eyes flickering nervously between the two.

Clint chuckled. "Guys, either way we'll have to do _something_. We'll get them, it's just a matter of when."

Brunhilde nodded in agreement. "We can't be too hasty. If we go in, we're not going to see any of the traps they might have set – can we really afford to take that risk? If we wait until they come out during the day, we can ambush them, and take them out safely."

"She's got a good point. They can't stay in there forever. I could pick them off when they come out to hunt, easy," Clint whispered to them.

Thor rubbed the stubble on his chin, deep in thought, until he sprang up. "Well one thing is for certain. As it is, we're too large of a group. If we're going to make our way up, all of us traveling at once will do us no good – we'll make too much noise, and they'll see us coming."

Loki straightened up, more alert. "Are you suggesting we_ split up_?"

Thor nodded. "Aye. Three of us will tread back, see if they've got someone out here tracking us. The other half will stay here and keep watch in case the one in that room leaves."

Loki sank further beneath the column. _"Delightful."_

"I'll stay with Elektra here," Natasha patted Elektra on the arm. "We can keep watch."

Elektra didn't like the sound of that. Elektra didn't like the sound of _anything_ that came out of Natasha's mouth.

Clint, Thor, and Brunhilde made up the first group, somehow believing it would be beneficial for Loki to stay with Natasha and Elektra. Thor probably didn't want the boy holding him back.

Thor saluted at his brother and the three of them carefully trekked back, with their weapons raised. Loki looked...quite uneasy, after the group left, like he was anxious about something. That was a first.

Once she was sure they had left, Natasha smiled coyly at Elektra, scooting back over towards her – so close that her shoulder nudged against Elektra's. "What do you think?"

_Think?_ Elektra raised an eyebrow.

"It's only _one _of them now. All alone out there. And there's _three _of us," Natasha said, illustrating with her fingers.

Loki rushed over towards them – or, more like scooted over on his bottom, nervously biting his lip. "Ladies," Loki said, nodding curtly. "Do we have any ideas?"

"Yeah, here's one. How about you quit being an annoying jackass?" Natasha never once acknowledged Loki's presence, dismissing the boy with a wave of her hand.

Loki frowned and shrugged at Elektra. "I wasn't aware you were in charge..."

Elektra sighed. If it wasn't Natasha disagreeing with Thor, it was Natasha disagreeing with Loki. The only person she hadn't argued with was Elektra, and that's because she never said anything. Elektra didn't have much to say – didn't have much to prove. She was there, and she was thankful. But she'd be just as happy on her own. But if Natasha kept on like this, something was bound to come up between them.

"Well I am now," Natasha mumbled. "I promoted myself."

Loki snorted. "How does that work exactly – promoting yourself?"

Natasha smirked back at the boy. "Come closer and I'll be happy to show you, Loki."

Loki stifled a chuckle with his hand, eyes twinkling in delight as they continued to bicker back and forth, like a little game they played to pass the time.

Elektra didn't bother playing the peace-maker. She was happy to rest her feet and clean her sai, and if that's all they did for the next thirty minutes, then she would contently continue to mind her business. And that's _almost _what happened.

* * *

Abruptly, Elektra was interrupted from her rest by the eager nudging of an elbow on her shoulder.

Natasha again. She leaned forward, a small grin on her doll-like face. "The one with the limp is moving."

Elektra and Loki both reached for their knives, looking at one another as if they had just woken up from a nap.

"What are we doing?" Loki stretched his arms up, yawning.

"We're going after her," Natasha said with barely concealed excitement, already on her feet.

"Uh...pardon?" Loki stood up and crossed over to Natasha, laughing nervously, "We _can't _do that. We don't know that the other two left the building – they could still be up there, for all we know!"

It didn't take a genius to figure out Thor kept Loki here for one reason. And it wasn't to lend a hand. He was here to make sure Natasha wouldn't do anything stupid. What Thor failed to realize is that Natasha didn't answer to anyone.

Natasha shoved Loki away, bending down to retrieve her sword. "Loki, I don't care what Thor said. If we don't go after them, what are we going to say then? That we just let them _go_? What happens if they leave the building and don't come back? What then?"

Loki didn't even have anything to respond with. He looked like Elektra did ten minutes earlier, when her mouth wasn't making any sound. Loki looked to Elektra as Natasha shouldered her backpack.

What would Elektra say to him? _'Sorry Natasha is such a jerk?' _Regardless, they both knew it was true.

Elektra shrugged at the boy, hoping the gesture would suffice and send a meaning. Elektra had nothing to offer him or her. She'd follow because it's all she could do.

Natasha smiled. "We good?"

Elektra looked over at Loki and nodded regardless, "Guess we are."

"Good, let's hurry. We don't wanna lose this one." Natasha leaped over the fallen pillar and started slowly making her way down the rubble-ridden street. Elektra followed close on her heels, while Loki struggled to keep up behind them while carrying his and Clint's pack. The boy was so loud, Elektra could hear his panting and muffled whispers from ten feet ahead. "_This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. Thor will kill me for this."_

Natasha looked back at him and scowled. "Loki, shut the hell up, they're gonna hear us coming. You're gonna blow our cover."

Elektra had to admit, she felt a little sorry for him, constantly getting yelled at by people. Elektra could understand clearly now why Loki had expressed his wishes to leave. Could Loki have been telling the truth after all, when he told her about his plans?

It was difficult to see exactly what room the limping tribute was in, but Natasha seemed confident they could find them. The shadows were their friends, after all. The three hid behind a vehicle as Natasha counted the number of floors to the window where they had seen the shadow, and then nodded slowly to herself.

"It's a girl I think," Natasha whispered.

Elektra nodded. She'd forgotten all but the names of her allies. It _could _be the girl from Five – it seemed about the right height and shape. She remembered seeing her at training, talking with her fair-haired partner. Suppose it didn't matter now what her name was.

The building looked remarkably intact for an arena that was supposed to be rotted and gone. She'd seen a structure like it in the Capitol. The building had a rather large opening in the front, save for half of it being strategically blocked by an overturned van. It looked like a perfect spot to hideout. Easy access, and hidden within the complex concrete jungle that made up the arena.

They were off then, making their way over the van to get into the building, and slowly making their way to the nearest stairwell, creeping along in order to make as little noise as possible. Loki had to keep far behind this time if he wanted to keep quiet, due to the multiple packs he was carrying. The boy previously expressed his fear of the dark, but Natasha didn't offer him much of a choice.

After they had crept up seven floors, Elektra checked behind for Loki, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Had he gotten lost at the last turn?

"Loki-" she began, but Natasha placed her hand gently around Elektra's mouth, warning her to hush, as the noises around them caught up with Elektra's ears. The crept towards a nearby door, in which a glass panel was set, allowing them to peer through into the next room, from which the noise of footsteps was coming from.

Natasha tapped a distracted Elektra's shoulder frantically. "Look at that. It's the two that left earlier. They're talking about something..." She trailed off.

Elektra wished she could hear the exchange, but she guessed the two must have been scouting for somewhere to hide out – perhaps they had only just found the building when their lights had tipped off the Careers? The room in front of them was some sort of large parking garage for vehicles, with several levels, judging by the ramps going up and down at the far side. The pair of tributes were joined by the limping girl that they had been searching for, and made their way up the ramp to the floor above them.

Natasha slowly rose to her feet, following the tributes progress with sharp eyes. "Well, looks like we've found their little camp for the night. They must be keeping to one of the floors of the parking lot. Perhaps they found a truck or something to set up in?"

The girl looked content with herself. Pleased, even. But then something changed vividly in her expression. "Wait a minute. Where's Loki? I thought he was behind us."

Elektra had asked herself the same thing. He _had _beenbehind them just a minute ago. "That's what I was trying to tell you. I don't know. I figured he'd stay behind me."

Natasha cursed. "Moron is always getting lost. This is like the fifth time, isn't it?" Natasha huffed and brushed past Elektra lean against the wall. "We don't need him anyway."

Elektra didn't want to believe_ that_. Elektra was a cynic, but even _she_ could believe that Loki was a central part of the team. "But Thor will," she mumbled.

Natasha heard this, and hopped off the car to corner Elektra. "Well, if Thor wants him so bad then _he_ can find Loki himself. This is _my_ time, and I won't let _anybody_ ruin it for me."

Elektra rolled her eyes and went back to the door, looking through the window and studying the parking garage, in all its shadowy glory. That would be where it ended, and those three tributes didn't even know it. Elektra didn't want to hurt people, and she wouldn't. She never killed anybody who didn't either need or deserve it.

Elektra wasn't a murderer, and wouldn't become one. She'd fight, but anything further would infringe upon her vows – her promise. She would never take that step. She wouldn't have to.

"I'm going to see if I can find Thor. You stay here, keep a lookout on that place." Natasha strode off back the way they'd come, leaving Elektra alone in the corridor.

Elektra threw her pack on the ground, and collapsed to the ground. She had to admit, she was a little terrified of being left alone in the dark.

There was no light. No sound aside for the breeze that drifted past and caused leaves to skitter past and street-signs to rattle, which she could hear through a shattered window only a few feet away. There wasn't a single sound from the parking garage down the street. Not a single whisper that carried itself through the gale.

It was frightening, but this was always how Elektra envisioned it. It was the first time she'd been completely alone since the Capitol. Since prison. It was an interesting preview of the future to come. Elektra knew it would be a matter of time before her allies broke apart and went along their way. She'd hoped when it actually happened, she would be prepared.

There were moments, however, where she almost wished she could take that first step.

Like now, for instance. She could run right now and they would _never_ know where she'd gone. The prospect teased her. She was reminded of Loki's conversation with her about leaving. And just then, for a second, she'd wondered if Loki had done what he said he'd do after all: run free.

The thought surprised her. She couldn't decide if Loki actually had the balls to leave his family's side. At least _he_ could afford to leave. If he left, Thor would forgive him. Brunhilde would probably forgive him. Why? Because they were blood. Well, not maybe not blood, but still _family._ Elektra wasn't afforded that liberty.

If Elektra ran from the Careers, they'd make hunting her down their number-one priority. And then they'd brutally kill her. Funny how much _blood _actually means something, even in a game of death.

In any case, she _did _have a good thing going on here. She had a slip-up, though. A major one at that. But luckily it wasn't enough to get her killed or expelled from the pack. She'd dug her own grave, but narrowly climbed back out. She wouldn't let herself get caught in the same situation again.

The sound of light footfalls travelled across the wind, and she climbed to her feet and instinctively spun around to the glass panel on the door, peeking through to see if one of the tributes were approaching, crouching down with her sai raised. There was no further sound. No further indication anyone was still walking around in the room, and she couldn't see them either.

_Who the hell?_

Silence.

And then more footsteps across the rough pavement. Coming closer, crunching on some rocks near the other side of the door. They were near her. She could hear their heavy breathing.

She found the nerve to slowly peek back down behind her, and saw a figure setting down a pack at the foot of the stairwell she had come up from, before turning and walking up towards. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and she was off. Leaping over the railings, she dropped down on the tribute, and yanked on the left arm of the boy so hard she thought she'd heard a crack.

Her sai nearly pierced the boy's throat as she dragged him back up the rest of the stairs and into the dim light, only to find a terrified Loki staring back up at her – cold sweat dripping down his face.

"_By the gods, _girl it's just me!" Loki squeaked, panting. "You damn near tore my arm from my body!"

_Of course._

Of course it was Loki. Who else would it be?

"Gosh...sorry, sorry..._again_," she apologized, helping him to his feet.

Loki massaged his arm in pain. "Why does this keep happening to me?"

Elektra felt terrible, but mostly embarrassed. It was the second time she'd almost killed Loki. But in her defence, if Loki wasn't so damned quiet, it wouldn't keep happening.

Loki collapsed next to the wall. "Well, at least _now_ I'm convinced you can hurt people."

Elektra went down the stairs and dragged Clint's heavy pack up it, placing it next to Loki and sheepishly apologizing to him. "The three of them are holed up on this floor, in the parking garage through that door over there."

Loki rose to glance at the door she had pointed to. "Ah, so _that's_ where the bastards decided to sleep, eh?" Loki glanced around, his nose scrunched up like he smelled something foul in the air. "And where's the red-head?"

As if on cue, the tall and hunched-over form of Thor pierced the misty haze – carrying his hammer over his shoulder. He didn't look particularly happy, and when he spotted Elektra, sighed loudly through his nose.

Elektra knew she was in for an ear-beating from Thor. It wasn't hard to tell that Natasha was pissed off, judging by the contortion of her eyebrows. Elektra got to her feet as soon as Thor began walking toward her.

Yep. Thor was _definitely_ not happy.

"Elektra?" Thor threw his large backpack to the ground and crossed his arms. "May I ask why you three moved from your post back there?"

Elektra's first instinct was to blurt out that it was all Natasha's fault. She always hated being yelled at, especially for things that she wasn't even responsible for. It made her feel like a child again. She hated being a child. Elektra didn't exactly have a reasonable excuse to offer Thor. Brutal honesty was her go-to, and she was sub-par at best when it came to lying.

Elektra could see Natasha from the corner of her eye, leaning on the other side of the car next to Brunhilde – her head tilted just enough for her left ear to pick up on the conversation. If Elektra blamed the girl, she'd make herself a new enemy.

"I...uh...the girl with the limp started moving. We decided – as a group – that following her was the best option," Elektra said, lightly rubbing her neck.

It wasn't a lie. It was just...bending the truth a bit. Thor paused, his eyes searching for something. "I see," Thor grumbled, shifting away.

Loki studied Thor and Elektra as he nibbled on some sort of dried fruit. Thor scowled. "_Loki_?"

The impish boy smirked innocently as he chewed loudly on the fruit. "Something wrong, brother?"

_He has to be doing it on purpose_, Elektra thought.

Thor massaged his temple and simply pointed in the direction of the stairwell. "Leave us, please?"

Loki obliged with a condescending bow of his head. "Oh, of course, brother. Wouldn't want to get in your _way_."

Thor made sure Loki had actually moved before heading back toward Elektra. "Do not take me for a _fool_, Elektra. I understand that Natasha can be...difficult to work with."

Oh yes. If Elektra were still back home, living in the streets, she would have already assaulted the girl. People like Natasha in District One usually wound up with a broken nose and a warning. That's just how life worked for Elektra. But in a complex situation like this, forced into a box with alliances and a set of rules to follow, things weren't that simple.

"But it's important that we are able to function as a team. We _must_ cooperate. And it's imperative that you listen to everything I say, for _our_ benefit as a team." Thor then placed a comforting hand on Elektra's shoulder. "Right now Elektra, you are one of the few I can trust in this thing_. _And with that said, I also trust that you _would_ tell me if _anything _were to happen that could jeopardize this team."

Thor's smile slowly disappeared, and his grip on Elektra's shoulder became ever-so firm, his words cold and distant. "Wouldn't you, Elektra?"

Elektra half-nodded. "Absolutely."

She understood what he was saying, but there was something hidden beneath his words. Something Elektra couldn't quite put her finger on.

Thor's smile returned, and slid his hand from her shoulder. "Thank you, Elektra."

Thor cleared his throat and gestured at the door to the car-park. "Natasha said this was the place. And all three of them went inside, correct?"

"Yeah, all three," Elektra noted. "They went up a floor, and haven't come down since."

Thor rubbed his grizzled chin in thought. "I would prefer not to just run right in and attack. I fear they might have placed traps along the interior. We have to be _smart _about this. We outnumber them, but we can't rely solely on that. We need to tread carefully."

Thor had a good point. Their strength came in numbers, but any intelligent tribute could find a work-around. It would be difficult for any alliance to take them on with a direct assault, but in that same vein, no tribute would ever be stupid enough to take them on directly anyway. If the Careers fell, it would be because someone was smarter, not stronger.

Clint jogged toward them on light feet, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I used the stairwell to check up the higher floors," he panted. "I couldn't see a _damn_ thing in there. Couldn't hear anything either."

Thor sighed. "And do you think they're inside?"

Clint shook his head. "Well, if they're in there, they sure as hell aren't outside of the parking lot. I checked through pretty much every area."

Thor nodded sternly, bending down to adjust his boots. "Aye. Thank you for that, Clint."

Clint nodded, wiping the sweat off his face with his forearm. "Oh, by the way, the other exit is pretty much a no-go."

"What does that mean?" Thor asked.

"I mean it's blocked off by cars and debris. Nobody can get through there or out unless we squeezed through one by one. We've really only got this _one_ exit to work with." Clint shrugged.

Basically, the trio just screwed themselves by heading up another level. There's only one way back out, and that's the exit into stairwell which led to the main street, where the Careers were currently at. Essentially, this shouldn't be a difficult attack.

Thor, however, as always, looked like he had his doubts. "Interesting. You're sure this is the only way in?"

"Sure as I can be."

Thor slowly began pacing with his hands in his pockets. Elektra was sure it was a nervous habit. Clint, a notorious man of action, gave Thor a strange look. It would have been funny, if it were not for the fact that they were planning out a cold-blooded murder.

"So what d'ya want to do?" Clint asked. "Not really sure what help I'd be in there. Hard to shoot an arrow into somebody's skull with all the cars and pillars and stuff in there, you know?"

"I am _thinking_," Thor snapped.

Clint did a mocking motion with his arms and then started sorting through his backpack, mumbling something about being hungry.

Elektra began to feel slightly nauseous – like a pit had opened in her stomach and was trying to swallow itself up. Maybe it was the nerves of what was to come, or the fact that she didn't know what was going to happen. It didn't matter how much they planned it out. People were going to die and Elektra didn't know how to prepare for it.

It was strange. Elektra had killed a man when she was barely a teenager and felt absolutely nothing about it. And here she was, two years later, killing again and she _should_ feel no different. But the problem was that she _did_.

And there _was_ a distinction. The man she killed deserved to die.

These people – these _kids – _they didn't do anything to her. She'd probably never even met them before. And maybe not knowing their name was supposed to make it easier. But damn, she couldn't see how.

At least she could say that if they died, it wouldn't be her who did it. It wouldn't be her.

The best thing about being a Career was that she didn't have to put in the work. She could look the part, and act the part, but she didn't have to play. And she was alright with that.

"Alright, we shall try this. Elektra, you and Natasha will block the ramp they went up in the parking lot, while Brunhilde, Loki, and I will ascend it," Thor ordered. "What happens from there...I suppose we'll make this up as we go along."

Elektra was almost taken aback by that one.

Clint paused in the middle of examining his arrow cache, "Hey, what about me?"

Thor looks like he forgot Clint was even there. "You can stay out here and...do your thing. Just in case they get past us."

Clint pursed his lips. "'Do my thing'. Sure, Thor, whatever you say."

Thor quickly bent to retrieve his steel war-hammer, and examined his backpack before throwing it back to the ground. "We will leave our supplies here. They'll only serve to slow us down."

They hastily armed themselves with the weapons they had, abandoning their packs near the door. Thor suggested they borrow one of Natasha's throwing knives in case they lose their weapon and need a back-up.

Overall, the morale was high, but the air was thick with foreboding.

Elektra knew whatever happened, by the end of the night, someone would die. Clint even said it would be a miracle if all of them survived. That was the hardest part about it. As Elektra held her blades, she felt like there was a hurdle in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried to cross it, she kept falling backward.

In the moments before they made their way into the parking garage, the feeling of dread was the most palpable she'd ever experienced. She was in a gang. She'd killed someone. But it never felt like _this_.

* * *

"Elektra, Natasha, where are you at?" Thor whispered harshly.

Natasha was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Elektra – something she appeared to enjoy doing these days. "Right here!" she hissed.

Elektra couldn't help but notice that Thor was trembling slightly. As Thor went over to pat Elektra on the shoulder, she also noticed the ghost-white of his face. It's like all the colour had been drained.

The mighty Thor – their brutish leader – was _scared. _Huh.

Loki was worse. The boy's face was so deathly pale, she thought she could see right through it. He was clutching on to that dagger of his like you would a life-line. If he were to let go, she wondered what would happen. Brunhilde was no different, but hid her emotions well behind that stoic mask.

Thor took a moment to examine the entry-ramp, which was partially covered by the metal husk of an upside-down van. There was plenty space to get inside, but beyond that, Elektra saw nothing but blackness – darker than the very night itself.

Thor made a signal at Clint, who stood by the door they had come though, his bow in his hands, and waved back to them. There was a motion, and then a quiet exchange of words between Thor and Brunhilde.

Thor nodded at each of them. "Follow me," he commanded. And then, without a second glance behind, slipped through the dark abyss.

It was time.

Elektra didn't count the seconds, or the minutes. She was just waiting for the screams. The horrific shouts. The clanging of swords or the marching of feet.

But all she could hear was Natasha as she breathed loudly, conspicuously pacing around, twirling her short-blade around like a wind-mill. Elektra didn't want to spark a conversation with the hot-head. She truly didn't. She wanted nothing to do with her. Being around Natasha made Elektra anxious – like at any moment the girl was going to snap.

"Such bull, isn't it?" Natasha muttered aloud.

Elektra rubbed her temple with fatigue. "What is it, Natasha?"

The red-head stopped dead in her tracks, and then raced toward Elektra, stopping inches in front of Elektra's face. Her forest-green eyes were blood-shot and unshakably cold. She looked menacing, with that cocky little half-smile. She looked insane. She would have managed well in the cage.

"You wanna know what my problem is?" She asked. "_This. _Thor expects me to just stand here like a watch-dog while he gets all the action? How is _that _fair?"

"Then why don't you go in, Natasha?" Elektra responded with agitation. She didn't mean for it to slip out. But she had grown tired of the girl's hiss-fits – her constant whining and arguing. She'd had enough.

But she knew as soon as it escaped her lips, that she'd made a mistake.

If anyone was going to take something like that as a challenge, Natasha would. She just wanted an excuse. Simply put, Natasha only needed _one_ match to light her fuse.

Elektra was that match.

"You know what? That's the smartest thing I've heard you say all night, Elektra." Natasha brushed past Elektra with a grunt and stormed up the ramp, into the higher levels of the parking garage.

And there Elektra stood alone in the dark like a stick in the mud. Luckily, Clint didn't notice. He seemed to be more preoccupied in fiddling with his bow than monitoring the entrance.

In a state of momentary panic, Elektra decided it was better to follow Natasha up the ramp than to get caught in the crossfire when the hunt went down.

Elektra only waited a few seconds longer, making sure Clint wasn't looking and then grit her teeth and headed up.

_Damn you, Natasha._

Elektra didn't think it was possible for dark to get any darker, but it did. At least the Gamemakers had the decency to provide moon-light outside, but _this _was just ridiculous.

Elektra didn't know where Thor was. She didn't see another ramp anywgere, and her allies could have gone anywhere in the garage. Elektra stuck out her arms to feel around, but never hit anything. She couldn't tell if there were cars in there, and if there were, she was afraid of triggering an alarm.

She probably looked like an idiot, flailing her arms around with knives in her hands. Night-vision goggles would have most certainly helped. She could have sworn Loki said something about having night-glasses in his pack. Knowing Loki, he probably would have thrown them away.

Suddenly, she felt her arm being yanked in one direction by a firm, sweaty grip. "So you decided to join me, huh?" Natasha's familiar raspy voice whispered in her ear.

"What the hell?" Elektra protested. She felt herself getting shoved against a cement wall, and light fingers being pressed against her lips.

"_Shut up_. Clint screwed up – there _is _another exit, leading to another stairwell on the other side of the building," Natasha whispered, her fierce green eyes gleaming from the soft light of the moon.

"Either _we're_ gonna climb up, or _they're_ gonna climb down," Natasha said, her grip still locked tight on Elektra's wrist as they pressed against the wall, leading her to the exit that their prey had presumably climbed up.

Elektra had no choice at this point. She felt like she was being detained against her will by a maniac, and that's essentially what Natasha was at this point.

Neither Elektra or Natasha made a sound. Thor and the others were somewhere nearby, presumably, but she couldn't hear a single thing aside from the rapid-fire beating of both their hearts. The adrenaline was causing the hairs to stand up on Elektra's arm.

It must have been seconds, but it felt like hours as they stood there against the wall.

Until finally, just as Elektra had stabilized her breathing, the shouting began up above.

Thor must have found them. Or they found Thor.

The shouting got closer and closer, until the first of heavy footfalls began to echo down the stairwell.

Natasha instantly released her grip from Elektra's wrist and turned toward her, a wild look in her eyes. "You ready?"

Elektra nodded – her mouth clamped shut from the nerves – and the two swivelled around the corner, facing the ascending stairwell with their blades raised.

A very young, dark-skinned girl skidded to a halt when she saw them – nearly tripping over her own feet – half-way down the steps. The girl quickly tried to climb back up, but must have seen one of the Careers closing in from above.

The girl was trapped in the middle, and _defenceless._

Elektra felt the first pangs of sympathy hit her heart. As Elektra and Natasha climbed the staircase, all she could think about was how she was going to let herself watch as a young girl was brutally murdered before her.

But then, the girl did something Elektra never expected.

She extended her arm, closed her eyes, and threw a _punch_ at them – or more like – threw a punch at Elektra. The poor girl was so short that her fist never even reached Elektra's face, and Natasha's first instinct was of course to _laugh_.

Despite the miss, the girl wasn't going to give up easily. And as Elektra was so sure the kid was a goner, she tried something else.

Spinning around wildly, the girl extended her leg and dove down at the both of them.

The kick was so quick, so totally _unexpected, _that Elektra nearly dropped her sai to cover her chest in defence. Surprisingly, the girl's foot made contact, hitting Elektra square on her arms. The force wasn't enough to knock Elektra down the steps, but it sent her reeling to the side, giving the young girl a small opening to escape as she landed to the floor on all-fours.

_Damn, that kid doesn't play around._

Elektra had to give her props for that one. Elektra had thrown hundreds of similar kicks in her lifetime, but never so off-the-cuff. For the most part, it would have been a good kick if she hadn't been missile-diving down a stairwell. It was until then, that Elektra realized the girl may not have necessarily been aiming for anything except the ground. It was a last-ditch effort to escape, and the girl decided to take the chance.

Natasha flashed Elektra a look of anger before spinning around and lunging back down at the young girl with her blade. Natasha's strike was so fluid and powerful that she would have knocked her head clean off if the young girl hadn't been so short and light on her feet.

Elektra noticed the number 'Eleven' patched onto a sleeve of the young girl's jacket. Elektra vaguely remembered her from the Capitol; the youngest tribute this year.

_She's that young kid they called 'Ro' from District Eleven. Thor killed her partner in the Bloodbath... Looks like she's found herself an alliance._

Before Elektra could feint at Ro, Natasha was suddenly sent head-first into the ground beside her.

The Career went down with a guttural curse, followed by the stronger voice of an older girl running past. "Shoulda' watched your back."

Elektra merely caught a glimpse of Natasha as she climbed to her feet, and the once-pretty face of the hot-headed Career looked absolutely brutalized. A waterfall of blood gushed from her crooked nose, and fresh cuts resembled stitches scattered over her cheeks and near her mouth. Whatever Ro's ally had done to injure Natasha, it was effective enough to break Natasha Romanoff's nose.

Natasha spat out blood from her mouth as she got to her knees, and wiped her nose with her forearm, pausing only to briefly study the trauma before cursing and rising to her feet.

The image of a furious Natasha, realizing that an outlier had broken her, would be ingrained in Elektra's mind for a long time.

Snapping back to the present, Elektra quickly regained her composure and followed the shadowy forms of the trio. The chase began as Ro's alliance managed to slip through a hidden exit – Clint had missed that one as well. Angry, panicked shouts reverberated through the garage. It felt like absolute chaos. The Careers followed closely, and all of it was a blur as Elektra sprinted and met back up with Clint near the exit.

"Clint, they're running. You missed an exit. Thor and the rest are following. We can still catch them," she explained through pants.

Clint nodded and the two were off, speeding down the street and around the corner of the building. Clint cursed and mumbled something about forgetting his arrows. It seemed Clint was forgetting everything as of late.

"Forget the arrows! Just keep running!" Elektra shouted.

Elektra was fast enough that she could see Thor just ahead, and continued sprinting forward. She would have passed out from the exhaustion had her adrenaline not been pumping through her body.

She didn't know where the trio was going, and it didn't seem like they had a clear idea either. The girl with the limp was clearly falling behind, and Elektra could tell Ro and the boy were trying everything they could to assist her, despite how much faster they wanted to run.

_The limping girl is really slowing them down._

There were no more turns until the next block, and with the Careers edging closer, it wouldn't be long before they would bring them down.

And then, suddenly, without warning, the limping girl slowed to an abrupt stop.

It seemed that Ro and the boy hadn't even noticed until a second later, and by then, they were much too far ahead. The girl shrugged off her backpack and threw it down the street to them.

Elektra could hear the boy shouting at her in the distance. "Carol, what are you doing?"

_That's right. Carol. Carol Danvers. The shy girl from the interviews._

Elektra stopped in her tracks, taking a quick glance behind her and seeing her allies gathering, drawing their weapons as they approached, like a pack of wolves, or jackals – just staring at the helpless prey in front of them.

Steve dragged Ro away by the arm down the street. The boy never even looked back at his partner, and Ro was shouting – maybe crying, as they walked from the scene and out of view.

They had gotten lucky. For them, they would live another day. But poor Carol Danvers, armed with a spear and nothing else, would be fighting for her life.

A single tear rolled down Carol's face, but the girl's features were set in a determined scowl.

She was going to fight until her very last breath.

And what a fight it would be.

Carol twirled her spear with ferocity as Brunhilde, Thor, and Elektra stepped forward, tactfully moving from side to side as the three Careers moved in. Carol may have been a girl of few words, but there was enough to indicate in her stance and her movements, that she had done some training in her life.

Brunhilde made no effort to toy with the girl, and thrust forward with her blade. Carol quickly side-stepped and pierced the girl's shoulder with the edge of the spear. Somehow, Brunhilde must have been exhausted enough that she couldn't dodge in time; the blade made contact, tearing the fabric and slicing the outer layer of the Career's skin.

Brunhilde yelped and moved backward, while Thor surged forward, only for Carol to ward off Thor's careful assault with another flurry. Clint came up beside Elektra, using a dagger to slash at Carol – but the girl once again moved back. She held herself well, despite being out-numbered.

"Come on, then! Do what you're gonna do! Finish it!" Carol shouted at them, twirling her spear.

None of them said a word. They were silent in that moment. A silence so strong that it was ear-deafening. After all, what would they have said?

As Carol grew tired, it could be assumed that her ankle must have been causing immense pain for her. Her breaths were sharp and ragged, her posture very much affected. And the more Carol stepped back, the more it seemed the Careers got closer, jaunting at the girl with wicked slices that only missed by mere centimetres.

And as if the shadows themselves were alive, a pale arm wrapped itself around Carol's neck from behind, while a blade pressed against her throat. It happened so quickly that Carol didn't have much time to react.

In the silence, Elektra could just about make out the words that came from the assailant's mouth.

_"You shoulda' watched your back."_

Carol closed her eyes and smiled bitterly. "_Cowards,_" she said faintly.

The wicked blade sliced across her throat like margarine, swiftly and mercilessly. Carol slumped to the ground in a heap, her cannon ringing off across the midnight sky.

Carol Danvers was dead.

Natasha let the blood-soaked blade fall carelessly to the ground, stepping over Carol's body without sparing a single glance at her stunned allies.

Elektra felt utterly sick to her stomach as a pool of crimson slithered down the pavement toward her feet. Clint's eyes were vacantly caught in the head-lights, an undefined expression on his sweat-drenched face.

The entire scene was horrific, and Elektra couldn't bear looking any longer than she needed to.

It wasn't just the gore, or the nature of what they'd done. But somehow, Elektra felt responsible for Carol's death, despite not being the catalyst, she sure felt like one. She'll never forget the look Carol had in her eyes as she watched the Careers prowl around her like a pack of bloodthirsty animals. And to Carol, Elektra was one of them.

She didn't know if she wanted to be.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**


	59. Chapter 58: Angels and Demons

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with the next update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we return to the shenanigans of Tony Stark, written as always by Taila-tai. Gonna keep this short and sweet, because I'm sure you can't wait to get into this one!**

**A big thanks to I-OfTheHawk, sailorraven34 and Idalove2read for their reviews! Glad to see you guys are torn up after that last chapter, but it's only going to keep getting worse!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Eight – ****Angels and Demons**

**Morning, Day Three**

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

_"That was one plus about profound self-loathing. Nobody could hate you worse than you hated yourself."_

– Franeine Pascal

* * *

From what his mind could remember, it was an amber liquid that held an almost metallic taste in its depths. It was a torturous burning taste that left an agonizing trail of pain along your throat once you'd finally managed to swallow. The sensation was something akin to swallowing fire or acid, but the human race continued to consume the beverage nonetheless.

It was Tony's educated guess though, that they only continued because of the pain numbing qualities it possessed. Once you got past the burning in your gullet, you realised that the pain in your heart was lessening. You realised that it was easier to breathe, to live, to walk down the street with your head held high. Everything was just easier.

One pain to counter another.

How ironic.

"What's with the wistful look?"

Blinking at the demand, Tony looked up in confusion. "Oh, uh, it's nothing," he brushed aside, forcing himself to adopt a lighter expression as he met bright eyes. "How's your shoulder?"

Sin narrowed her eyes, a muscle in her cheek twitching in annoyance. "Don't change the subject," she scolded, sighing through her nose. "Now, what the _hell_ is with the look? And would you stop... It's giving me a chest ache."

Breathing out a small laugh, Tony nodded once. "You have my sincerest apologies," he teased before the smile turned slightly bitter. "I guess, it's just... I could really go for a glass of whiskey right about now."

"You drink?" Sin questioned, shifting in curiosity.

The ground beneath his feet was suddenly a whole lot more interesting then he remembered it ever being. The never-ending sea of cracks and chips in the ancient concrete seemed like the perfect escape from the brutal reality he was living. In fact, it was easy to leave that reality behind as he followed the cracks until they broke the water's surface, travelling down in the murky depths. He could easily fall into that god forsaken water and follow the cracks until he couldn't anymore.

_Do it._

Tony blinked.

"I don't drink..." he allowed. "It's more like a tic. An arrogant and self destructive tic admittedly, but a tic nonetheless."

Sin seemed suspicious but nodded, her mouth open in silent understanding before she frowned. "I guess you could afford it then? It's quite expensive where I come from," she admitted, chuckling dryly and without humour.

Tony attempted to laugh with her and keep up appearances but his voice fell flat. "Yeah, I guess we could afford it. I mean, _Dad_ could and always would put money aside for it..." Once again, his voice seemed to die before he was able to finish, leaving him with a hanging maw and lost eyes.

"Your dad practically ran your district right?" Sin asked next, smiling weakly when chocolate eyes peeked up at her through dark lashes. "I mean, he ran the main electrical centre or whatever..."

Tony felt his lips tug up at the corners, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips. "_Or whatever,"_ he went with, shaking his head. "Yeah, dad was in charge of most of it... I was his heir. When he retired, or when I reached proper age – whichever came first – I was going to take it over." He hummed low in this throat, the sound short. "But I guess the only business I'll be running is here in these sewers."

"You don't have to work from home," Sin joked, gesturing to the dirty and dripping walls around her with a vaguely waved hand. "Get yourself an office somewhere nice."

Despite her lightly spoken words, Tony couldn't help but correct her. "Business men don't have homes. They have long hours instead, leaving their families at home to wonder when they'd walk through the door."

Sin's smile wavered. "I'm sensing a hint of bitterness there..."

Snorting, Tony pawed at his material covered thighs, his features twisting. "That's probably cause there's more than the healthy dose of bitterness hiding there," he admitted, the expression on his face darkening.

"My father was always at work because the business needed him. It needed him to work twenty four hours, seven days a week because it couldn't run itself the way it was designed too. It needed him to disappear for days at a time. It needed _him_," he ground out, his fingers grasping some dark cotton and morphing into a fist.

"I always thought that a family came first? If the child and mother needed the father, then he should be there... He shouldn't be drinking himself into oblivion while claiming to be fixing some stupid error in shipping."

His jaw was beginning to ache from the way he ground his teeth together, each movement sending pinpricks of pain through the tense muscles. But, the worst part was that compared to the steadily growing pain in his chest it was nothing.

"A family is _important,"_ Tony finished with a harsh intake of breath, his gaze flying across the small space and falling onto a still body. "A family is what cries when you cry, laughs when you laughs, mourns when you leave. A family..." he forced another chuckle, rubbing a hand over his nape. "I don't even know what a family is."

Sin remained silent, not seemingly moved by the speech but showing respect by falling into silence. Her eyes darted around the small space, landing on the unmoving body as well, but instead of continuing to stare like her partner, she looked away instantly, face growing pale. "Tony, I...We really need to move places, yeah?" she offered limply.

Tony nodded, continuing to stare at the body, still and silent, only a few feet from him. "Not yet," he decided firmly. "I need to do something."

Sin managed to follow his eyes without flinching, a sigh leaving her lips. "Tony, we can't waste time with stupid menial tasks–"

"She was a _human being,"_ Tony cut in sharply, glaring as strongly as he dared at the other teenager. "She doesn't deserve to rot down here."

Blinking calmly, Sin forced herself to her feet with a grunt. "Fine," she snapped. "But when you die Stark, I'm not going out of my way for you. Or your corpse."

"I don't expect you too," Tony admitted, already moving towards the cold body with the intent of moving it aboveground. He didn't bother looking over his shoulder as he crouched low next to the body, staring down at it with sorrow filled eyes. "This is a game of win or lose... If I get the short straw there's not much I can do about it."

Sin snarled, moving away from the scene of the crime and humming to herself as she wandered alongside the water. Listening to her footsteps fade, Tony tried to gather enough courage to touch the body he had wronged, hands hovering above the cooling skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hanging his head as he closed those last few inches. He resisted a shudder when his hands touched the clammy skin of the dead female, instead hefting her up into his arms instead. "I'm so sorry..."

Lifting the bo–_Wanda _in his arms bridal style, Tony lumbered over to the nearest entrance. It was difficult going, his eyes being constantly drawn to the blank ones staring up at him unseeingly. He stumbled and tripped over air, but held his grip and her stare, allowing her to lead him around like a puppet on strings even in death.

"I didn't mean to do it... I..." Tony slumped his head, carefully carrying her body from the sewers onto the crack pavement covering them. "I'm sorry..."

She didn't answer him as he crouched; lowering her body as gently as humanly possible. Her head lolled slightly, eyes finally breaking from him and going to stare down the empty streets with a vague glint. He was immensely grateful for the loss and sighed in relief, going to sit back on his haunches.

He had heard, sometime ago, that dead bodies were meant to look peaceful; like an angel had carried them off in their sleep. He remembered asking his mother about it, once upon a time. Asking it if were true that the angels took their fallen warriors back into heaven when the time was right. She had agreed with her usual smile, beginning to weave stories of angels and demons into his usual bedtime stories.

She spoke of the vigilant angels; pure warriors that fought to the last and protected each other and the ones whom were lucky enough to be the objects of their affections. She would weave stories with her graceful gestures and trilling voice, and he would lap them all up.

But she also spoke of demons.

She hadn't spoken in faith or religion; only labelling the good guys and the bad guys in a way that didn't link to anything else. The angels were the good guys, and the demons were the bad guys. It was simple. If you were taken by the good side, it was because it was your time, and as much as it hurt your loved ones it was the way the story had to end.

But if you were taken by the side of the bad; it was through sin, as she would say. Greed, wrath, gluttony... Those were the things – the reasons without reason – that made the demons steal people away from their loved ones.

That was what scared Tony now. Wanda didn't look peaceful.

She didn't look as though the angels had taken her home, showering her in love and affection. No, she looked like the other side had instead. It looked as though she had fought and tried to claw her way back into life; losing her sanity and grip on reality in the meantime.

Had he really done that to a child? A young girl no older than eighteen? Someone, who like him, had a family at home, to love and adore her?

Had he _truly_ murdered someone in cold blood?

When he felt something cold on his cheek, he couldn't help but look up, expecting to find that the dark clouds had finally released their pressure. He hadn't expected to realise it was him. Lifting one shaking hand, he pawed at his cheek, eyes widening at the wetness he found there and the absent burning in his throat.

This burn, it was different from the alcohol though. There was no sweet relief after this burn, nothing to make the aching throat worthwhile. This was agony; pure and untainted.

"I'm sorry," Tony gushed out again, blinking in the realisation that cameras were no doubt watching him. "I'm sorry I took her away from you..."

Wanda was still and silent before him and he moved back, not finding it within himself to stand, but instead scuttling across the dirtied ground. Her family would be in mourning right now, screaming at the cameras in loss and begging for their daughter to be returned to them. Her family was in an agony quite like his, but they were driven by love instead of guilt.

_What did I do?_ Tony thought to himself, looking down at the very hands that had taken a life. _How did I manage to take another life? Am I truly capable of that?_

Unable to help himself, he continued muttering, holding his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."

* * *

_Smoothing down the blankets before pulling them up to her son's chin, Maria managed a smile. "Happy now?" she questioned, sighing lightly. "You need to sleep sweetheart, it's a big day tomorrow."_

_Tony sent her an innocently suspicious glare. "Tomorrow's Monday," he accused before settling further into his cocoon of blankets. "And... I don't understand. You said the angels were the good guys. Why would they take people from their families then?"_

_Maria brushed a stray lock of chocolate from her son's forehead. "Because it's their time baby," she murmured softly. "And it's an angel's job to make sure they get to the afterlife safely."_

"_So they _are_ the good guys?"_

_A rich chuckle left her throat. "Yes, they are," she promised, leaning down to press a warm kiss against his temple. "Night, baby boy..."_

_Smiling once more, she stood to leave, making sure to smooth down her skirt before moving to leave with graceful steps. As her hand reached out to grasp the brass doorknob a small voice cut into her thoughts, the mere whisper managing to make her halt and turn back._

"_What about the bad guys then?" Tony questioned quietly, his eyes downcast. "If there are goodies, then there are always baddies," he informed the older woman with a childlike wisdom._

_Maria nodded in acceptance, moving back towards the child with an air of thought. "Ahh, now why didn't I think of that," she mused, smiling widely. "So you wanna know who the bad guys are?" At the boy's enthusiastic nod, she pursed her lips. "Can you tell me what the bad guys are usually like?"_

_Tony sighed but sat up nonetheless, his youthful impatience endearing. "The bad guys are the ones who do the bad things mum, like the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, or the evil queen from Snow White," he spoke firmly and sure of himself, smiling once his mother looked his way. "That's what the bad guys are usually like; giving out poisoned apples or eating people's grandmothers..."_

"_Eating peoples..." Maria felt her brows shoot up before she chuckles again. "Okay so in the world of black and white, good and bad, alive grandmas and eaten grandmas...If the angels were the good guys, then the demons would have to be the bad," she deduced, nodding once she said it out loud. "How does that sound?"_

_Her son hummed low in his throat. "So if the angels take the people away because it's their time, why do the demons do it?"_

_Maria stopped, the smile slipping from her face as she looked towards her only son. "The demons do it because of sin; they do it because of greed, wrath..." The older woman looked away in discomfort, unsure if her son knew the depth of the question he'd asked. "There are many different reasons why the demons might take someone away Tony, and none of them are reason enough. To be a demon, a bad guy, is to be lost. Inhuman."_

_Tony had gone off to his own world sometime during her words and came back with a harsh gasp. "The bad guys don't sound nice... But they always have a reason to do it. Like the good guys!"_

_Maria started back, turning to stare down the child. "A reason?" she echoed. "A reason without reason isn't a noble cause, son."_

"_No, I mean... The wolf was hungry," he argued, brow creasing. "If I was hungry, I would want to eat. I don't know if I'd eat someone's grandmother, but I'd get desperate over time, I suppose..."_

_Staring down at her son, Maria shook her head. "Promise me one thing sweetheart," she began slowly, reaching out to touch his brow. "Be whoever you want to be, whatever you want to be. Love who you want, and hate who you must... But promise me, that you'll never be the bad guy."_

_Tony blinked doubtfully, smothering a yawn before he cracked a smile. "I promise," he announced, reaching out one chubby hand and stretching out one finger. "Pinkie promise," he added, wiggling the digit purposefully._

_His mother giggled and wrapped her own little finger with his own, shaking once. "There, now you can never break your promise," she reminded him, brushing the same stray lock away from before. "You look more like a prince charming to me anyhow... Now, sleep mister! Tomorrow may only be Monday, but we both know how those days seem to suck the life out of everyone..."_

_Tony smiled, snuggling further into his blankets. "Night mummy," he murmured once, his eyes slipping close of his own accord._

* * *

It took him longer than he cared to admit to wander back into the sewers, and as he stalked forward he could feel her watching him; eyes sharp and unforgiving. Sin was, no doubt, looking for something but he'd hidden it well; his tears lost in the dust beside _her_ body or soaked into his jacket lapels. He wasn't about to give her the ammunition.

"Took you long enough..." Sin commented airily, glancing behind him briefly once he was at her side. As soon as she met his eye though, she turned studious yet again. "What the hell were you doing up there anyway?"

Shrugging, Tony made a noncommittal sound. "I made sure she was picked up," he defended with another awkward shrug. "There was no chance of it happening while she was in the sewers and you know it. I had to take her above ground."

Sin snorted, shaking her head in clear disapproval. "Sentiment will get you nowhere," she pointed out, frowning as he began to walk away from her. "You didn't _need_ to take her up, you_ wanted _too."

"Her family deserves the closure," Tony snapped, grinding his teeth in an attempt to hold back harsher words. "Would you prefer your family and friends watch you die only to never receive a body? Even you can't be that harsh."

She managed to snort yet again, her form adopting a smug stance. "I don't plan on dying, Stark," she reminded the boy, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I thought you would've learnt that by now."

Tony didn't know why her words made him laugh, or why the smirk that settled over his features afterwards felt so needed. "Oh, that's cute," he chortled, beginning to walk yet again. "You make it seem like you're getting out of here alive."

"I am."

"Are you?" Tony shot back, turning sharply on his heel and crossing his arms. "Enlighten me as to what makes you so goddamn sure," he demanded.

Sin was glaring; her eyes screaming what would happen if he pushed her any further. "I have the necessary skill and – "

"A useless arm," Tony finished, gesturing to the injured shoulder. "It's never going to be the same again, I hope you know. It'll always give out a little sooner, and ache a little more than the other. All because you were too _stupid_ to watch your own back!" Returning her glare, Tony rolled back onto his heels, another laugh leaving him. "Skill isn't everything Sin, and soon you're going to learn that."

He turned after sending her a meaningful look, beginning to walk with a bored ease. His partner was right after all; they needed to find new ground and hopefully a more defendable position before more people came in search of survivors or the Game Maker grew bored of them. He hated to see what they'd send out next should they fail to entertain the masses.

"Did you just threaten me, Stark?"

The cold words made him chuckle again – _Is this was insanity feels like? – _but he didn't turn, instead lifting a hand in a wave. "Did I?" he questioned, moving forward again. "Come on, I wanna find a more defendable position and maybe something to eat. I'm starved."

It took a few more steps before he heard the woman begin to catch up, shuffling behind him. Absently he shifted the pack on his back, remembering the blade nestled safely inside before he smiled.

_Skill isn't everything._

* * *

Oh, it was heaven. Pure heaven.

He continued to babble as he moved, going from console to console with a goddamn skip in his step. The long walk towards their goal had steadily lost the tension he'd caused, and by now, Sin was laughing openly at his childish actions.

"I can rig this all; we'll have cameras... Oh, are those flood gates?" he murmured absently, already beginning to tap away at dirtied keyboards. "Maybe... Self defence mechanism. I can set up the cameras so that if anyone comes our way, we'll see them and after that..."

Sin shook her head in amusement, rolling her shoulder as she stood off to the corner. "Is there anything I can do?" she questioned, moving closer and peering over his shoulder. "Not that I know anything about what you're doing."

Tony grinned over his shoulder; guilt and lingering sanity forgotten. "Food?" he asked hopefully, blowing dust and spider-webs off a console before stretching. "This may take me a little while... So wanna go on a rat hunt?"

"A rat hunt?" she deadpanned. "You wanna eat rat?"

Hesitating, Tony shrugged. "Got any better ideas?"

When the woman didn't answer, he offered her another grin before shooting off to tap away at another console with light fingers. The screen screamed at him in wired garbles, causing him to nod in sympathy as he soothed the abused mechanics. "Damn, look what time does," he hissed, running his fingers over the screen and clearing more dust. "Dirties bloody everything..."

As his partner disappeared, muttering something about killing the _stupid rodents of unusual size_, he began to clean away the filth layered on by the passing years. All the consoles had to be wiped down, allowing him to finally see the keys and screens hidden behind dust and age. He didn't bother with the rest of the room – if Sin didn't want to sleep with the spiders, that was her problem – and pushed himself under the desk, already peering at the frayed and damaged wiring.

"Huh, this isn't that old," he realised, tugging at a few loose cables. A few came loose in his hands and he winced, making sure no one caught him. "Whoops..."

Wanda and Pepper managed to fall to the back of his mind as he worked, and for once he didn't need the burn of alcohol to achieve the numbness. He talked absently to himself as he went about, tugging and pulling before cutting apart and tying back together and soon _all_ thought fell from his mind.

He wasn't in the Avenger Games. He wasn't probably hours from death. He was Tony Stark. A genius in the age of idiots.

He didn't have to worry that any second now someone could come in with the blade or bullet that would end his life. He didn't have to worry that even if he was to survive, he would never be truly alive again. That even if lady luck spared his life, he wouldn't be the same.

When the screens brightened, and the engines roared to life, Tony cheered. It was an achievement amongst failures and he was sure to brag once his partner returned, carrying their belated meal. It only took a few hours after that; to learn the programmes before changing them for the better. Sin would talk with him, not seeming to mind that his answers were vague and often short, or she would sleep, falling silent and allowing him to work.

It was bliss; forgetting it all.

Once the screens began to blur, Tony realised he needed to sleep. The computers and cameras would sound an alarm should they catch movement so he was allowed the luxury he needed.

Forcing himself up from the creaking seat, Tony swore under his breath as his back ached from being hunched over a monitor. "Ouch, dammit, crap..." he limped over to where his companion slept, her head cradled by her jacket. Smiling weakly, he settled himself a few feet from her, using his own pack as a pillow and preferring to keep the jacket on.

"Night Sin," he muttered half-heartedly, closing his eyes and staring into the beautiful blankness of his mind.

_Promise me one thing sweetheart. Be whoever you want to be, whatever you want to be. Love who you want, and hate who you must... But promise me, that you'll never be the bad guy._

His eyes shot open.

_Damn._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**


	60. Chapter 59: Flies and Spiders

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with the latest update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we return to Kate Bishop and robbiepoo2341. As always, robbie knocks it out of the park – but hey, we're used to that at this point, aren't we?**

**A big thanks to I-OfTheHawk and sailorraven34 for their reviews – as I've said before, it's great to hear what our readers are thinking. Hell, it's great just to know we have readers, and I'm so glad that you're enjoying our fic.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Nine – Flies and Spiders**

**Night, Day Three**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

"_Old fat spider spinning in a tree! Old fat spider can't see me! Attercop! Attercop! Won't you stop, stop your spinning and look for me?"_

– J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit_

* * *

It was quiet.

Kate pulled her knees up underneath her, resting her chin on them as she carefully poked at what was left of their fire. She had a can of pears beside her and was roasting them, still thinking about what they'd just seen.

_Giant spiders._

She knew, of course, that they'd have to face something like that eventually. Mutts. But she hadn't thought it would be so…so…

She sighed again, absentmindedly pushing the hilt of her still-sticky and web-covered knife with her foot. She hardly looked up when Logan returned from his self-appointed patrol to search for any remaining spiders.

Kurt was lying nearby, curled up on their attempt at a bed. He and Kate had opened up her sleeping bag so that it was more of a puffy blanket. That way, two people could sleep semi-comfortably at once. He seemed tired, but he kept his eyes on Kate, watching her for a while before, at last, he ventured a quiet, "You should get some sleep. It's Logan's turn to play lookout." His voice was soft and soothing.

"I know," Kate said, glancing over at Logan, who was still and silent and gave no indication that he was listening. But she just kept right on roasting her pear. "Just…give me a bit to calm down, okay? I'll be fine, really."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Kurt."

Kurt smirked, then sighed and turned over.

The minutes passed, and Kate had roasted three pears over the tiny fire before she finally broke the silence. (After all, even scared and tired, she had never been good with awkward silences).

"You know," she said to no one, chewing on a bit of crispy, canned pear. "I think this is actually _much _better than the pear crisps we had back home. Daddy always sprang for those cinnamon-covered things, and they were always too sweet — didn't have enough taste to balance out all the added sugar."

"Our cook never went wild on the sugar. She used to go crazy with the whipped cream, though." Logan's low rumble almost startled into dropping her pear creation.

She glanced over at Kurt, who, she was pleased to see, looked just as surprised as she did. "I thought whipped cream was a luxury. I mean, at least, it is in Twelve," she said slowly, wondering just how bad things were in District Twelve if regular kids in other districts could eat things she only had at big events like weddings. "Maybe things are different at the lumber camps."

Logan chuckled and shook his head. "No, nothing like that in the camps," he said, poking at the fire. Then, with a grumble, he added, "Wasn't always a rough neck. Came from a good family. The Howletts were the most respected in the district, actually."

_Oh, that explains it. _Kate leaned forward, her eyes wide. "I bet you drive them nuts, don't you? All no-rules and do-what-I-want." She giggled, taking another bite of pear as Logan smirked at her. "Wish my daddy could meet _you_. He thinks _I'm _a problem child."

Logan's gaze drifted back to the fire for a few minutes before he said, slowly, "My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather disowned me. So yeah, I do drive 'em nuts. Just not for what I do. More for who I am. There's a reason I go by Logan." He paused. "The shame of the Howlett dynasty."

Kate fell silent, and the smile on her lips died. For a while, there was only the crackling of the fire until she said, "Yeah, I was wondering where you got 'Logan' out of 'James' and 'Howlett.' Thought it might be a middle name?"

She paused before, suddenly, the sparkle returned to her eyes. "You should win," she declared. "Then you'd be in the Victor's Village, and you'd be more famous and rich than any of 'em."

Logan raised an eyebrow at her.

"And don't you dare give them anything," she said fiercely as she drew herself up a little taller. "Not even scraps."

A great yawn broke the conversation as Kurt lost his battle with sleep. He must have relaxed now that he knew his partners finally had some common ground, and besides, he had to be wiped out from the battle a little earlier. Kate knew her own body was crying out for sleep, but she was still too keyed up to relax.

Logan gave her an affectionate little smile for a moment, but it didn't last long. "Yeah, real dream come true. Neighbours with Creed," he said in a quiet whisper as he watched Kurt doze. "Can't wait for tea time. Be the first pair of victors to kill each other. They could televise it."

"You," she said quietly, "are a buzz kill." She set the pear down and wrapped her arms around herself, her frown deeper than ever before. Logan watched her for a moment before standing up and taking a seat closer to her.

"Hey. Don't mind me. Too damn serious most of the time anyhow. Hazard of being a bastard," he said gently, bumping her shoulder with his. She wrinkled the corner of her mouth for a moment.

"'S okay," she muttered, still staring at the ground. Then, suddenly, her mood shifted, and she grinned at him, lightly bumping his shoulder back.

"Kurt was right," she said, gesturing to the last member of their alliance, who had drifted off soundly by then, his fingers twitching just the tiniest bit next to his face. He looked...kinda cute, with his mouth half open and his hair falling in his eyes. She wrenched her attention back to Logan as she added, "You're not half bad."

She paused, allowing her grin to widen, before she snuck in a quick, "I mean, for an _ex_-spoiled rich kid."

To her surprise, Logan returned the grin, and she found herself wishing he would do that more often. He looked like he could actually…have _fun_.

"And you're not half bad for someone spoutin' sunshine and rainbows all over the damn place."

"It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it," Kate declared. "You'd get bored otherwise."

She handed Logan the last of her pears, and they ate the fruit in companionable silence. She finished hers first and, stretching, crawled over Kurt's still form to lie on the other end of the sleeping bag. She paused and looked back at Logan.

"Thanks," she whispered, propping herself up on her elbow. "You know. For listening." She didn't go on, but she hoped he understood.

"Go to sleep," he all but growled out. "I ain't cartin' you around tomorrow when you wake up with a sugar hangover."

She smiled sedately at him and finally drifted off, listening to Kurt's deep breathing beside her, the steady rise and fall of his chest at her back strangely calming.

* * *

The next morning and afternoon passed in relative peace and quiet. Logan took the dead spider — which had curled up overnight so that its legs were all twisted beneath its belly — out to the river, and Kate and Kurt stayed behind, taking turns gathering food and firewood and alternating who stood guard to make sure their camp wasn't robbed if they left it alone.

When Logan returned from his trip to the river, Kate had hurriedly suggested to Kurt that they pretend to have spent the time singing songs and braiding Kate's hair, and by the time Logan made it up the stairs, they were a few verses into a ballad about the Fantastic Four, and Kurt had actually made a nice braid out of Kate's sticky, sweaty locks.

(He had a little sister, he explained when Kate asked how he knew how to braid hair. Must have been nice. Kate was the youngest, so she missed out on the whole "taking care of siblings" thing. Closest thing she had to a younger sibling was Billy or Teddy. She couldn't quite think of Tommy as a little brother, since he tried to kiss her after last year's Reaping.)

Logan took one look at them, frowned, and turned right back around, muttering about "Little Miss Sunshine" or something — to Kate's great delight.

She'd been right. He was _fun _to mess with.

When Logan re-emerged a few hours later, though, he wasn't empty-handed. He was covered in the dust of whatever wall he'd torn apart and was holding two thick pipes that he had apparently pulled from the plumbing next door and cut into pieces that were just the right size for Kate.

"You've been busy," she observed with a slight smile. At least he'd been passing the time productively — she figured he'd found something to do when he hadn't come back for so long — but she hadn't really expected him to come back with _presents_.

She decided against asking him if he'd also brought her a pony. She wasn't sure how much teasing he'd put up with just yet.

He thrust the staves Kate's way without really looking at her. "Didn't want you watching my back with just that pixie stick of yours," he said by way of explanation, and she beamed at him, which seemed to make him even more uncomfortable.

She took the proffered makeshift staves and twirled them around a bit to get used to the balance. She grinned and looked over at Kurt, who was nodding his approval.

"You know," he said slowly, "we should really find something for you to test those out on."

She raised an eyebrow at Kurt and, unsure if he was joking or not, said, "I told you I'm not taking on the Careers, Kurt."

He snorted out a little laugh and raised his hands. "No, no, that's not what I meant," he said. "I just think…" He paused, as if he was searching for the right words, and then he grinned again. "Campfire songs and hair-braiding parties aside, we really should be doing something to get sponsors' attention."

Logan nodded as he plopped himself down beside Kurt. "Good thinking, Elf," he said. "Gotta be proactive about these things while we've still got some attention from winning that spider fight last night."

Kate frowned as a thought occurred to her that she knew she'd regret saying out loud. "Spiders," she said, rolling the word around on her tongue as she stared down at the staves Logan had brought her.

"You got an idea, Trickshot?" Logan asked, though she suspected he'd already come to the same conclusion. And the look on Kurt's face told Kate that he was on the same page.

Kate nodded, licking her lips. "Yeah," she said. She tried to sit up a little straighter and look braver than she felt. "Why don't we go give those spiders a piece of our minds?" she asked.

Kurt nodded, grinning, though she could see he was nervous behind his smile, too. "That'll teach them to come to _our _house," he said.

"Nobody messes with Team Awesome!"

Logan held up a hand, staring at Kate like she'd just said something nasty. "We are _not _calling ourselves that."

Kurt must have seen that Kate looked like she might argue, because he butted in before Kate could say anything. "We can name our group later." He paused and grinned, then added, "Maybe after we've done something to earn a nickname."

"Okay, Fearless Leader," Kate said with a teasing sort of grin as she turned to Kurt. "What's the plan?"

* * *

Kate was _really _starting to regret letting her boys talk her into such a stupid plan.

They'd hidden away their campsite as best they could, and Logan had set up some traps that even Richards back home would have been proud of so that if anyone _did _try to steal from their nest, they'd get more than they bargained for.

They put the most important stuff — food and the water bottle — in Kate's backpack, which they took turns wearing. And then they set off, following the trail the spiders left behind.

And at first it had been easy. Even Kurt, who, Kate suspected, hadn't ever been hunting before, was able to pick up on the trail of scuffle marks and green ooze from the spiders they had wounded. But as they ventured further and further away from their nest, the sun started to set, and it was a little harder to see the trail.

Luckily, Wolverine lived up to his name, and he seemed to know where he was going. Kate had lost the trail herself, but then, she and America didn't hunt at night, if they could help it. There'd been that one night they got hopelessly lost in the forest, and after that, they tried to be back over the fence well before sundown. So it wasn't like Kate had much experience in after-dark tracking.

So, they let Logan lead the way, while she hung back and talked with Kurt. By the time the stars had started to come out, they were well into a game of riddles.

"I've got lots of teeth, but I never eat," Kate said, bobbing along and flipping her staves over in her hands as Logan once again stopped and ran his hand over the ground, rubbing his fingers together.

"A comb," Kurt said. He was really fast — Kate was a bit jealous of how good he was at this game.

Kate nodded. "Your turn."

Kurt only thought for a moment before he came back with: "What can you never eat for breakfast?"

As she chewed her bottom lip in thought, Kate looked ahead at Logan, who had stopped again, but this time, he had his head tilted, like he was listening.

"For breakfast?" Kate repeated, though quieter this time. She strained to hear what Logan was listening to.

Kurt also had his ears perked up, but he nodded at Kate.

She thought for a minute in the silence, then asked, "Lunch and dinner?"

"Right!" Kurt beamed at her.

"Shh!" Logan hissed at the same time, holding up a hand.

Kurt and Kate exchanged glances, then crept forward after Logan, keeping their heads low to mirror him.

And then, at last, they heard it. The quiet, ominous chattering of pincers clicking together. The sound made Kate's stomach lurch, and she looked over at Kurt to see that he, too, had gone pale.

She gripped her staves tighter and then double-checked to make sure her knife was still tied tightly in her belt. Just so she'd have something to do that wasn't looking around in wide-eyed terror at the mere sound of the spiders.

The chattering grew louder and louder, and now Kate could see that the ground was no longer made up entirely of cobblestones and patches of earth. The light of the recently risen moon glinted off of the silk strands all around them — strands that vibrated with every step they took, no matter how lightly they tread.

"They know we're here," Logan said quietly. He was crouched low, as if he was ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

"So where are they?" Kurt asked. She could see the light glinting off of his sword as he held it out in front of him.

"Maybe…maybe they're asleep," Kate offered, though she knew it sounded ridiculous even as the words left her mouth.

Logan snorted. "Atta girl. Wishful thinking. That'll get 'em."

She glared daggers at the back of his head, but he couldn't see her. Kurt caught her gaze in his own and raised his eyebrows at her. _What's up with you two? _she could practically hear him ask.

She shrugged freely and jerked her head at Logan, and the message was clear without her saying anything: _This is apparently affectionate for Logan._ _I'm running with it._

Kurt grinned at her and shook his head, rolling his eyes to the sky. It was the beginning of a '_What am I going to do with you?' _kind of look, but it got stuck halfway through his expression. His mouth formed a little "o" shape, and he pointed up.

Kate followed his gaze and gasped.

There, above their heads, clattering across a thousand threads of gleaming silk, were the spiders. And was it her imagination, or were there more of them than before?

_Please, let it just be my imagination,_ she thought desperately as she hurried to catch up with Logan, who seemed to be headed deeper and deeper into the spiders' lair.

"We are gonna get eaten," Kate said in a voice so quiet that she was surprised when Logan reacted to it.

"Hey," he said sharply. "We're not licked before we even start, so don't go givin' up on me." His gaze when she caught it was somewhere between stern and encouraging, and she couldn't help but feel a little better for it.

"Yeah," Kurt added, stepping a little closer to Kate. "I thought you said we were too awesome to get eaten, anyway."

"That's entirely true," she said, and she smiled gratefully at Kurt.

_How would I get through these Games without him? _she thought as she followed close behind Kurt.

She could still hear the _tickity-tack _of spiders clicking their pincers above her, but she gripped her staves harder and tried not to gasp every time she heard movement nearby. She still reacted, but it was less dramatic than the terror pumping through her veins wanted her to be. Probably wasn't a good idea for her whole everything-is-awesome image if she acted like a scared little girl, anyway.

_Whose stupid idea was this again?_

Logan cut them a path through some particularly heavy hanging webbing, and they burst their way through into what had to be the heart of the nest. The chattering was the loudest Kate had heard it here, and the webbing was so thick it was hard to see beyond the silks all around them.

But what's more — Kate could see the spiders' dinner.

She couldn't see who it was, not the way the spiders had wrapped him up in their webs. She could see a hand poking out, and a foot, but that was it.

Curious, she took a step closer to the body.

That was her mistake.

The spiders, sensing that their dinner was in danger, came out of hiding from the webbing above them. With horrific shrieks, they pounced down, and one of them landed almost directly on top of Kate. She could actually smell its breath as she dove aside, and she heard a tearing noise as the spider's pincers grabbed the loose fabric of her left sleeve, widening the tear even more so that the sleeve was just hanging on by about half as much fabric as it was meant to.

Kate pulled out of the way, leaving a bit of her hoodie in the spider's clutches, and then stole a glance over to her boys to see how they were faring.

Logan was a whirl of growling and claws, cutting through anything that moved. He didn't seem to be having any trouble with the spiders that had attacked him. Not that she was surprised. That guy could probably take on the entire Career pack on his own.

And Kurt — Kurt was sprinting towards her, a funny look in his eyes as his gaze was fixed on a point above her.

Kate realized a fraction of a second later what that look meant and rolled out of the way as she heard the soft _thump _of a spider body falling where she had just been.

She looked up. Kurt was almost to her, looking too relieved for words. She pulled herself to her feet, and Kurt was at her side in an instant, his sword drawn as he slashed at the legs of the nearest spider.

"Nice reflexes," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

"You're not so bad yourself," she said. She kept her back to him, trusting him to cover her while they worked, and she could hear his sword as it cut through the spiders behind her.

As for Kate, the spider on her side seemed to be uncertain, scuttling around just out of reach as if it was trying to size her up. She licked her lips and forced them into a smile, shouting, "What's the matter? Too scared to play?"

At just that moment, the moonlight fell through the ceiling of the spiders' lair, and Kate realized what the problem was when the light wasn't reflected back off of eight shiny eyes.

"I think this spider's got it out for me," she said over her shoulder to Kurt, glancing around to make sure that he was still okay even as he slashed one of his spider's legs off (he was fine).

"Pretty sure they all do, Kate."

"No, I mean, I think this one's the same one that tried to eat me last night. The one whose eyes I slashed out with your sword," she said, but in that moment of distraction, the spider decided to attack.

It let out a great hiss that echoed off of the silk around them and made her heart stop in her throat as it reared up on its back legs, fangs glinting in the moonlight. She felt a hairy leg brush up against her shoulder and realized it was _too close — _before she did something incredibly stupid.

She dropped flat on the ground, and the spider, losing its balance, fell over on top of her. But Kate had prepared for that, and she'd dropped one of her pipes and grabbed her knife as she fell.

And where last night, her little knife hadn't done much damage against the spiders, when the full weight of its body was pressed into that one point — and when she had _very _good aim and knew where to point her knife — well, the result was one very dead spider.

Actually, one very _almost _dead spider.

Kate shouted in horror and used her remaining pipe as a shield, keeping the spider's face away from hers as it twitched and shrieked and did its best to take Kate down with it. She could feel something sticky and gooey and _disgusting _splatter over her face, and she closed her mouth so that she didn't accidentally swallow anything, only barely repressing the urge to scream. She felt one of the sharp edges of it feet drag across her cheek, leaving a trail of warm blood in its wake.

"Kate!" she heard Kurt shout, his voice filled with a horror that she didn't like at all, and then she felt the twitching spider lift off of her, revealing Kurt's pale face.

"Kurt!" she shouted right back as she realized that the spider Kurt had stopped fighting to help Kate was trying to take advantage of his distraction and had launched itself towards him, hissing and shrieking. This one had a bit of metal in one of its eyes, and Kate knew she and her boys hadn't put it there. It must have been hurt by whoever was lying wrapped up in the middle of its lair.

Kurt dived out of the way of the spider, which landed inches from Kate's head. She saw its mean little eyes find her, and she reached out to yank the knife out of the other spider's head, wondering if she would have enough time—

_Bam. _Logan came barrelling into the spider, shouting curses and threats as he knocked it into a wall of webbing. It scuttled away, still hissing, but it didn't dare approach the three of them. Not when Logan was looking_that _murderous. He was a wild animal to be reckoned with, and even the spiders knew it.

For a while, they could hear nothing but the sound of their own breathing. There were no other sounds in the silky lair, and even the clicking of spider pincers sounded muffled and far away. Kate somehow managed to find her voice first, and for some reason, she started laughing.

Both Kurt and Logan glanced at her with concerned looks, but she just laughed all the more and turned her face to the sky, wiping away the spider gunk.

"You see that performance?" she bellowed up at the ceiling of spider silk. "That's _got _to be worth _something_!" She paused, her tongue between her teeth in a playful smile, before she added, "And I expect my bow to be purple!"

Kurt sighed, apparently satisfied that Kate had not, in fact, lost her marbles, before he offered her a hand up.

She pulled her knife out of the spider she'd killed and grabbed her second pipe before she took the proffered hand and then, delighted, pulled Kurt closer for a hug, careful of his sword so she didn't accidentally stick herself.

"Thanks for having my back," she said when she pulled away. She thought she could see the tips of his ears turning pink and then felt her own cheeks flush red as well.

"No problem," he muttered, though his gaze seemed to be fixed on her cheek.

Logan snorted nearby, drawing their attention back to him as he jerked his head in the direction the spider with the metal bit in its eye had scurried away. "We ain't out of trouble yet," he pointed out. Then, he shrugged heavily. "Still, not bad for Round One."

Kurt grinned at Logan. "Thanks for the save," he said. "Are you okay?"

Logan nodded, wiping some spider goop off of his claws. "Didn't even stub my toe kicking the one that tried to get me," he said with a smirk. He tilted his head at Kate. "You okay there, Trickshot?"

"Grossed out," she said, still wiping bits of spider off of her face and then wiping her hands on the silk on the ground around her. "But nothing too serious." She quickly wiped at her face with the back of her hand and was relieved to see that there wasn't too much blood.

Kurt stepped forward, frowning. "I can take a look—"

Kate waved Kurt off. "We can clean ourselves up _after _we get out of here," she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "You okay, Kurt?" She was pretty sure he was fine, since he'd been close by the whole time, but no harm in checking.

He nodded. His hoodie string was missing the plastic end and looked frayed, but other than that, he hardly looked different from that morning. Just sweatier.

_Still cute, though_, she thought. She also thought that she probably shouldn't be thinking about things like that, but hey, she'd never really been one to filter her opinions.

The chattering around them started to get louder again, and Kate glanced over at Logan, who was frowning. "Sounds like they're gearing up for Round Two," Logan muttered.

"We should get out of here," Kate said, but Kurt was crouching down beside her, gently prodding the wrapped-up person on the floor of the spiders' lair.

"Wonder who they got," Kurt muttered. He frowned, then held out his hand to Kate.

Guessing his intention, she handed him her knife and watched as he carefully cut open the silk just around the captive's face. Logan crouched low beside them, but his gaze wasn't on the spiders' meal. He had his claws out, ready and alert, in case anything tried to ambush them.

_Nice to have our own bodyguard_, Kate thought with a smile before she knelt down beside Kurt.

Kate helped to pull at the silk around the person's jaw, and as Kurt cut, they were finally able to get a good look at him.

_Oh._

Kurt made a strangled sort of noise. Kate gasped. And even Logan looked troubled when he glanced over his shoulder to see why his teammates suddenly sounded like they'd both been hit in the stomach.

"Peter," Kate whispered, her breath catching in her throat. She reached out a hand tentatively, then paused, drawing back, suddenly unwilling to touch the deathly cool skin beneath the cocoon.

Peter Parker was still and unmoving, wrapped up in the silk that made him look even paler than he already was. He looked _wrong_, and it took a moment for Kate to realize that he wasn't smiling. That's why his face looked so strange, like it wasn't _really _Pete.

Logan swore under his breath and muttered through clenched teeth, "I was hoping it was one of the Careers." He shook his head, his gaze hard. "Coulda been anyone but him."

Kate was surprised to find that her cheeks felt wet, and she realized suddenly that she was crying. That was stupid. She shouldn't cry. She was in the _Games_, where people were _supposed _to die.

Kurt looked over at her, and he looked just as shaken. But he seemed to be the only one to have the words for their situation, and with a sad sort of smile, he said, "Guess it's different when it's someone you know, huh?"

Kate took a deep, shuddering breath and was about to stand up, to run away from that awful sight — when she heard a soft groan.

"Pete?" Her voice was raw as it echoed back to her.

The silence stretched on for an eternity, but then they heard it again. A long, pitiful moan.

She almost reached over and hugged Kurt again, but he was already on his feet, looking to Logan. "We're taking him with us, right?" he asked, his voice firm but hopeful, just short of demanding but also not quite pleading.

Logan, to their surprise, didn't pause. "Absolutely." Then, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye, he smirked and tried to play it off. "Sure would piss off our eight-legged friends if we took their afternoon snack with us," he said.

Kate grinned. "You're all heart, you are," she said.

"Don't go spreadin' it around." But he was smirking, so she knew he didn't mean it.

Kate and Kurt gently lifted Peter up until he was sort of sitting so that they could drape him over Logan's shoulders. The chattering all around them was getting louder and more insistent, and Kate could hear her own heart beating in her skull.

"You sure you've got him?" Kurt asked as Logan adjusted his load.

Logan nodded. "You two just make sure you watch my back, huh? I ain't about to go down just because I brought a couple of lightweights for backup."

It was as if the spiders were waiting for their cue. Two more burst from the webbing around them, shrieking and hissing and clicking, going right for Logan and his unconscious cargo.

"Get out of here!" Kurt shouted at Logan as he slashed at the nearest spider. "Take Peter and go! We'll be right behind you."

Logan looked annoyed at taking orders and shifted Peter's weight so that he could slash at a nearby spider with one free hand, but Kate inserted herself between Logan and the spider, knocking it repeatedly in the head with both staves in such rapid succession that it stumbled backwards, shaking its head and hissing as it tried to regain its balance.

Apparently satisfied that Kate and Kurt weren't going to die without his help, Logan led the charge out of the spiders' den, with Kate and Kurt close behind him.

Kate glanced over at Kurt and saw that he was grinning at her, his sword gripped in both hands as sweat poured down his face. "You wanted to give them a show, didn't you?" he shouted at her as he swung the sword like a baseball bat to knock a spider off balance before he tried to stab its abdomen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this year's traveling circus," she shot right back as she hit her spider hard on its right side, sending it veering Kurt's way so that he could slash at it.

They made a good team — Kate and Kurt. Only three fights in and she was already starting to get a feel for his fighting style. It helped that they'd practiced fighting together back in the Capitol and that they'd spent some time back at the nest practicing with sticks to keep up their forms, but this? This was _real_, and they were doing _well_.

But of course, Kate realized, she shouldn't have gotten too comfortable. She heard a gagging noise behind her and turned to see that one of the spiders had gotten hold of the hood of Kurt's hoodie and was tugging at it insistently. His eyes were wide as his free hand clutched at the hoodie, which was leaving lines in his neck.

She didn't really think before she acted — when did she ever? — but instead took a flying leap and landed on the spider's back, knocking all three of them to the ground.

Kate reached out to grab Kurt so that he wouldn't fall on his sword or something else awful, and he reached out for her at about the same time. They somehow managed to keep each other from crashing into the tangle of legs and eyes that was the spider Kate had jumped into, and they scrambled to their feet before it could recover from being rolled onto its back, its legs still sticking in the air.

"You okay?" she asked as she offered him a hand up.

Kurt made a funny rasping sort of noise before he managed to gasp out, "_Ja_, I think so." But the red lines where his hoodie had choked him sang out, and Kate couldn't help frowning.

But they didn't have time to fret over Kurt. As soon as he had his breath back, they scrambled back toward Logan and Peter.

Logan had stopped to fend off the spiders one-handed and to give Kate and Kurt some cover as they caught up to him. There was only one spider left still chasing them — the one that had a bit of metal sticking out of its eye.

"I think that's the one that grabbed Pete," Kate said, panting, to Kurt as they scrambled back to Logan's side. "Probably mad we're taking his hard-earned dinner."

Kurt's eyes narrowed at the spider, suddenly murderous in defence of his friend, and she saw his weight shift, so she skirted out of the way so that they could switch positions and Kurt could be closer to the spider.

Logan slashed, Kurt stabbed — and Peter's spider crumbled with a loud cry that sounded like the air being let out of a balloon.

Kurt shot Kate a satisfied sort of smile as he kicked the spider's body off the edge of his sword. He didn't say it out loud, but the look said, '_That's for Peter'._

At the death of that last spider, the clicking and rustling noises faded away again, and Kate couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. "I think," she said, panting, "they're backing off."

"Better put some distance between us just to be sure," Logan grunted.

"No arguments here," Kurt said.

Peter moaned, which Kate took to mean he agreed with them, too.

They took a collective deep breath, braced themselves, and then, they took off at full speed.

* * *

"Let me do that."

Kate had been trying to wipe the rest of the spider guts and blood from her face so that she could keep the long scratch across her cheek from getting infected. But there wasn't exactly an abundance of mirrors in this place.

Kurt settled down next to her and gently took her wadded up hoodie away from her. He wet the edge with the water bottle and then, hesitating, said, "You don't mind?"

"I trust you to know what you're doing," she assured him.

He brushed away the sweaty hair that was sticking to her face and dabbed at her cheek so gently that she almost laughed and told him he wasn't going to get anything clean that way.

"What do you think, doctor?" she asked, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Am I going to live?"

"You'll be fine," he said, smiling, as he wiped the last of the blood away. "It doesn't look like it's infected." He sighed. "All the same ..."

She didn't even see him do it. He must have snuck just the smallest dot of disinfectant onto his finger while she was distracted by the wet hoodie sleeve on her face. But all of a sudden, she felt the sting of disinfectant on her face, and she gasped in surprise.

Kurt laughed. "Sorry," he said. (He didn't look sorry.) "Didn't want to risk it. Who knows what those spiders had been walking through."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn't, because she knew how much he worried. Instead, she just sighed and took her hoodie back from him. He grinned at her, and she sighed. "What about you?" she asked.

"Me?"

She waved her hand at his neck.

"It's nothing, Kate."

She raised both eyebrows at him and kept her expression there until, at last, he sighed and caved in, pulling his hoodie so that she could more clearly see the red lines across his neck.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Not really," he assured her. "It's just a little tender."

She felt her teeth biting into her bottom lip and knew from the look on his face that her worry showed. "Kate," he laughed, "I'm really fine." He let go of his hoodie, which fell back into place around his shoulders and neck.

Kate almost pointed out that he clearly _wasn't_, because he smelled like sweat and spider guts, but the Marvel anthem distracted her, and they both looked up at the sky.

_Not Clint_, she thought to herself. She hadn't worried about him before, but she'd seen Wade Wilson's picture in the sky last night with Kurt, and that didn't exactly thrill her when it came to her favourite Career's chances of survival.

But there weren't any new faces for a while, not until District Five, when Carol Danvers showed up in the sky. Kate couldn't remember much about her, but she hadn't talked much with either of the people from Five. She'd met their mentor in passing, but that was really it.

She glanced at Kurt, who was gazing up at the sky intently, but his frown was more of the general kind than a specific reaction. She wasn't sure he knew much about Carol either.

The parade of old faces continued, but there was nothing new to be learned. The music died out, and then it was quiet again.

The silence stretched on between them, and they heard the slight footsteps outside as Logan made one last security check of the place before they would turn in for the night. But other than those gentle, muffled steps, the air was soft and quiet, heavy with the memory of the faces in the sky and also with the smell of the death they had earlier inflicted (though not, of course, on _tributes_ like Carol).

It was an awful smell, one that clung to Kate, and she wished suddenly that they could find a place with a good, hot shower.

And coffee.

"We were lucky," Kate said at last.

Kurt laughed louder this time, enough that Pete, who was sleeping soundly just a few feet away, twitched at the noise. "I do not think it was _luck_. I think it was _Logan_."

"And you and your fancy swordwork," Kate said.

"And your good aim and your staves," Kurt shot back.

Kate snorted out a laugh. "Yeah," she said, a small smile sneaking back onto her face, "I was pretty magnificent out there, wasn't I?"

Kurt rolled his eyes at her but could not hide his laugh. "Of course, Kate."

She grinned at him, and he just shook his head, still smiling, before he excused himself to go check on Pete again. The fourth member of their little alliance was still soundly unconscious, but they could deal with that in the morning. For now, she had her boys, she had her staves, and she had (she hoped) some sponsors' attention.

Things were looking up for Team Awesome.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**


	61. Chapter 60: Hands Clean

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after a bit of a delay with our fic, but the important thing is that we're **_**back. **_**And, since I finish term tomorrow, hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly for ITEYAK, as something of an early Christmas present for you all. So, don't hold me to this, but maybe, **_**maybe, **_**we'll be able to do an update a day until Christmas – we'll see, because I am working from Saturday until Christmas Eve, and that's a busy week in the bookselling business. But hey, we'll see.**

**Big thanks once more to sailorraven34, I-OfTheHawk and Idalove2read for their reviews, and we hope you enjoy this one just as much!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty **_– _**Hands Clean**

**Morning, Day Four**

**Brunhilde of District Four**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

"_I want a world where everyone can have a normal life. I'm tired of people having to become sacrifices. I'm tired of discrimination. I'm tired of people becoming victims. I'm tired of it all." _

_"You are an idealist. The worlds of Tethe'alla and Sylvarant flourish only by victimizing the others. So long as that structure remains the same, anything you say is mere sophistry."_

_"Then we need to change that structure! This world was made by that Yggdrasill guy, right?! If a human or elf built this, then we should be able to change it as well!"_

— Lloyd and Tiga,_ Tales of Symphonia_

* * *

Her people had old gods, old ways. And the oldest of these was to keep your weapons sharp and well-maintained. Always keep an extra. Never depend upon others, as ready as one must be to fight beside them. There was strength in the shield, but it must come from a warrior's arm.

And that, Brunhilde told herself, was the reason she sat alone, spear braced at her side, her whetstone running smoothly along the straight blade of her longsword. She would attend to this first, then ensure the balance of her spear, and then look over her shoulder once more. The wound pulled with every pass of her stone, but she was in no danger of dying from this. This wound was not poisoned. She had kept it clean.

She was staying far away from Elektra and Natasha in particular, and while she stayed within the camp, she was currently staying away from all the other Careers as well. She wasn't avoiding them. She was simply keeping watch and working as she did so.

Her sword needed cleaning, sharpening. Brunhilde had to insure the wood of her polearm would not become tacky with drying blood that would reliquify under the sweat of her palm, that the ash would not absorb too much and then crack as the liquid expanded in the chill of night in this arena, that it did not splinter in her grip after the shock of the blow. She had been fortunate, but fortune would not last long without the ways that had sired it.

"Busy as ever, I see," a familiar voice broke through the scrape of the whetstone and the steady waves of hurt that accompanied it. That had been all the company she wanted at the moment, but she looked upward to briefly meet Loki's expression before scanning around him for Thor. "Too busy for your youngest cousin?" Loki pouted, though she knew it was for show. Expanded in mock-agony, his irises looked too light. It was said emeralds would pale when set on the hand of the lying, unfaithful kinsman; sometimes Brunhilde wondered if the legend came from those green eyes, even if there was no good reason to distrust him right now.

Loki was her cousin, as surely as Thor was. Blood could be mutable in District Four, running between palms as much as between parent and child, but it was not a bond that one broke, a promise left forgotten once made. Perhaps it was stronger for cases like Loki, like Hogun, like her and Sif, for Brunhilde had had little choice in the matter of Waltrude, of Sigrun, of Hervor, of any of her younger sisters by her mother. Her elders and peers of the same age were easier for her to love than her younger kin, for there was less of a chance that the grown or nearly-grown would be pulled away than they might be. Erda had many daughters, perhaps for this reason.

The only exception to this rule in Brunhilde's most guarded chamber of her heart was Sif, who was younger, but hardy, with an older brother who had already taken his brush with the Avenger Games and was sensible enough to keep his little sister from volunteering.

At least, Brunhilde hoped Heimdall would have luck in that regard for the next two years.

But for every child kept at arm's length until survival seemed a real possibility, there were always cases like Loki, like Frigga. Brunhilde remembered her aunt as a gentle soul, not one to cause trouble with the Sentinels. Her own mother seemed more likely to argue with her former comrades than Frigga had ever been, at least on the finer points of fulfilling their duties. But when presented with her second baby boy, Frigga's fierce love had made Fandral and Volstagg seem as dedicated to Hogun's cause as kittens to a favoured yarn ball in comparison. Frigga had thrown down her life to protect this strange cuckoo in her nest, even more than Thor.

When her younger boy showed a preference for the book over the bow or the blade, Frigga kept him from weapons training as much as possible, only remarking that both her sons would find differing methods of protecting one another as she spent untold hours reading with Loki from what library his father's status afforded them. Odin had brought Loki to District Four, but it had been doting Frigga that had ensured that it was a home.

And Frigga had died at the end of a blade, her words a poor defence. Loki was better with his chosen weapons than his adoptive mother and mentor had been, for Loki knew that words made for a much better offence, leaving his defensive strategy to cowering, pouting, and his bright green eyes.

"Come now, I have not been another babe to hand off to my mother for some years. At least talk while you sharpen your weapons, dear cousin." It was true that Brunhilde had never been precisely maternal, preferring to allow Loki to recover from his injuries and indignities with minimal cosseting, but she'd done her best to keep him from trouble in the first place. He'd been more than a little in awe of her when they'd been younger, a watching shadow from Thor's side that somehow always slunk away whenever she addressed him directly.

Thor had been the only warrior he'd needed. She was an unknown factor. Brunhilde was kin, but she'd been kith to Sif first, and not all of Loki's kin had been kind to him. Perhaps that was what made him so difficult to those who would otherwise be his best allies.

"What would you have me say?" She'd met his eyes too long and dropped her gaze back to the perfectly serviceable blade.

Last night's round of hunting had offered some consequence, but to Brunhilde, it had seemed an ill-fated one. The three in the carpark should have been trapped; Barton had _said_ that all but one of the exits had been blocked off. They should have been easy to finish off – of the three, only the boy seemed a physical challenge; his fellow District Five tribute was injured, and the other girl was the smallest, slightest, youngest in the arena. Brunhilde had trained all her life with spears; no wounded animal was supposed to be able to do what Volstagg had not and slip her guard… Romanov had finished that one and crowed about her victory. Brunhilde reminded herself that the dead had been condemned and suffering before her life was gone… and Romanov grinned with too-bright eyes while Natchios watched them all from the shadows. Brunhilde tended her own wounds.

Thor had fussed over her, once the racing hearts had slowed down and the newly-blooded redhead could be directed to scout, still eager to find the trail of the two escapees from their hunt. Barton lingered over the corpse for longer than Brunhilde was comfortable with, until Loki had been the one to wonder if Natasha was out making a body of herself aloud. The archer had been quick to move after his district partner after that.

Brunhilde had left the remains without glancing back. There would be time to acknowledge Carol Danvers of District Five, but it would not be while her allies were off to find their next kill. It would not be while Elektra's hands shook above her sai and Thor went to comfort his brother as much for his own sake as for Loki's.

"You're jealous of T'Challa," Loki told her as they sat in safety a day later, with plenty of food in their stocks, fresh bandages for her wounds, and lookouts around the other edges of their safe haven for the day. Brunhilde simply raised an eyebrow at him. "You are jealous of those who did not have to see the results of a Career pack, who could die without sullying their hands. You walked in knowing you wouldn't walk out, cousin. Why does your first victory bother you more than death?"

* * *

_They had not found the District Five boy or his tiny partner, but there had been a shadow at sunrise, a hungry thing hoping to steal from the packs they had left behind in the ruins in the shadow of the old parking garage. Natasha hadn't zeroed on her first, because Natasha and Elektra were focusing on their lost quarry, not lost supplies. Had they set a watch, the girl might not have been so bold as to try it, but hunger did dangerous things to a mind. Fear and hopelessness did far worse than the loss of one skirmish could._

_Loki had gone to check supplies first instead of running after their vicious scouts, as Clint had done, and Thor claimed that Brunhilde needed more bandaging. For his sake, at least, she did not wish to end her life as Wilson had, but Brunhilde did not see what difference an extra layer of gauze might make. _

_Loki did not see the shadow flirting with the boundaries of their camp, but Brunhilde kept her eyes on that form, watching for movement even through the fanfare of the night's parade of fallen faces. Carol Danvers would be in the sky that night, but Brunhilde would not allow her allies to add their names to those of the dead simply because she allowed herself to be distracted and lost track of the slippery tribute. _

_Yet, despite her vigilance, the shadow disappeared, though not, Brunhilde suspected, for long. Perhaps the return of the Careers to their camp had dissuaded the interloper from an attempted robbery; perhaps something else had scared them off._

_Once Thor had finished his survey of her shoulder, she retreated by herself to a crumbling lookout where she could watch for the shadow's return in peace. She tired of the incessant bickering that she had come to expect from the increasingly ragtag group of Careers. Perhaps she would scout ahead of the pack, where it was quieter, in order to save herself from slipping, saying something woefully out of turn._

_They were children, these Careers. Moreso now than at the beginning. And increasingly, they were acting the part._

_She chose her footfalls as carefully as she was able, though in the darkness, it was hard to see where fallen leaves and twigs had lain in the broken streets and byways. And so she kept her other senses alert, listening for the soft sounds of breathing, of rustling, of the imprint of humanity in this desolate reminder of a once-proud city._

_Not far into her trek, a scream caught her attention – though it was not the lone sound that fell on her keen ears. She stopped and listened hard, and her hand on her spear gripped tighter, ready for whatever might befall her._

_Admittedly, she had not expected this, a scream that would draw attention to the shadow who had previously taken great pains to remain unnoticed. Brunhilde could hear the sounds of a nearby scuffle, the cries of pain, nearly inhuman, and a laugh – one that clearly belonged to the villainous wretch from Ten. _

_Brunhilde's eyes narrowed, remembering the malicious boy from their confrontation at the beginning of these Games. She did not envy the tribute facing such danger, and for a moment, her heart betrayed her, and she rushed toward the sound, meaning to end the Ten boy's torturous game._

_The laughter turned to screams, shouts and insults that were certainly not suited to younger ears – or for that matter older sensibilities. The Ten boy's words ringing through the trees, Brunhilde grasped her spear more steadily still, pausing to orient herself._

_There was a crash in the undergrowth, which caused her to turn her head, to ready herself in a battle stance. Her comrades in arms had not yet caught up with her, though she knew that the scream would have sent them scrambling in her direction, especially Natasha, who was still intoxicated with the bloodlust of a fresh kill. And yet Brunhilde had no need of their aide._

_Her heart beat faster in her breast as she heard the approaching sounds, the stumbling steps, of someone who had nearly passed her to the east._

_Her muscles tensed, eyes focused on a spot where the leaves of the bushes had begun to move. She drew back her spear, her shoulder forgotten as the movement came almost as naturally as breathing, ready for the creature to show his dreaded face. She held her breath – years of sparring with her cousins were to show their value now._

_When the bushes finally parted, she did not allow her wrath to be tempered when it was not, in fact, the creature himself who showed his face. It was instead the shadow who had flirted with their boundaries, a tired, frail thing whose isolation showed in the shaking of her one good arm._

_She appeared almost as a spirit from the bushes, grasping one shoulder that clearly was bleeding in the moonlight. Her veil hid most of the expression on her features, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Brunhilde swung at the girl, and to her surprise, the injured girl from Seven dodged the blow – but only just. _

_Her second swing found purchase, catching the girl on the leg. The strength of Brunhilde's swing cut deeply enough to sever tendons and drop the young woman to the leaf-strewn ground. The veiled child skittered sideways, trying to put distance between herself and Brunhilde, trying to become once more the shadow that had for so long been only a fleeting thought beyond their camp._

"_No," the girl gasped, her voice parched and dry, likely from disuse. She was beaten, her arm crippled at her side, a token from her encounter with the creature from Ten. Had she not stumbled into Brunhilde, the ruined flesh likely would have led her to expire without the touch of Brunhilde's spear – though with the scent of blood in the air, a second, finishing attack from the villain would have been a more likely fate._

_Brunhilde adjusted her grip, her shoulder screaming as her own wound pulled. She ignored the ache, for the time being, her mind focused on the task at hand._

_A pained cry accompanied the blade's path through the veiled tribute's heart, and the girl it had pierced stilled, though she had not yet expired. Dark eyes stared up in pain, tears streaming from them as Brun met her victim's last stare. She did not speak as the younger woman took her final breath to the sound of cannon fire._

_For a time, Brunhilde remained where she was, her shoulder long forgotten as she pondered the tribute before her. She had watched her die, watched what little light was left in the Seven girl's dark, expressive features drain away._

_It was, she knew, a far better death than the one she would have been condemned to at the hands of the Ten boy. Swifter and kinder were Brunhilde's strokes. And yet, though she had not thought it possible before, she felt a twinge of regret._

_At last, her allies caught up to her, but Brunhilde was already standing, turning to greet them. Thor was the first to arrive, his gaze taking in the scene in a moment before finding her. Outwardly, he thumped her shoulder and congratulated her heartily, but she could see that he was searching her expression for something, she knew not what._

_Quickly, she told Barton, the next to arrive, of the Ten boy, and his gaze darkened. He took Romanoff with him to scout ahead, but when they returned much later, they were to come back empty-handed. _

_As night fell, they camped just beyond the range of the stench of blood heavy in the air. Brunhilde and Natasha stayed the closest to the site of the fallen tribute, and Brunhilde was uncertain which of the two got more curious looks from Elektra. _

_The night dragged on, and still, she hadn't slept, even long after the curious gaze left the back of her neck and gave way to quiet breathing as sleep settled over their camp._

* * *

"I should have stayed." Stayed until Etta was lifted off, until Carol was removed from the scene, with Wade Wilson, in District Four…

_Thor might be able to make it._ It was the only thought that kept her going. Thor could go on, though she could not, as long as he didn't have to do _this._ This was why she had volunteered. Neither Thor nor Loki should have to do this.

_I shouldn't have to do this, _a rebellious part of her thought, flying in the face of her training. This was not sparring with Sif or besting Volstagg in a reversal of earlier fortunes. Her shoulder pulled as she ran the whetstone across her sword. That was what she had been drilled to do.

"We don't have to stay, you know," Loki told her softly, insidiously. "Perhaps this alliance has served its purpose. Perhaps we might spare my dear brother much more bloodshed if we strike out on our own. We might simply defend our district, much as the one boy who could afford to be upstanding managed to do. He died a hero with clean hands. We needn't sully yours further by hunting alongside the likes of them."

Brunhilde stared out across the ruins, not looking at her adoptive cousin. Despite her attempts to steel her resolve, her head nodded fractionally in the early morning breeze. "There is only one way to spare our hands. There is but one hero in this arena, and he is already dead. What chance have we to strike out now?"

Loki patted her good shoulder, slowly and lightly so as not to appear a threat. "Get some sleep, dear cousin."

And yet sleep would not come so easily to Brunhilde. Her body ached for the embrace of deep slumber, for she had yet to succumb to it, but she found that her mind had ideas of its own, and her gaze followed her younger cousin as he picked his way through the Career camp.

Her eyes narrowed as they took in the sight of Loki beside Romanoff, his expression as silky as it had been when first he approached her. She did not hear what he whispered to Romanoff, but the girl's expression seemed slowly to change.

There was blood in the air, and Romanoff could smell it. It seemed to have snaked its way into her heart, colouring her every movement with the lust for more. Brunhilde had stayed so close to Benedetta's falling place for her own reasons, but Romanoff….

At last, Loki left Romanoff, as the redheaded woman lashed out with a half-hearted fist. He must have struck a nerve. Or perhaps they had both noticed the watchful eyes of their comrade, the archer who sat furthest from the group, above them all, his gaze all-encompassing. Whatever the case, Loki seemed content to leap out of Romanoff's reach, his smile still firmly affixed.

Brunhilde was glad to see them separated, and yet the unease remained. What had he been saying to her? She knew better than anyone the way Loki's words worked, sharper than the knife Romanoff balanced in her hand, seeping more easily into the thoughts of his enemies and his allies alike than even the creeping insanity that had taken hold of Wilson long before the Games had their way with him.

It was not good to let Loki have his way with words, Brunhilde reflected, without an answering challenge, and she resolved herself to study more closely the actions of Romanoff as the day progressed. What's more, she would keep an eye on Natchios. Brunhilde had long held distrust in her heart for the admitted killer, and her sudden decision to slay Wilson, whatever his condition, had only strengthened her resolve not to trust this dark-eyed murderer. To see her and Loki together was nothing short of worrisome, and she had noticed their hushed whispers and conversations far more often than she would like.

Her cousin moved further into the camp, this time wandering off innocently to his own devices, and at last, Brunhilde felt the pull of sleep. Whatever seeds Loki might sow, she would reap the harvest when it came _– _and she would be sure to recognize the fruits of Loki's labours for what they were.

When at last her eyes closed, she had turned her back not to her allies but to the outskirts, for it could be that the far more dangerous threat might yet be within that camp.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde**


	62. Chapter 61: Friends with Benefits

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back again with another update as promised. So, make sure that you've read the previous chapter that was uploaded yesterday before continuing on, because you won't want to have missed it. And we'll hopefully have another chapter for you all tomorrow as well, so keep your eyes peeled! Also, hope everyone has either seen the new Star Wars or is at least just as psyched as I am for it (going to see it with Deep on Monday, hopefully). Between all the fantastic trailers over the last few weeks (and the bad ones - looking at you, Batman v. Superman), there's just so much to look forward to at the moment. We live in a great time for film, I've gotta say.**

**Want to thank everyone who's reviewed, though I know traffic's been a bit slow at the moment with the end of term coming up for a lot of people. Don't be afraid to let us know your thoughts - we always want to hear from you guys!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-One – Friends with Benefits**

**Day Four**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

"_Why did you do all this for me?'"he asked.  
_

_"I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you."_

_"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing."_

― E.B. White,_ Charlotte's Web_

* * *

The first thing that came back was his hearing: the crackle of a fire and voices. Two boys and a girl. They were close, but Peter couldn't quite understand what they were saying. It was like hearing through piles of blankets. Muffled. His head spun, and his eyebrows knit together over his closed eyes as he tried to concentrate.

"I think he's coming around." That was the girl.

"That's what ya' said the last five times he twitched." The first boy. Gruff and annoyed.

"Hey, twitching is a viable way to tell if someone is waking up."

"I think she's right this time." The other boy's soothing voice came closer. "Peter? Can you hear me?"

If he saw their faces, he would recognize them. At least, he thought they sounded familiar. Slowly, he cracked his eyelids.

"See!" the girl crowed. "Definitely waking up."

"'Bout time," was the grumbling reply.

His vision was blurry, but it was returning with each slow blink. Clouds and open sky were behind shapes swimming into focus.

"Pete, are you with us?"

The face peering down at him cleared, and beneath the dirt and grime, he recognized Kurt. Peter blinked again, his gaze shifting to look at the other two people sitting around the fire. _Kate and, wait, Logan? What sort of crazy dream is this? _

The last memory he had was a giant spider bearing down and biting him in the neck. He hadn't expected to wake up again, and definitely not surrounded by friendly faces. If he'd been able to, he would have jumped for joy, but the venom must have contained a paralyzer. Thankfully, it seemed to be wearing off steadily. Peter's mouth twitched into a small smile.

"So," he croaked through his dry throat. "You guys dead, too?"

The three looked at each other, and even stoic Logan seemed relieved. The trio looked to be in relatively good shape. Kate had a cut along her cheek, and all of them were pretty grimy, but otherwise, they looked alright.

"You're not dead, numbskull." Kate rolled her eyes and scooted to be beside Kurt.

"No, I think I have to be dead. I distinctly remember dying by spider." He could wiggle his toes if he concentrated. At least, he thought he could.

The boy from Nine smiled. "I can assure you, you're alive."

Kate beamed at him. "We saved you! The rescue was pretty darn awesome. You shoulda seen it. They were all over, and we took 'em down like they were nothing."

"I wouldn't say like nothin'," Logan interjected.

She shot the burly teen a look. "It was amazing and deserving of a whole bunch of sponsors. You hear that?" she shouted to the sky.

"Keep it down, will ya? Not exactly wantin' to attract attention right now." Logan frowned as his gaze swept the area.

A smile crossed Peter's chapped lips, and he let out a light snort. Despite the fact that he was incapacitated on the ground, he was glad to be there. The solitude of the first two days had been more stressful than he thought it would. True, there had been no one to stab him in the back, but there hadn't been anyone to distract him from his own thoughts, either. Those weren't exactly sunshine and rainbows.

The tips of his fingers were beginning to work again, and he rubbed them along the lining of the sleeping bag he was wrapped in. Not being able to move would drive him crazy soon. He'd never been one to sit quietly for long, often earning more than one reprimand from teachers or Aunt May to be still. He hated sitting still. He wanted to _do_ something. Anything. If he could just move his hands, he'd feel so much better.

His eyes strayed to Logan, who was cleaning some type of sharpened metal weaponry. "Looks like Wolverine found his claws."

The black-haired girl nodded. "And Kurt got his sword. I still don't have a bow." Her expression darkened for a moment before the usual smile took over again. "But I have my knife and a couple sharpened pipes."

"You guys are decked out! I thought I was doing okay with a scrap of metal. Guess it didn't help much with the mutt in the end. Believe me, that was one of the toughest spiders I've ever seen. Would have needed the factory safety manual to crush it." He frowned slightly. "That would be a lot better joke if you actually knew how big the manuals were."

"I'm sure the people in Eight are rolling with laughter," Kurt assured him with a warm smile.

"Always knew I could count on you to make me sound less like an idiot." Peter grinned. "Have I been out long?"

"We found you last night, and you've been unconscious ever since. Beyond that, I'm not sure. It's Day Four, if that helps," the Elf offered.

"I got attacked before the nightly news on day two. Figured I'd been on it." Peter looked up at the sky. An odd feeling came over him, but he shook it away before it could become a full thought. Instead, he looked back to his rescuers. "How'd you find me, anyway?"

The two boys didn't even try to answer as Kate launched into the story. "Prepare to be amazed, Pete, because it was crazy. It all started after the spiders attacked us two nights ago. We killed one, and I managed to blind the one that was attacking me before we drove them off. Guess that was the same night as your close encounter."

The memory of his own spider holding him down made Peter shiver. "Yeah. Only one came after me, though."

Kate got a thoughtful look on her face before continuing. "Well, last night we tracked them to their lair. So creepy. It was covered in webs and there were, like, fifty spiders just waiting for us."

"It was more like thirty," Kurt corrected.

"Prob'ly less," Logan added.

"How many there were isn't important. They were so creepy, just hanging there, watching with all those eyes. And then in the centre of their nest was this cocoon. We couldn't tell who it was at first, so I went to do a little snooping. Turns out, spiders don't like curious tributes. Literally rained down from above!" She started dramatically waving her arms as she described the fight, almost hitting Kurt in the head. "They were coming from all sides. Swarms of them! Logan was slashing, Kurt was slicing, and I was stabbing. It didn't take long for the mutts to pull back. They were no match for us. I mean, have you _seen_ an angry Wolverine? They knew they were outmatched. Anyway, it gave us a chance to see what they had wrapped up. One guess who it was."

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "Taneleer Tivan?"

"No, another arrogant guy with a double consonant name," Logan said.

"Hmm. Doesn't ring a bell."

Kate rolled her eyes before continuing, "We couldn't just leave you there, so Logan carried you, and Kurt and I covered the retreat. One spider was super intent on getting you back and chased us pretty far."

"Wait! Did it have a piece of metal sticking out of its head?" Peter expectantly looked at the storyteller.

"Sure did!"

"That was mine." He grinned. "Glad I did some lasting damage before it got me."

The girl's eyes widened. "I knew it was yours! My spider was desperate to get me, too. Like, suicidal desperate. I think they must have been trained to go after each of us specifically or something like that. Anyway, that spider won't be bothering you anymore. My boys gave it the old one-two-dead." She punched Kurt in the shoulder good-naturedly. "After that, we were home free. I got a little cut, but no biggie. And that's how you joined Team Awesome."

"You guys have a team name?" Peter laughed as Logan groaned. "I like it."

"Good. Because you've officially been initiated." She beamed.

"Glad to be here." Feeling had returned to his entire body during the story, and with it came an ever-growing pain. He winced and clenched his teeth as it radiated from the bite on his neck.

Kurt instantly noticed, and his brow creased. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Just getting feeling back." Another wave of pain that made sweat break out on his forehead. Now, Logan and Kate were giving him a look that was getting awfully close to pity.

He'd gotten that look a lot from people over the years. First when his parents disappeared, and most recently when he'd been Reaped. He definitely didn't need the look from friends in the same situation as him. Peter started to push himself up with his elbows to a sitting position. The sleeping bag he'd been wrapped in felt like sandpaper as it moved against his skin, and he pushed it away. Everything hurt. Even Kurt's helpful hand on his back made him wince, but he bit his lip and kept quiet.

"You sure you're alright to sit?" Kate cocked her head to look at him, her dark hair falling to one side in a tangle.

"Yes, Mom, I'm fine." Kate stuck her tongue out at Peter's comment. In all reality, he had no idea what sort of shape he was in aside from the searing pain. _Which isn't exactly a good sign._

His hoodie had been serving as his makeshift pillow, leaving his arms bare for inspection. A few deep, purple bruises had formed along them, and the right shoulder of his grey tank-top was ripped and bloody where the spider had cut him. The wound itself looked clean, no doubt thanks to his rescuers, and seemed to be healing well enough. He'd always healed pretty quickly. One of his many talents. The bite was out of sight on his neck, and he raised a hand to gingerly touch it. The area was swollen, and he could feel bumps over the puncture wounds that burned at the slightest pressure. He winced and jerked his hand away. _Could be worse. Could be getting digested. _

"Give it to me straight." He looked seriously between the trio. "Does it ruin my good looks?"

The slight pause was interrupted by Logan's loud snort. "Ya look like a Terrigen addict goin' through withdrawal, and yer neck looks like a giant zit."

"Really, don't hold back." Peter's laugh ended in a coughing fit.

Kurt kept a hand on the pale boy's shoulder to steady him. "We should get him some water."

Hawk-eyes looked pointedly at Logan, who grumbled as he stood to grab a bottle from a bag. "Don't go thinkin' I'm gonna play nursemaid all day," he warned as he tossed it over.

"We know, we know. You're big, tough, and don't care. Got it." Kate winked at the other boys as Logan narrowed his eyes at the girl's sarcastic tone.

He huffed and shook his head, adjusting the weapons on his knuckles. "This is fascinatin' and all, but if storytime's over, we have better things to be doin'. One of you two should walk the perimeter over there. I'm gonna go make sure no one's gotten too close on this side." He walked toward the street and ruffled a hand through Peter's hair as he passed. "Rest up, kid. Can't carry ya around for the rest of the Games."

Kate jumped up and stretched onto her tiptoes. "I'll go. I need a walk. Stay here and keep an eye on Web-Head," she added to Kurt.

"Web-Head?" Peter frowned as Kate skipped away.

Kurt laughed and pointed to the nearby heap of spider web. "You were completely wrapped in the stuff. Took a long time to get it all out of your hair. Logan actually suggested we just cut it off."

"The webbing?"

"Your hair."

Peter gasped and reached up to reassure himself he wasn't bald. The movement was too fast, but he hid his sharp intake of air with a sigh of relief that his normal unruly hair was intact.

The other boy chuckled. "He was joking. I think." Kurt went to the bag and returned with an open can. "Here, you must be hungry. Hope you like fruit."

"Better than cookies." The food and water were welcome, but after a couple bites and sips, his stomach began to churn unhappily. He set the unfinished can and water bottle aside, earning a concerned look from his nurse. Peter ignored him, turning his attention to the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead. "Can't believe I was out for almost two days. Time really flies when you've been spider-knapped and packaged." The warmth felt nice on his face, and he let his eyes close.

"Maybe you should get some sleep. You still look pale."

Peter cracked an eye to look at his friend. "No way. I've slept enough."

"Unconsciousness does not equal sleep, _mein Freund._"

Peter shook his head, careful not to overdo the motion. "Nope. Besides, I'm curious what I've missed."

"Kate just told you what happened. I don't think I could add anything to her show."

A group of clouds passed in front of the sun. "You know what I mean." A lot could have happened in a couple hours, let alone a couple days while they were in the Games. Though he'd rather avoid the subject, he had to know. "Who's not, uh, playing anymore?"

His companion hesitated. "I'm assuming you know about the first night?"

Peter nodded.

"The girl from Five yesterday and before that, the boy from One."

"Wade? The panda?" Peter couldn't really hide his surprise. "But wasn't he supposed to be one of the best?"

"I'm not sure if expectations count for much in these Games. If they did, those spiders would be enjoying a nice meal right now."

"Fair point." Norman's wish had come true; Peter wouldn't have to face the strange boy. The captain from Five was one of the tributes he hadn't really talked to. Norman wasn't the biggest Quill fan, so an alliance hadn't ever been discussed, despite the pair's promising appearance. Carol and her partner could have been the poster kids for ideal citizens, from what Peter had seen. "Anyone else?"

Another slight hesitation. "Wanda as well."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry." The words seemed hollow under the circumstances.

Kurt placed a hand on the other boy's shoulder. "We both share the loss, _mein Freund_."

"Guess so. Here's to Club Last of Our District." He picked up his hoodie and knotted his hands in the fabric until his knuckles were white. "Hey, uh, don't take this the wrong way, but why did you guys save me? I mean, if you left me, you would have been that much closer to walking out of  
this place."

"You mean besides the fact that no one should be eaten by giant spiders?" The easy smile stayed on the other boy's lips as he looked out across the river. After a silence that had Peter getting nervous, Kurt continued, "I can't exactly speak for the others, but I think we all had the same sort of thought. We're friends. It doesn't matter that we're in the Games. If we had left you there after all the good times, we would've lost a part of ourselves. We may be in a fight to the death, but that doesn't mean we have to become monsters." He looked back with a small smile. "Besides, if I don't win, I'd rather one of you three become victor than most of the others."

"I feel the same way about you guys." Peter half-smiled as they lapsed into comfortable silence. He picked at the darker, frayed thread where the spider had ripped his hoodie. The feeling from earlier returned and forced itself into a full thought.

_Did I really want to be saved?_

It would have been so much easier to be _not_ alive. At least then it would be over. He wouldn't have to outlive any more of his friends. It could have ended without him having to kill anyone.

The shaking started in his hands, and he tightened them on the fabric. If he had died, he also would've lost the chance to see Aunt May, Harry, or Gwen again. He would've let Norman and Betty down, and there was the outfit Honey was so excited to show him. He needed to stay positive. At least now he was with friends. It would be easier to smile.

"Well, that's about all the sitting I can take for the day." Peter reached over and grabbed his boots that had been set next to the sleeping bag. He pulled them on and laced them with fumbling fingers. He clenched his hands but couldn't get them to stop shaking. _The sooner this venom is out of my system the better._

"What are you doing?"

"I was never one to sit still for long." With a grunt, Peter began to stand, much to Kurt's dismay.

"You shouldn't push yourself."

"I'm fine." His vision started to swim as he tried to keep himself from swaying. "See? Perfectly alright."

The other boy quickly moved to his side and gripped an elbow to steady him. "Yeah, great shape."

"Is that sarcasm I detect?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Where, exactly, were you planning on going?"

The amount of energy it was taking to remain upright was worrying. Sweat was already soaking through his shirt, and every movement brought another wave of pain. Thankfully, the pain was duller than it had been. Less stabbing. "I was thinking of taking a stroll by the river."

"Are you sure you won't fall in?"

"Of course I won't! I have superb balance. Especially with you at my side. I saw that fancy footwork during training." Peter laid an arm across Kurt's shoulders, and the pair slowly walked toward the river's edge.

Kate was beginning her circle back around the perimeter and moved to join them. "Anything exciting on the horizon, Miss Hawkeye?" Pete called out.

"Not that I can see, and you know I see everything." She looked between the two boys with a frown. "Should he be walking?"

"He insisted," Kurt explained.

"I think the venom's made him delusional." Kate shook her head.

"Guys, please, your concern is touching, but I'm in tip top condition."

"Whatever, Lord of the Spiders." She sat with her legs swinging over the muddy river.

Peter grimaced dramatically. "You really don't have to call me that."

"Sure I do. You won our little game, after all." She grinned evilly.

Kurt lowered Peter to the ground, where he could lean his back against a pile of rubble. The injured boy let out a breath as he settled. The short walk had taken more out of him than he would have liked.

"I think he needs sleep," Kurt said, sitting next to Kate. "But he says he's not tired."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I slept for two days."

Kate ignored him. "Maybe we can drug his food? Do we have anything in that medkit that will make him sleep?"

"Guys, seriously. I'm right here. I can hear everything you're saying."

"He's on to us! We'll have to think of another way." She put a hand to her chin in thought.

"What the hell's everyone doin' over here?" Kurt raised a hand in greeting as the last member of their team approached..

Peter stopped Logan before he had a chance to say anything more. "If you ask me if I'm okay, I think I'm going to do something drastic."

The corner of Logan's mouth twitched slightly. "I was gonna say 'bout time ya got movin'."

The other two protested, while Peter gave a double thumbs up. A flash in the sky over Wolverine's shoulder caught his eye, and he squinted as he tried to figure out what it was. "Guys, don't freak, but I think we're about be visited by the sponsor fairy."

"No way." Kate followed his pointing finger to the two parachutes that were lazily descending from the sky. "No way! I call one!" She jumped up from her seat and ran to catch a descending box.

Kurt hurried to join her, jumping to get the other.

"Prob'ly should get over there before they break whatever's in 'em." Logan offered a hand to the younger teen.

"You never know; one of those might be yours," Peter said as he was pulled up.

Logan frowned. "I doubt it." His eyebrow raised as he watched Peter swaying in place. "Lookin' a little unsteady there."

"Me? Naw, I'm perfectly fine. Is the ground tilting? Because I'm pretty sure the ground is tilting."

Logan sighed and allowed the taller boy to use him as support.

"So, I take it this whole delivering me from spider hell counts as my one-time pass, right?" Peter asked.

"Guess so."

A wide grin spread across Peter's face. "Best bet I've ever won. Though I gotta admit, I'm a little surprised you didn't say screw it and leave me there. Wouldn't have blamed you with the whole arena of death and army of spiders."

A smirk crossed Logan's lips. "I lost the bet, and I always keep my promises. Even if it is to a pool hustlin' kid."

"Glad to hear you still have morals." Peter chuckled. "Does this have a time limit on how long I can hang around? You know, just so I can plan my midnight escape if need be."

"Depends. You plannin' on stabbin' me in the back?"

Peter shook his head adamantly. "I'm pretty sure it'd be a suicide mission to try and sneak up on you, anyway." The shoulders tensed under Peter's arm momentarily but relaxed before he could figure out what he'd said wrong.

"Then ya can stay as long as this group lasts. Don't think I could convince the Elf to let you leave now, anyway. He's damned determined to play doctor," the older boy grumbled. "Maybe Kate will leave me alone now that she has you to talk to."

"Aw, you don't have to make excuses. I know you just like having me around." Peter reached over to ruffle the shorter boy's hair.

"Beginnin' to regret not leavin' you with the spiders," Wolverine growled as he jerked his head away.

"Finally!" Kate said dramatically as the pair reached the campfire and Peter was lowered to the ground. "We were waiting on you slowpokes to open the presents."

"I can only move as fast as my escort," Peter said innocently, causing Logan to start grumbling about ungrateful kids as he took his own seat. "Looks like your plan to impress worked."

"Psh, of course it did. Have you seen us?" The girl grinned as she hugged the white box to her chest. A **'12'** was embossed on the front

"Little small for a bow," Logan teased.

She stuck out her tongue at the boy before ripping away the lid and protective wrapping. Her eyes lit up, and she let out a gasp. "Purple binoculars! Now I really _can_ see everything!" She fiddled with a few buttons on top as she looked through them and let out an excited eek. "Night vision! This thing has night vision!"

Kurt smiled at his companion. "I believe your eyesight has now surpassed even Clint."

"Who's the real Hawkeye now, Marvel?!" she shouted to the sky in glee.

"What'd I tell ya 'bout keepin' it down?" Logan's reprimand seemed half-hearted, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face. "What'd you get, Elf? Somethin' equally excitin'?"

"Actually, it's not for me." He held the smaller box out to a surprised Peter, who hesitantly took it.

"Don't seem very excited," Logan pointed out.

A snort escaped as Peter ran fingers over the embossed **'8'**. "The only things I've done are run away and lose a fight to a spider. Not exactly riveting television." He opened the lid to reveal a syringe filled with an amber liquid.

"What is it?" Kate asked, pausing her squealing momentarily.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Peter held it up to look at it against the sunlight. The liquid seemed to glow in the light. There was a sense of déjà vu that he couldn't place.

"Did it come with a note or somethin'?" Logan reached for the box and checked it himself.

"Maybe it's supposed to treat the bite," Kurt offered.

Peter shrugged. "If it is, it came a little late. I'm seriously feeling a lot better." It was true. There was only a dull ache now, and his head only spun when he moved.

"Well, what else could it be for?"

"Don't know. Guess there's only one way to find out for sure." He held the syringe up and pointed the capped needle between the others. "Who wants to be the guinea pig? Logan? You look pretty willing."

"I will throw ya in that river head first and enjoy it if ya come near me with that thing."

"I think we can hold him down." Kate jumped up and prepared to attack. "Kurt! I need reinforcements!"

Peter laughed as the boy tried to decide if it was worth the wrath of Wolverine to help Kate.

He was glad for the moment of normalcy. If he'd learned anything over the past week, it was that things changed quickly. Worrying about what would happen next would only make things worse. The syringe was a mystery, but he was sure the answer would come to him at some point. For now, it gave his hands something to play with as he twirled it between his fingers.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17\. Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde** .


	63. Chapter 62: Widow's Bite

**(A/N) Hey guys, this update is running a little behind schedule, but we're going to count it as Saturday's update, with another one coming in about twelve hours. We've been uploading roughly a chapter a day since Thursday, so make sure you're fully caught up and haven't skipped anything before reading this!This time round, we return to one of our two Hawkeyes, written marvelously as always by DeadWoman.**

**A big thanks to I-OfTheHawk and actresspdx for their reviews - as I've always said, and always will say, hearing from you guys makes all our efforts worth it. We write to be read, after all, and knowing that our work is not only read but _enjoyed_ is just amazing.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Two — Widow's Bite**

**Night, Day Four**

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

"_Betrayal is the only truth that sticks." - _Arthur Miller

"_Sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for is the one behind the trigger." - _Fall Out Boy_, "Miss Missing You"_

* * *

He missed the rain.

Clint shielded his eyes from the bright sun as he looked around the Career camp. It was quiet, except for the occasional scraping as Elektra sharpened her sai. He looked at Natasha to ask her if they could talk away from the others, but she was looking away, at the ruins of a building. She was always looking away. He couldn't exactly speak up, or the others would suspect something was amiss. And something was.

He had never expected to stay with the Careers for this long. He didn't think there would still be a lot of them left. He didn't think it would be this quiet and dull. His legs twitched as he sat there, raring for anything to distract him from this boredom. The buzz of his hearing aid caught his attention yet again, and he laid his bow across his lap as he hustled to re-set the device. It seemed to take a few seconds longer to give him the three little beeps that signalled all was well, and when the final beep echoed in his ear, he let out a sigh of relief. He took an extra moment to adjust the volume .. he'd wondered how fine he could tune the device that acted so differently from the one he used back in Two.

He jumped when he heard his name, spoken softly and in that smooth accent. "Barton." The way Loki said it made his teeth set on edge.

Clint turned round, frowning as he saw Loki sitting beside him, a strange look in his eyes. Loki was protected; everyone knew that. As Thor's brother, no-one could hurt him without getting hurt themselves. It wasn't so much an eye for an eye, more like an eye for a heart. "What do you want?" he whispered, making sure the annoyance he was feeling reflected in his voice.

"It's getting boring around here," Loki said. Clint frowned, not wanting to agree but feeling like Loki would know if he was lying. Of course he would know – it wasn't exactly Party Central out there. "We all know it. All the other tributes know it. We're sitting ducks if we stay here. We need to get out of the camp. Why don't we go hunting?"

"Just us two?" Clint frowned. He didn't trust Loki, and he wasn't sure why. Something about him just seemed to set his hair on edge.

"We can bring your little girlfriend too, if you want," Loki smirked, his gaze darting to Natasha and back. "Personally, I think she'd slow us down, but if you can keep her going, that would be great."

Clint laughed. "Shut it, Loki." He didn't bother being quiet anymore. As he glanced round the camp, he noticed that their hushed conversation had gathered attention. Elektra was looking suspiciously at them, and Natasha had stopped staring off into the distance and was instead glaring at the two boys. He kept the bright smile on his face as he winked at her. She looked away, still glaring.

He looked back to the raven-haired trickster. Loki was staring at him, eyebrows raised.

"Come on, you can't be serious?" Clint asked at last.

"Deadly." Loki leaned forward, his gaze almost hungry as he smiled.

"I didn't think you'd leave Thor. He being your brother and all. Blood ties," Clint said before realising that of course Loki wouldn't care about family. It had been obvious since Day One that Loki didn't care about anyone but himself, family or no family. He didn't care about allies, either, and if Clint did run away with him, into the damn sunset, then he'd be dead by morning.

Loki just shrugged, like leaving the others was an easy decision or something.

"Listen, kiddo, I'm staying here. You do whatever you want, but I'll bet you stay here as well. If anyone left this group, they wouldn't last a day without our supplies and the alliance. It's Hell out there if you don't have the right motivation. Your motivation is winning," Clint pointed out. Kid didn't understand the rules of this game. You had to _survive_. Not win. People who thought they could win were just kidding themselves. There was no winning in these Games. Even the winners lost.

"Isn't that everyone's motivation?" Loki asked, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smile.

"Not mine, and I know a few people who don't want to win, if they have to sacrifice things. Things like their sense of freedom," Clint said, his face flushing as he felt the familiar anger rising up inside him. "But we were never free, I guess. Always playing the Games."

Loki gave him a blank look, and he realised he had been revealing his thoughts to all of Marvel. _Good_, he thought. If it made people think of the ridiculousness about following the Capitol's rules, he didn't care about the repercussions. After all, what more could they do to him? He was already a dead man walking, just waiting for death to catch up to him. Natasha would be the one who would survive this. He already knew that. He was just there to make sure she made it to the end.

Clint sighed and stood up. "I'm going to keep watch in that tree. Tell me if you need me to distract them while you make your grand escape." A smirk flashed across his face. Loki didn't have a clue, despite all his intelligence, about the tough world of the arena. Clint might not have been around pampered kids like that all his life, but he knew a thing or two about them. Their ego was bigger than their sense, and fancy words didn't get you anywhere when you were fighting for your life. In the Capitol world of politics and scandal, smooth talking might be a weapon, but no-one had ever won the Games by making speeches.

He rested in the branches of the tree, preferring to be higher up but not wanting to lose sight of the camp. He was sure that Loki wouldn't stop at convincing him to run away because of his rejection. He'd just change the angle to suit his little mind games.

Natasha had stood up and was walking towards their water supply, holding a presumably empty bottle. He looked at the ruins of the city that looked like it was once great and wondered how the other tributes were. Injured or hungry or wishing that they were home.

Clint was just about to curl up and maybe take a nap, to get rid of the dark thoughts of home that were weighing him down, when he heard something. A rustling of leaves from below him. He sat up, hand already withdrawing an arrow from his quiver. Then he saw the face he had grown to know by heart. "Natasha, you scared me," he said.

"Thought you weren't scared of anything," she replied in an almost playful tone, pulling herself up to sit on the branch opposite of him.

"What gave you that idea?" He slotted the arrow back, glad that he hadn't shot her by accident. That wouldn't gain him popularity with the Careers, although it would have gained a few laughs from the audience. "What are you doing up here?"

"Crazy bitch kept looking at me while she was playing with her sai," Natasha referred to Elektra in the same way Clint did, which made him have to hide his smile of adoration. Was adoration too strong a word? No; it was too weak.

"Are you telling me the mighty Black Widow's scared of something too?" Clint teased. Natasha sighed heavily and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I thought I'd come up here before I started a fight," she replied with an arched brow.

"You'd win," he told her. "She doesn't have anything on you." For an instant, she looked almost as if she was going to smile, but then it simply slipped away, and she toughened up again.

"I wish you'd stop saying things like that, Barton." Natasha scowled and re-folded her arms as she shifted uncomfortably. "People might think you're sweet on me." Clint tried not to notice that she was looking Loki's way.

She reminded him of the few times that his mother had been mad at him, before her death. The silences that were followed by outbursts that shook the house. It was always his fault. He had said something wrong or risked the Sentinels coming to their house and bad-mouthed the Capitol in a public place. "But…" she hesitated. "Thanks." Just like that, the little smile that he'd waited for pulled at the corner of her lips, and she uncrossed her arms a bit.

Clint smiled faintly. She was warming up to him, slowly but surely. They stayed like that for a few more minutes, and then he noticed that the sun was setting. Too late for him and Loki to ride off into the sunset, then. Natasha was looking at the pink and orange-streaked sky, too. "Beautiful, isn't it?" she said softly.

"Yeah, it's stunning," he said, though his eyes never left the red-haired beauty. He wasn't talking about the colours of the sky that had entranced this trained killer from District Two. He certainly didn't give a shit about the sky. He cared about Natasha. He cared about this girl who could kill on command, who fought like no-one else, who was so dangerous. She could mess up everything, lead him to his death. Hell, he would follow her to the next life and the next and the next.

She didn't feel the same way. How could she? Emotions like this weren't things that she could fully comprehend. They were weak and pitiful and for children. She was strong, and if she was pitied, she would kill whoever had pitied her.

Compared to the girl next to him, the sky was nothing. It could be explained; she couldn't. She was an intangible mess of strings, and by God, did he love her.

* * *

Clint fell into a restless sleep that night. He kept thinking of Loki's proposal, of his desire to get away. Was he really doing himself any favours staying put? Only that morning, he had been thinking about how he wanted to get out of there. To get away from the Careers.

But they'd come after him. After Natasha if he brought her along, too. So he would stay, even if he didn't like it.

Still, it was hard to sleep with the younger of Odin's sons creeping around the edges of the campfire, whispering his schemes. He was talking to Natasha, but from this distance, Clint couldn't hear what they were saying. Natasha didn't look too happy about it, at any rate.

And anyway, the nightmares had seeped into his waking moments. Haunting melodies and trees whipped by as his dream-self ran through a forest.

He didn't realise he had fallen asleep until he woke up with a start when Loki shook him awake. "Your turn to keep watch," Loki said. They swapped places; Loki curled up in the sleeping bag, and Clint sat on a rock, his bow and arrows by his side. It didn't take long for the younger boy to fall asleep, his breathing soft and even but his body occasionally twitching.

There was a snap of a twig, and Clint stood up, preparing his arrow for the second time that day. And again, for the second time that day, it was Natasha on the receiving end of it. She looked almost surprised to see him, and her gaze darted to her left for just an instant before returning to meet his confused stare. He was about to lower his bow when he smelt smoke. It was being carried along on the breeze, from the direction of their supplies. Sure enough, flames flared up.

She had set the supplies on fire. She had betrayed them. She had betrayed _him. _

His hands wavered, but he didn't drop his bow. The supplies smelled awful in his nostrils as they burned, plastic and fabric and even a few chemicals all going up in smoke.

But he couldn't loose the arrow. Or he wouldn't. Something kept him back from that, some kind of need.

Yes, that was it. He needed to know that she still cared first. "What the hell have you done?" he whispered. The fire hadn't woken anyone up yet. "Natasha!"

"I .. I had to. I'm sorry, Clint," she stammered, her voice almost as cold as the day he met her, but he could sense the fear in it. The regret.

"Nat, we can fix this. We can tell them it was another tribute," he dropped his bow. "Why did you do this? Why—"

"Why?" Natasha barked out a mirthless laugh. "You don't understand, Clint. It's not what it looks like." Her eyes widened as she looked at the rising flames, turning the Careers' lifeline to ashes. "Oh God."

"Natasha!" Clint snapped. He could taste the smoke now. It was an awful cloud, surrounding them both. It stung his eyes, and he tried not to cough. "Help me put the fire out."

"I'm so sorry, Clint. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to do this. I'm just… I'm confused. Clint, they're going to know it's me. They're going to kill me. I don't want to die," Natasha gasped. Clint stepped forward, his head hurting. The smoke would wake the others up soon, and they would believe it was either him or Natasha if they didn't run.

"We can go now, Nat. If we run, they won't catch us. I promise I can keep us safe." He held his hand out, moving closer towards her. For a moment, he thought he saw her smile, but it quickly transformed into a frown as she took his hand. He squeezed hers, and she looked at him, surprise in her eyes. It seemed like years since they had held hands on the stage at the Reaping. She leaned in a bit closer to him, and he held his breath, unsure of what in the world she was up to.

Then, a cold blade slid into his side. He cried out. Natasha didn't let go of his hand; she held on as she pulled the knife back out, and she held on as he collapsed to the ground, shaking. She crouched down beside him, looking conflicted. He couldn't help the tears that ran down his face. He felt sick. He couldn't comprehend what had happened. Why it had happened. Had he not been clear enough? He would give up everything to run away with her. And she had just—

"Clint, I'm sorry," she said. "You know I wouldn't do this if I had any other choice." And then she let go of his hand. He mourned the loss almost instantly, the pain from his wound combining with the pain in his chest. She slipped away, like a wraith in the night. Then there were voices yelling. He couldn't see who they were, but he could hear as he struggled to breathe and to see through the smoke.

"Barton! Romanoff!" Elektra screeched. "Those sons of bitches! Traitors! They—" The voice stopped, and Clint could see a pair of boots beside him. Elektra looked down at him, confused. At first, she looked surprised to have discovered him there, but then the understanding lighted up her eyes. "Barton? Holy shit."

"What is it?" Loki asked. Clint blinked at them, his fingers scraping along the ground, looking for something solid to hold onto. Something that wouldn't leave him. He found nothing but ground and air. "Where's Romanoff?"

"She set the fire, didn't she?" Elektra snarled. "That bitch. We should have killed her when we had the chance. Now she's gone and left us helpless. I'm going to find her right now, drag her sorry ass back here and kill her, nice and slowly."

"No," Clint muttered. "No. She's long gone. You'll never find her and she'll … she'll probably find you … she'll find you first." His breath slowed down. Was he dying? This felt like death. He didn't want to die. _Not now. Please._

* * *

Clint opened his eyes to a numbness in his side and soft voices nearby. He turned on his good side and looked at the tributes, discussing God knows what.

Natasha. She had hurt him. Stabbed him. Broke his heart. Left. He curled up in a ball and buried his face into the sweatshirt he was using as a pillow.

The others had fixed him up. He could feel the bandages on his now bare chest as well as the wet touch of some kind of medicine, and he wondered how he had slept through that. He must have been pretty out of it.

But of course he was out of it. He still couldn't process what had happened. It didn't make sense. Had Natasha not understood? He would have run away from the Careers with her, would have helped to keep them off of her trail. He would have done anything for her. And she knew it. Why else would she have used that against him? She knew she could manipulate him, and she took advantage like the killer they'd trained her to be. He felt like a fool.

He took a deep breath, and the pain in his side only intensified. He gritted his teeth, but it was hard not to make a sound, and he was surprised when a soft moan escaped his lips. _Great. Now they'll know how badly I'm hurt_. Though he didn't know if it was more from the pain in his side or the still raw heartbreak.

Loki seemed to notice that he was awake and made his way over to where Clint was propped up. "I see that, for all she meant to you, she was only too ready to cast you aside," Loki muttered. He was trying to look disinterested, but Clint could see that Loki was grinning. Almost like he _enjoyed _seeing Clint like this.

Clint said nothing. He didn't trust himself to speak. It was almost as if Loki had reached right into his heart and pulled. What could he say to him anyway? For all his slick words, the little manipulator from Twelve was right.

"And yet I can hardly believe that she would have done this before the Games. You and she were … close." Loki paused on that last word with a sickening smile.

Clint sneered at him. "What would _you _know, Loki?"

Loki held up both his hands. "Only what I've seen." Loki returned to the pretense of taking care of Clint, looking over his bandages, but Clint glared at him.

After a long silence, Loki tried again. "The moment the Games began, you lost her."

Clint glared at him again but didn't trust himself to speak.

Loki was right. Natasha had been different since the Games began. She had changed. After the bloodbath, after she had been injured, it was like she became someone else.

But no, that was wrong. She was still his Natasha. _His _Natasha was still there. He knew she was. He had seen his Natasha as she watched the sunset, as she reached out to him. He had seen it in her eyes.

And then she had stabbed him. Because his Natasha was also a trained killer. His Natasha had also been taught how to sever ties, how to strike where it hurt the most. Yes, she was still there. She hadn't changed all that much. He just had never expected her to turn that training against _him_. At least, not until the end.

Clint frowned and tried to turn away from Loki without hurting his side. "Get lost," he mumbled. It wasn't his best retort, but he didn't have the energy for much more than that. Because Loki was right.

The boy just smiled at him and scampered away. There was a smile on his face.

Clint tried to close his eyes, but the smell of that awful smoke was still in his nostrils. He could still feel her hand in his. He could see the look in her eyes when she stabbed him.

She was out there somewhere. Without him.

Clint reached for his bow and his quiver, looking toward the other Careers. They didn't seem to have noticed him, still talking about whatever it was they had been discussing when he first woke up.

They didn't care about Natasha. They wouldn't understand if they found her. So it had to be him. He would have to be the one to catch her, because they would have no mercy when they caught up to her.

And then … well, he wasn't sure what he would do. But he knew she had to pay for what she'd done to him. He would make her answer for her betrayal. He would make her face what she had done to him. She couldn't get away with this.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17\. Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde**


	64. Chapter 63: The Hunter's Instincts

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our fourth chapter in four days, so once more, I'll urge you to make sure that you're fully caught up before you begin this one. Have to say, I love this chapter, between the awesomeness that is Logan and the brilliance that is Canuckle's mind, we've got a treat for you all.**

**Big thanks to I-OfTheHawk and GeekyComicBookGuy for their reviews, and I hope you'll keep letting us know what you think! After all, hearing your feedback may just help keep your favourite characters alive!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Three – The Hunter's Instincts**

**Morning, Day Five**

**James "Logan" Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

"_When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be_." - Lao Tzu

* * *

Logan had been antsy since dawn. After the damn spiders, he'd had more than enough of the spot that his travelling companions had chosen. Finally, after gently nudging them awake one by one with his boot, the others were all up and about – tired but at least a little bit rested.

"Alright, pack up what you're keepin' – everything else goes in the river. Nothin' left behind to tell anyone we were here," Logan directed as they picked up their packs and he helped Peter to his feet.

"Nothing like a refreshing walk through the ruins of a city filled with people trying to kill us," Peter commented. His mouth was working at almost normal speed, but his balance was still a bit slow going, and he winced in pain from time to time.

"I wouldn't exactly say _filled _with people," Kurt argued good-naturedly.

"Better'n takin' the transport out," Logan grumbled as he curled his hands into fists, watching the lashings on his claws for any trouble.

"_There's_ that ray of sunshine I was waiting for," Kate added, getting a smile from Peter at least.

Logan didn't acknowledge her, and Kurt seemed a bit reluctant to get in the middle, instead reassuring the Trickshot and the Web Head that their spirits would rise and Logan would relax once they got some distance from the old nest.

They carefully folded up the webbing that they'd cut away from Peter's rescue and packed it away. There was no telling if they could make use of it later.

They were all in agreement on finding a new spot, though Logan was starting to feel as though it would be wiser to go on the offensive and start hunting down tributes. His traveling companions' cosy campfires couldn't go on forever, and they knew it. They had to.

They disguised the remnants of the fire and any sign they'd been there before finally heading out. The group as a whole was a little nervous as Logan led the way.

He stopped and listened every now and again, the three of them following suit every time he did. He was on high alert and, unlike the other three, simply didn't trust even the tiniest of sounds as they echoed through the streets and ruins of the massive city. Not after Raven pulled her little trick.

For a while, they kept the river in sight between buildings on their left as they walked before Logan began using a random method of zig-zagging and circling back. He'd thought that if they kept their trail from being a simple straight line, it might give him the chance to see how well they were disguising their trail and get a better lay of the land. Not to mention that it would give him a chance to look for other tributes that might be out and about.

He'd instructed them to stay on the hard ground – avoid the sand and little patches of dirt near the edges of the roadways to avoid leaving footprints that others could follow. So far, they were doing a bang-up job, even going single file without being told when the hard pavement was narrow.

As they travelled the dilapidated streets, they found trees everywhere that had grown up in the middle of the roadways and sidewalks. Their branches poked out of broken out windows of buildings. Entire patches of green life had slowly reclaimed parts of this mammoth expanse of asphalt, brick, and mortar in that section of the arena.

During their trek, Logan never quit watching as he tried to see everything at once. He'd already snapped at the kids with enough of a snarl that they'd kept their chatter to a whisper but not held their tongues entirely as they pulled Peter into their cheerful, wayward camping mind-set. But Parker was still not fully up to snuff, and even their slow rate of travel was wearing on him. He'd improved dramatically from the night before…food, water, and rest had truly worked miracles, though he had to wonder what was in that vial Peter had gotten. It just showed them all how close their little Spider Man had gotten to a cannon blast.

Logan stopped suddenly and focused on a spot of dirt not ten yards ahead of them that seemed to hold a trail leading towards the big green patch of trees ahead, near the river. It looked like it might be a forest, but it seemed so abrupt in the middle of this vast cityscape.

He held his hand up for them to quiet down and stay back – one of the few signals they'd agreed on. He crept forward and was a little surprised to find what amounted to a wildlife super highway. Deer tracks. Lots of them…some of them days or even a week old…others hours. All of them marked a path of travel for the animals in a section of the road that had been destroyed long ago. It was now just a washed out bed of sand that showed every step, trip, and drag of the toe of anything that walked through it.

He looked both ways down the trail and knelt down to really analyse what the trail was saying to him and to see the direction the animals had headed last. He froze on seeing something unusual and bent down a hair closer, unsure if he really did see…it almost…yep. There was part of a boot print mixed into the tracks. Just a partial…and not even enough to tell how big the foot of its owner was or which direction they were headed, seeing as the deer had trampled over the top of it. He ran his finger over the crevice of the deepest part of the little section of tread and watched the sand crumble into the mark, destroying it. Maybe last night. Maybe the afternoon before. Looking down the trail again, he didn't see another one…at least nothing that was of any help to him.

All it really meant was that he'd likely just led them closer to another tribute. It was inevitable, but it still didn't sit well with him.

Instinctively, he started staring off, his eyes partly unfocused as he scanned the area, watching for any tiny movement but finding nothing but the wind in the leaves. He spent a few more moments looking at the tracks, trying to decide if he should say anything to his cheerful companions. Kate's laughter caught his attention and made his decision for him. Not yet. Not unless he knew there was trouble.

"What did you find, Logan?" Kurt asked, a smile in his voice as Logan stood and returned to the group.

"Please tell me it's a hot meal and change of clothes. Though if it's only one, I'll take the food." Peter looked pale as he leaned on Kurt, and his smile looked forced. Kate had already gotten wise and was watching their backs as Logan returned to them.

"Game trail," Logan replied, looking at the line of buildings near the forest and working his jaw as he thought. With Peter with them, they'd more or less burned through the last of their food, and he knew that the kid needed protein to heal faster. He smirked to himself. His kids were hungry. Something had to be done.

"We're goin' huntin'," he said quietly. The beaming smile he got from Kate was unexpected…but very intriguing.

"I hope you mean for something four-legged…because I'm not too keen on eight legs _or_ two at the moment," Parker said warily as Kurt assured him that was exactly what Logan meant. They'd been traveling for hours already, and it was pretty clear that Peter was in need of a break.

"We're gonna make camp first," Logan told them, still watching the buildings and trees around them. "Hunting might take some time. Don't wanna have to try to find a safe spot after dark. Better to set it up now." His explanation was short, sweet, and to the point, but he never really looked at them as he spoke. He didn't seem to be in any rush to find anything, still waiting as he stared off ahead.

Peter went to Kate, the two of them discussing something as she fiddled with her binoculars when Kurt stepped toward Logan. "You look troubled, _mein Freund_," Kurt said, catching Kate's attention as Logan turned his back to them again, eyes trained on the trees.

"Let's just find a place to set up camp before Parker falls down. Carryin' him once was enough."

"I think I should resent that. Should I resent that?" Peter looked to Kurt, who only shrugged in response, while Logan tried to tune him out. He liked the kid, and the return of the smart mouth was proof positive that he was improving, but still. It was just about all Logan could do to not tell him to shut the hell up for the two hundredth time.

"It's a nest," Kate cut into Logan's thoughts, her arms crossed and a playful smile on her face. "I already told you that."

"You're not still stuck on that, are you?" he asked, one eyebrow raised at her.

"Yes. I insist. 'Nest' fits us better. Besides, I really want to try out my binoculars. So we need a nest. Height." He just watched her for a minute before he realized that she was serious.

"Whatever. Let's just go," Logan grumbled half-heartedly. She smiled as she bumped shoulders with Peter, and Logan turned back the direction they were headed. He made them walk deeper into the city to find a spot that wouldn't leave footprints before weaving back to where they'd found the game trail and continuing beyond it. Tall brick buildings to their right and forest to their left, though, admittedly, the line between them was less and less distinct the further they got. What looked like it once might have been a park had begun to encroach on the roads and buildings at its borders, blurring the line between them.

He made a note of where the game trail went into the woods and reminded them to keep to the hard ground, more nervous about leaving any sign of their passing through. Particularly now that he knew someone was likely lurking around.

When Peter began leaning more on Kurt and Kate for support, Logan decided on the spot that Parker needed a place to rest immediately. Kate's request for height would have to wait.

The forest to their left seemed to be a lot bigger than Logan had first estimated, and at long last, he found a handful of two-story brick buildings nestled in between some taller tenements. He scouted around the exterior of them, looking for any sign of life…human or otherwise...that may have taken up residence before he tried one of their doors.

The old wooden door was locked; likely, the tumblers had rusted into place years ago, but all that really did was convince him that it was a good place to look into. It just meant no one else had been in there. He looked down the steps where the rest of the group stood, watching him warily.

"If it's locked, we should probably just try another one, right? I mean, I might be able to climb up to a window if you're dead set on this place," Peter said quietly. Logan paused before he shook his head a little and gave Kate a small wink before he suddenly threw his shoulder into the door. A small cloud of loose dust and debris all but exploded around him as the old wood bent inward and the door frame all but shattered. He quickly caught himself from falling forward through the now free-swinging door.

"Or…you could do that. You could always do that." Peter raised his eyebrows and blinked at the broken door frame as Logan actually smiled.

"You _could_ have just kicked it in," Kate said, rolling her eyes at his brutish display.

"Woulda left a footprint that way. You wanna hang a callin' card on the front door?" he countered, and she quickly shook her head.

They slipped inside and quietly went from room to room, looking for any sign of trouble. Finally, finding none, they all seemed to relax a hair. The second story of the building was actually pretty nice, aside from the thick layer of dust that covered the better part of everything there. Not that they cared about that…it was dry, and as long as they kept from the windows, they were well hidden.

"Alright. You two keep an eye on Parker. I'm going hunting. I'll be back with some meat," Logan told them, re-tightening the claws on his forearms before standing up and heading toward the door.

He hadn't taken more than three steps before he heard Kate walking right behind him. He stopped and turned to look at her, his eyebrows drawn together. "What are you doing?" he asked, when she nearly bumped into him.

"I'm helping you. We're hunting," she replied brightly as she took a couple steps back, a clear attempt to make sure he had his space as Logan shook his head and put one clawed hand up between them, his palm open.

"No. You're not. Go back and help Kurt with Parker," he growled out. She crossed her arms and cocked her hip.

"No way. Kurt doesn't need my help. Pete's just resting, and there's nothing for me to do here…but you might need me to watch your back. We're a team…remember?"

He let out a breath and looked at the ground for a moment.

"She's right, Logan. None of us should be alone right now. Let her help; she may just surprise you," Kurt added. Peter just watched them like a tennis match was in play, his focus shifting to whomever was talking, wisely keeping his mouth shut for the time being.

Logan looked up at Kate, who had transitioned to a mixture of very serious and hopeful. She was biting her lip as she nearly bounced in place, waiting for him to just agree. As much as he hated to admit it…they had a point. Especially when he took into consideration that there was someone out there…maybe even nearby.

That, and he knew from the short amount of time they'd spent together that dissuading her once she'd made up her mind would be no easy task.

"It's okay, Dad. You and Mom can go get dinner. Kurt can take care of me all by himself. He's very capable. Isn't that right, big bro?" Peter swung an arm around the other boy and smiled widely. Logan let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. These kids…

"Alright. Fine…just…if you're going to hunt with me, you gotta listen to what I tell ya. First things first…give me some room. Stay back more'n two steps." Her grin returned in spades as she all but leapt backwards, eyes bright. He nearly let out a growl. This was going to be tough.

"Try to walk quietly," Logan told her, one eyebrow raised before he looked toward Kurt. "Barricade the door…you know what a Great Horned Owl sounds like?" Kurt smiled and nodded his head once.

"I'll be listening for you," Kurt assured him. Logan nodded and turned toward the stairs, Kate right behind him, with Kurt tailing them to barricade the door as Logan had suggested.

The hunt had started out fine…they kept quiet and moved quickly back to where the game trail led into the forest. "**Inwood Park",** if the sign that hung crookedly from the old, bent metal post was to be believed.

They were safely into the forest when Kate's footsteps started to really get to him. She was quieter than Peter and Kurt…but nowhere near quiet enough to stalk up on a deer.

"Alright. Stop. You're walking wrong," he grumbled as he straightened up and turned to face her.

"What are you talking about? I've been walking since I was in diapers. I'm pretty sure it's not possible to 'walk wrong'. I'm sneaking and everything." She crouched down and demonstrated her best sneak…breaking twigs and rustling leaves as she did so even when she gently rolled her foot. He shook his head at her and took a few steps himself…moving silently through the same leaves and sticks.

"You're walking heel to toe. Start with the outside of the ball of your foot and roll it across slowly before you roll onto your heel. One foot in front of the other, too…single track." She watched him take a few slow steps and mimicked it. Her head popped up with a grin when she saw how easy it was and how much quieter she was when she did it his way.

"Works a lot better barefoot," he told her. "Hopefully we won't need to do that, though. Who knows what's busted up in here – glass, old metal."

"Where did you learn that?" she whispered as they crouched down and resumed following the trail. But he just shook his head and held up a hand before raising one finger to his lips. Now wasn't the time to talk.

The trail soon seemed to disappear…the tracks all but dissolved on the harder, drier dirt the further they went into the trees, but Logan didn't slow his pace. There was plenty of sign outside of footprints he could follow.

They'd gotten to a spot that looked as if it was a bedding area when he finally stopped cold. He was seeing clear signs again…but not from a deer.

Green leaves knocked off of branches…further down the trail, broken branches and tall grass that had been scrunched over. Animals didn't do things like that. Not even wounded ones.

They weren't the only tributes out in these woods today.

He picked up a few of the leaves…they seemed pretty fresh…hadn't wilted much at all. Cautiously, he circled out from their position…now hunting both the deer and whoever it was creeping around the woods with them. Kate didn't seem to pick up on the human signs, judging by the fact that she still looked like she was doing her best imitation of a serious huntress.

Logan paused and all but knelt down as he examined what was visible of another boot print…again covered by deer tracks that had mostly obscured it.

"Should we put our ears to the ground, kemosabe?" Kate teased, earning another sigh from her gruff tracker. He shook his head lightly and looked up again, mostly ignoring her light teasing as he watched.

It was getting frustrating. They were kicking up deer as they came through, they were losing light, and for all the trouble they'd gone through to move and find a decent hiding spot, Logan just wanted to bring something down. They were counting on him, after all, and he didn't like the idea of Kate having to face whoever might be lurking in the forest while he hunted for their dinner. To top it off, the leaves on the maples were starting to turn upward, showing their silver side. Rain was coming soon.

"Hey, relax. We'll get one. No pressure. It's not like we're the ones being hunted right now." She said it with a teasing tone, but the smile fell from her face when he met her eyes suddenly. "Or are we?" She was wide-eyed as he again went back to scanning the forest around them.

"I'm not sure. Might just be someone who passed through already…but I'm trying to hunt deer. Otherwise I'd track 'em down and find out." His reply was frank as he continued looking around them slowly. She spun and quickly did the same as thunder rolled overhead.

"But…I didn't see anything…how do you know?" she asked in a rush, clearly alarmed. He took a deep breath and stood up fully. He took a quick look around the clearing and stepped away from the trail they were following. He crouched down and waved her over. She didn't need to be told twice.

"Look here," he told her as he showed her a handful of green leaves lying on the forest floor. "Animals don't knock off leaves unless it's fall. Over here." She followed his claws as he pointed to a branch broken off about waist high. When she saw it, her entire facial expression changed. He handed her a few of the fallen leaves. "These are wilted; takes at least an hour for that to happen." She just held them in her hands as he looked around them again and jerked his head to show her another spot, hidden under some nearby bushes…disturbed old leaves. He gently moved them out of the way to reveal another section of a boot print…nothing more than a few treads.

"We haven't been through here, and if you've been followin' my lead…which I think you have…_we_ didn't break any branches." He stood up slowly again and started to head back to where the hunt for their dinner had been momentarily sidetracked, with Kate following him closely. "There are lots of signs if you know what to look for," he said quietly as they came to a stop. Kate just nodded, looking very serious – no trace of a smile graced her features.

"Never been in a forest with other people in it. The trails were always just animal trails," Kate said quietly as they met eyes. Logan just nodded, the corner of his mouth pulled tight. Without another word, she moved to stand right next to him. He wanted to do something to comfort her but couldn't figure what, seeing as the claws weren't exactly comforting to anyone. He bumped her shoulder to get her attention and try and reroute her focus.

"C'mon. We got kids to feed back at your nest," he teased. She grinned back at him, quickly shifting gears back to the cheerful little Trickshot.

A little way down the trail, he unfocused his eyes as he looked for movement in the brush and waited. At this point, he didn't know if it was an animal or a human…but it wasn't the wind that had jiggled the branches in that bush forty yards out. In fact, the wind had all but died out. That was done by something alive. He locked his eyes on the spot and, without turning his head, decided to give Kate her instructions.

He _was_ going to tell her to wait for him, but she had looked a little shaken by the news that they weren't alone, and he didn't want anyone to get the jump on her while he was busy. "Stay back, but have your knife ready," he said quietly.

"I'm not waiting here for you…I'm going too," she said firmly, clutching her knife in front of her. He nodded, not really wanting to leave her alone anyhow.

"I didn't mean to wait here. We're hunting together, right? Just…make sure I can move and be ready in case the deer bolts. If I'm right, this won't take long. You ready, Trickshot?" She shot him a quick smile and nodded.

He crossed the clearing silently, crouched low as he slipped into the tall grass and brush on the other side. Kate mimicked him as closely as she was able, and just a few yards behind him. She froze when he did, and when he peeked over his shoulder, she looked determined, if not a bit nervous with the knowledge that it might just be a person they were creeping up on.

He heard whatever it was they were hunting up ahead in the deeper grass. He walked quietly and stopped every few steps, making sure they didn't spook their quarry. He gave her the signal to wait, and she shook her head, her brows drawn together. He inclined his head to her, eyes locked on hers, and again gave her the signal to wait. She looked nervous, and he raised an eyebrow at her, finally getting her to smile. He pointed to her, then to where he stood, before silently slipping off.

He didn't dare pop his head up to see what they were hunting until he knew he was close enough to take it down. He crouched lower as he snuck around to the other side of the clearing, taking only one or two steps at a time before he would stop, his gaze locked onto the spot where he knew his prey waited. He held his breath until the doe came into view.

She had no fawn at her side and was peacefully chewing on the clover that had grown tall in the clearing, undisturbed by man or beast. He just continued to edge the clearing, trying to find the best spot for his ambush. Downwind…deep cover.

When it was clear that the doe hadn't seen or scented him, he could feel his body going into autopilot as he crept closer in the tall grass. He didn't blink, and his motions became very smooth as he snuck up on her, in spite of every muscle in his body being tense as a bowstring. His total focus was on the doe. If she moved her head, he froze until she relaxed again. The closer he got to her, the lower he seemed to be to the ground, his arms splayed out ever so slightly, his fingertips and the tips of his claws touching the ground for balance when he stopped.

The muscles in his legs and back were starting to scream at him from the long-held low crouch until finally, from a couple arms lengths away…he sprung forward, lunging at the deer. Its head popped up just as he wrapped one arm around its neck and all but tackled it to the ground. It had started to bleat when his free hand slipped up with the long, sharp claws to slice its throat. He pulled its head back toward him, keeping the wound wide open as the blood rushed from its body, both silencing the animal and expediting its end.

It took less than a minute for the deer to die, and aside from a fair bit of blood on his hands and arms…he was no worse for wear. As soon as the doe stilled, he released it and stood up, his gaze immediately going to Kate across the clearing…who, by the look on her face, had watched the whole thing. He was breathing a bit heavy as he looked down at his bloodied hands, one set of claws still dripping.

"You wanna get over here and put that toad sticker to use? Be better to work with than these," He held his hands in front of himself, his claws crossed as if she hadn't seen them already. She was wide-eyed as she nodded and rushed in, surprising him when she followed his instructions to the letter…sometimes even rushing ahead of his directions, as if she'd done this before, as they cleaned it and started to butcher out the best parts. Logan made a rough cut across the shoulders and yanked the hide toward the tail, exposing the back and spine before they cut out the back straps.

"No reason to take the tough stuff," Logan said with a smirk. He laid out a good-sized chunk of the deer hide fur-side down and wrapped the meat in it before shoving it into Kate's bag and hauling it onto his shoulder.

"What about the rest of it?" she asked as Logan grabbed a leg.

"I didn't kill it for whoever's runnin' the woods," he replied. "River's right over there. Guess it's time for her to go for a swim."

* * *

The walk back to their nest was quiet, and Logan led the way the whole time. Kate didn't say a word or make a sound the rest of the way back, and every time he stole a glance at her, she too, was watching the trees around them warily. He wasn't sure if she was afraid of another tribute, the deteriorating weather, or if seeing him kill that deer had gotten to her. He'd managed to rub some of the dried blood off, but some was still clearly visible around his hands, in the strapping that held his claws, and dried in streaks on his arms. It would take water to get rid of it, and there was no way that filthy excuse for a river was going to help the situation.

The skies were darkening quickly around them, making the forest look that much more ominous.

"Are we going to follow the game trail all the way back?" Kate asked, the wind starting to lift her hair up off her neck. He slowed to answer and noticed that she was looking deeply into the woods; he finally paused and looked up to the skies.

"Don't know that we have time for that," he replied. "The trail wove across itself a few times. Let's just skip the loops and head right back. Don't want the Elf worryin' himself blue over us." For the first time since the kill, she smiled, and the two of them picked up their pace. He wasn't as worried about tracks being left this time. The coming rain would obscure anything left behind.

Kurt was waiting for them when they returned. They stopped across the broken concrete roadway, and Logan cupped his hands to make the owl call. A few seconds later, it was answered with a soft hoot and the sound of the barricade being removed from the door. They quickly slipped up the cracked steps and inside before Kurt and Logan set the barricade back into place.

"Did you get anything?" Peter asked as his eyes landed on the blood dried to Logan's arms. Logan opened his mouth to answer, but Kate beat him to it.

"You should have seen it Peter…it. Was. AWESOME," Kate exclaimed, again bouncing on the balls of her feet. Logan just stared at her as she started to talk, a bit in disbelief at her enthusiasm. "He sneaks around in the woods just like he belongs there."

"That's probably why they call him Wolverine," Peter pointed out, to which Kate nodded enthusiastically.

She was grinning at Logan as he pulled off the pack containing the meat and handed it to Kurt. She kept talking…telling them her view of how he tracked the deer, even when the trail just seemed to disappear.

"It was like he could _smell_ where the deer went. It was so cool. And then…oh man," she stopped in telling the story to drop into a crouch as Kurt smiled at her, her highly animated means of storytelling amusing enough that even Logan had to smirk at her performance.

"So, guys. We followed the trail into the deep grass…and I waited while he circled around, and I was totally ready for that deer to come running…but then I saw him on the other side of the clearing and it was – well." She looked to be searching for the right way to phrase it. "You ever seen a bobcat hunt?" Without waiting for anyone to respond, she continued, "It was like that. Like watching a big cat."

She stood up straighter for a second and tipped her head to the side. "I don't think you even saw me there, did you, Wolvie?" she asked, turning to him as he finished cutting up the meat. He looked up at Kurt, who was grinning at him. He returned an amused smile before answering.

"Nope. Wasn't lookin' for ya," Logan replied dryly as he tried to stay focused on the task at hand.

"Didn't think so. Plus, I was just that sneaky. Anyway, he just…_pounced _and grabbed it by the neck, and it was over – just like that." She snapped her fingers as she finished her tale.

Thunder rumbled low all around them…close enough and low enough to shake the very ground and the building around them.

"No offense, Kate, but I'm glad we're inside and not on a roof," Peter said quietly, and Kurt nodded in agreement as he and Logan started putting their dinner over the fire that Kurt had waiting on their return.

As Kate and Pete continued to talk, Logan tuned her out, focused on the burning bits of broken furniture that made up the fire, lost in his troubles.

"Penny for your thoughts, Wolverine?" Kurt said quietly with a small smile, just loud enough for Logan to hear while Kate demonstrated her newfound sneakiness to Peter. He paused at the name and smirked the tiniest bit before all the humour fell from his features.

"We weren't alone out there, Elf. Saw plenty of sign of someone in the woods."

"Any idea who it was?" Kurt looked concerned as Logan lightly shook his head.

"Don't think it was a Career. They're probably travellin' in pairs at least. Looked like it was one person. No ideas as to who." Logan looked towards the windows, as if the mystery tribute would be peeking inside.

"Well, you can't tell me you're surprised. We know they're out there."

Logan nodded, and the thunder rumbled again, the skies growing darker still. It wasn't long before all the chatter had died out as the smell of cooked venison filled the room.

Peter was nearly drooling as Logan handed him the first cut. They all were more than ready to dig into their dinners, already putting the remainder of their kill over the fire. The previous night's pears were good…but the fresh meat was exactly what they needed.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17\. Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde**


	65. Chapter 64: Release

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with an update for In the End, You Always Kneel, after missing a day in our run up to Christmas as I spent last night watching Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and dying of chronic fanboyism. Thankfully, I've now recovered, and have a chapter here for you now, as we return to Sinthea Schmidt and Silmarilz1701!**

**Shout out to GeekyComicBookGuy, sailorraven34 and KJAX89 for their reviews, as always. You guys are the best. Of course, I just want to make clear that my thanks for our writers that also review, while going unsaid, doesn't need to be spoken. Anyone that gives us feedback deserves our thanks, and have it.**

**As always, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Five – Release**

**Evening, Day Five**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701**

* * *

_"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him."_

― JRR Tolkien_, The Hobbit_

"_Let the sky fall. When it crumbles, we will stand tall."_

_\- _Adele_, Skyfall_

* * *

Sinthea and Tony were busy getting their camp together. They hadn't planned on staying in the sewers for very long originally, but the longer they'd stayed, the more it seemed like the best option. Especially since they'd found this control room. It was a nice area, relatively. They'd had to clean up a lot of broken glass and cobwebs, but once everything was cleared, there were chairs to sit in and even electronics that Tony seemed to understand.

It was the evening of Day Five, and the fading light was filtering down through a small window above them. Yes, it was dreary down here, but for some reason, Sinthea just didn't mind. Instead, the dark dampness of the sewers felt comfortable to her.

Sin turned to Tony.

"So, Tony." She shrugged, trying to move her injured shoulder in exercise as she paced. "What do you plan to do with the money? You know. If you win?"

"I have someone I want to give it to." He was reluctant to say more. "And you?"

"No idea. Probably buy a ton of pointless shit and stick it in my new house in the Victor's Village. Drive my father, the great Red Skull, insane next door."

Sin turned her attention to starting a fire. Tony's backpack had contained flint, which made her job a lot easier. She gathered together sticks and underbrush that they had collected on a trip to the surface, and she began to strike the flint, causing sparks to fly.

Tony was busy rigging some sort of alarm system. That was why they'd set up camp here in the first place; Tony and Sinthea had managed to find a control panel that had access to floodgates. Their plan was simple: set up alarms so that if the alarms were tripped, they could flood the tunnel and swim to safety. And along with the alarm system and failsafe flooding, they had access to cameras throughout the sewers and above ground at tunnel entrances.

"Time to check your wound." Tony nodded as he came over.

Sinthea sat down in her swivel desk chair and allowed him to take off her jacket. He carefully removed her shirt as well until she was wearing only her bra.

Reaching into his pocket, Tony drew out the salve cream they'd been using to treat Sinthea's arrow wound. It looked remarkably well-healed for only about five days, if she had counted right. Much of the redness around the wound was receding. Must've been nice medicine.

"Careful." She ordered him around. "Don't want you hurting it more."

Tony sighed. "A little bit of gratitude would be nice."

She didn't reply. She was fingering the handcuffs she'd received from her father in her pocket. It had happened yesterday, when she went above ground to scout for firewood.

* * *

_"I'll be careful," Sinthea told Tony as she got ready to head above ground. "The nearest ladder up to the world isn't that far away."_

_"Just don't reopen that wound." Tony looked her over in dismay. "We're out of thread to stitch it with."_

_She nodded. Grabbing her pocket, she felt for her ever-present knife and gave a satisfied nod when she traced its reassuring outline. Sinthea left the control room and went down the short, metal stairs to the tunnel. She walked through the darkness until she came to the ladder that led up to a manhole. By some miracle, the manhole cover had been removed long ago, so Sinthea didn't have to worry about moving it with her injured shoulder. Clambering up the ladder, Sinthea grunted in frustration as she struggled with her injured arm with each rung. Once she reached the surface, she blinked as her eyes had to adjust to the bright light._

_It was Day Four, if she'd been counting correctly. They'd run out of firewood that morning, and they needed more if they were to continue in the sewers. After all, they needed some way to cook their food so they weren't eating raw rat._

_Once her eyes had adjusted, she crouched down and skittered out of the open road towards an old building entrance. Fortunately, she had an idea of where the nearest wood supply was; she'd gone out the night before but had heard some odd noises and had been forced to flee back to the sewers before she could get enough firewood._

_It wasn't far away. There had been a small park between buildings with five trees that were now huge and grew all over the structures. Sin gathered up sticks and underbrush. She worked quickly, using mostly her right arm, as she didn't want to open the wound on her left shoulder. Tony was right about that, at least._

_When she felt she'd gathered enough wood and other materials, she made her way back quickly to the sewer exit._

_Suddenly, she heard a dinging sound and spun around. Sinthea found she was staring at a small parachute with a metal container attached to it, as it landed at her feet._

_Sin hesitantly opened it up. Inside, she found a pair of metal handcuffs._

* * *

She had been surprised, to say the least. But she recalled a conversation she'd had right before she was sent to the arena.

_"If I send you something, make it count," _the Red Skull had told her, the last time they had spoken, before he turned and walked away from her.

"Earth to Sin." Tony waved a hand in front of her face. "You gonna keep staring off into space or answer my questions?"

"What could you possibly want?"

"I asked whether or not you and your father were close." Tony started putting away the salve.

Were they close?

* * *

_"You are a worthless piece of _shit_ of a daughter!" Johann yelled at his tribute._

_"You're a worthless father!" she bit back at him._

_"You killed your mother. You ruined all hopes I had for a son. You ruined me!"_

_Sinthea was caught off guard by his first accusation. It was something that she often thought about. Sin had found out when she was ten that her father hadn't killed her mother, like she had been raised to believe, but her mother had died in childbirth. Sinthea had killed her mother. The only person Johann Schmidt seemed to have ever cared about._

_"Why a son?" Sinthea screamed at her father and mentor. "Why not me?"_

_Darcy Lewis was watching the exchange in the District Six suite anxiously. Sinthea saw her and glared._

_Johann looked flabbergasted. "Why..._why?!_ Because women are weak. They cannot compete with men. They are dead weight. They succumb to the smallest of illnesses! They are biologically inferior in every conceivable way."_

_"I am every bit your equal." Sinthea bared her teeth and drew up to her full height of five-foot-two._

_"You'll never be anything like me," Johann said in contempt._

_Sinthea glared. "We'll see about that."_

* * *

"Real close," she told Tony sarcastically. "Like two peas in a pod."

He looked at her skeptically.

"Of course we weren't close." She all but spat at him. "Didn't you listen to the stories floating around in the Capitol? The stories about me and my devil father?"

"Was he that bad?" Tony asked her, looking slightly sorry he brought it up.

Sinthea rolled her eyes. "Yeah. He's that bad."

* * *

_"The first thing to remember going into the arena tomorrow is this: you won't be coming out alive. Just accept it."_

_Sinthea stared at her mentor father angrily. "How can you be so sure? I'm as good as any of the Careers!"_

_"Don't be foolish, girl." Johann laughed at her. "The Careers are well-trained, ruthless opponents. Run from them. Hell, run from everybody. Then you might actually last a few hours."_

_"You seem so sure. Just you wait. I'll show you."_

* * *

Sin shook herself out of the memory as Tony helped her back into her shirt and jacket. She stood with Tony's help and returned to her job of watching the cameras.

"How about your parents?" Sinthea asked Tony without making eye contact as he fiddled with something electronic. "Wonderful, I'm sure."

"My father's an ass," Tony grumbled.

Sinthea snorted. "Those certainly don't seem to be in short supply with this year's tributes. What about your mom?"

Tony was silent for a moment. "She's dead."

Sinthea stopped watching the camera and froze for a moment before continuing her slow job.

"Seems to be a lot of that, too," was all Sinthea said.

She thought about Bruce and how his own ass of a father had murdered Bruce's mother. She had also heard rumours that Loki and Thor's mom had died not too long ago, causing a rift between Loki and his brother. Though Thor seemed oblivious to this. Peter had lost both his parents, according to rumours. And Logan hated his grandfather.

"Yeah," was all Tony replied.

For dinner, they had seared rat meat. Sinthea had gone hunting for them earlier that day, catching a few with her knife. They were quite big, but not big enough to frighten her. Still, she was wary of them because of their sharp, fang-like teeth and the diseases an uncooked one most likely would carry.

She roasted the final rat over the fire carefully, making sure every nook and cranny of the skinned rat was cooked. Eating raw rat was a bad idea. She wished they had butter or, better yet, some spices. But alas, this was not even the poor area of District Six, where spices could be scraped off the floor of butchers and bakeries for a small fee. This was the Avenger Games.

Sinthea took the rat off the fire and blew on it. She used her knife to cut into it and separate the good meat from the bad. One benefit of the large rats was that they had more meat on them, so three rats would be enough for a single meal for the two tributes.

They divided up the good meat and took bites into it. Sin was used to the taste of rat; it had been one of the only sources of meat available to her and the other poor families back home in Six. But she found it entertaining to watch Tony try to eat the tough meat and laughed at the faces he made.

"You need to get used to it," she told him with a smirk.

Suddenly, they heard the alarm go off. They stared at each other. Sinthea stood up, and Tony bolted to the control panel, where he could release the floodgates. She rushed after him once she'd put out the fire and stashed her knife somewhere in her pocket.

"Careers?" Tony muttered in question.

Sinthea ran to the security camera footage and looked at it. There, she saw three people: Loki, Brunhilde, and Thor, all at one of the hidden sewer entrances she and Tony had been using during their supply runs. They must have set off the alarm, probably trying to open it or something, even if they didn't seem to be doing anything at the minute. a In the Capitol, Bruce had often referred to them as the Three Musketeers. Whatever that meant. Probably something from his schooling.

"Finally coming for us." Sin nodded. "Thor, Loki, and Brunhilde."

"Want me to release the water, or try to—"

"Are you insane?" Sinthea hissed at him. "You can't fend off the Career pack! Neither can I while I'm injured. Of course we need the water."

Tony steeled himself up to release the water. He nodded at her and pressed the large, red button that just _screamed_ "Do Not Touch!" Sinthea looked around to try to find something to stay afloat with when her hand felt the handcuffs in her pocket.

"Make it count," her father had said._ Make it count…_

She smirked to herself as she faced away from Tony. Oh, she would make it count.

She whipped the cuffs out of her pocket and slammed herself into the unsuspecting Tony Stark. He flew backward, falling back into a pole. Sinthea smirked again. It was just the right size. She stuck the stunned Tony's hand into one end of the cuffs and slapped the other side around the metal pole.

"What the hell?!"

"I'm just fulfilling someone's wish. And securing my own survival in the process." Sinthea smirked at the teenager, then curtsied to him. "I gotta survive."

"What are you talking about?" Tony demanded, absolutely livid.

"Doesn't matter, Tony. This is just the way things have to go."

Tony was stunned silent.

Sin cocked her head to the side, and conceded that there was one more point to her reasoning. "And, in the process, I'll leave a little distraction for the Careers."

Finally able to speak, all he could do was sputter, "You traitor!"

"You served your purpose. Now I have one last task for you. You can do it willingly or not; I don't give a damn. Farewell, Tony."

She turned and began walking away, planning to head out the door and down the stairs into the sewers proper before she spun back and pretended to tip a hat. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

Sinthea walked for a good deal of time and took a side passage when she heard a great rush of water. She frowned. She had hoped to avoid the first real torrent. And indeed, the head wave of water came into the main passage, causing her side passage to slowly fill up. But fill up it did, and she was pulled away somewhere, despite her best efforts to remain in one constant position.

She felt like she was drowning. Water as cold as ice and black as night swirled around her head as she struggled to stay above the waves. The water licked at her cheeks as it sought to drag her beneath the surface. It wanted to claim her as its own kill of the Games. She almost could feel malice radiating from the water, as if it wanted to drown her. But that was impossible; it was only water.

Perhaps flooding the tunnels hadn't been the greatest idea.

Sinthea Schmidt knew how to swim. She wasn't the best swimmer in Marvel, but she wasn't bad at it. Problem was, she didn't usually have to tread water with an injured shoulder. A _very_ injured shoulder. It hurt like hell. It seemed like every bit of healing was getting torn up.

She gave up trying to swim against the current, instead allowing it to take her wherever it desired. The water crashed in torrents against the concrete sides of the tunnels. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of water had been released, causing a massive flooding of the sewers.

The body of a dead sewer rat floated past her as she was carried along with the current. Its open, lifeless eyes frightened her. It seemed to be staring straight into her soul.

_That could be me in a few minutes_, she thought.

Suddenly, her leg hit a wall corner. She felt her bone crunch beneath the force of the impact. She gasped in pain, inhaling some of the water. With a spit and a sputter, Sinthea coughed out the liquid from her chest while trying to forget about the horrid pain in her left shoulder and now her right knee.

She couldn't see any blood, of course, but she knew it was there. Her leg hurt from hip to toe. Sinthea felt tears stinging her eyes because of the pain. It was unbearable.

But soon, she was distracted by a loud roaring noise up ahead. It sounded like…

"Shit."

It was a waterfall. Water was pouring from her tunnel down to a reservoir below. The drop was maybe fifteen feet. Before she could register what was happening, she was over the falls and falling, falling down into the darkness below.

She was pushed under water from the force of the fall and the rush of the water following her. She barely had enough time to shut her mouth before going under. Sinthea struggled to the surface as fast as she could, despite the searing pain assailing her. She wouldn't be joining that rat yet!

She was exhausted and in pain beyond what she thought possible, and her head was dizzy from what was almost certainly blood loss. She knew she couldn't stay afloat much longer.

Fortunately, she saw that the water was slowing down. It was beginning to recede. As she slowly floated down a tunnel, the water returned to its normal level. She could feel the edge! She lifted her good arm onto the side and searched for something to grab onto. Her fingers slipped, and she lost some of the skin on her fingertips. Blood was in the air.

Finally gripping the slippery concrete with her small hands, she clawed herself up onto the now clear walkway. She simply lay there, panting, praising herself for managing to survive the flood.

She was trying to catch her breath, struggling with every gasp to remain conscious as blood loss from her reopened shoulder wound and her newly acquired knee injury caused her to feel light-headed. With a cough, a mixture of water and phlegm spewed from her lungs as she rid herself of the last remnants of the flood waters. Her mouth tasted of blood and rat.

Suddenly, there was the sound of metal on metal stomping through her tunnel. Sinthea, still lying down on the ground, lifted her head up in dismay to see what was coming. She had very little strength left.

"I am worthy of winning this year's Games," she muttered to herself as she tried to stand up but managed only to get to a single knee.

**"How could you be worthy?"** A metallic, grinding voice sounded through the tunnel. **"You're a puppet...tangled in...strings."**

Then came a robotic laugh, that made Sin's blood run cold.

**"Get up, little girl. Get up!"**

Sinthea watched as a man-sized metal…_thing_ came into view. The fading light of evening from far above glinted off his arms, his body. His menacing form continued to make its way forward towards the exhausted Sinthea. As it grew close, she could see the red of its electric eyes and the metal teeth in its artificial mouth, it's head almost ant-like in shape.

In the corner of her eye, a body tumbled through the current behind the creature, dragged away from view in a flash. Had it been another tribute, or just a trick her oxygen-deprived mind was playing on her?

Perhaps that was all this robot was too, though in her heart of hearts she knew that it, at least, was real.

The metal robot stopped right in front of the kneeling Sinthea. She peered up at its seven-foot frame as it peered back down at her. She slowly moved her hand to her pocket, where she kept her knife.

But it wasn't there.

* * *

_"I can't find it anywhere!"_

_"What is it you're looking for, my dear?" Grandma Scarbo turned to her granddaughter and looked at her quizzically._

_"My knife!" Sinthea almost shrieked. "I keep it with me all the time. But it's gone!"_

_She turned over pillows and chairs and blankets. She moved furniture and the tiny TV and her clothes. She was in tears when Grandma Scarbo came into her bedroom._

_"Is this it, darling?"_

_Sinthea looked at the knife in her grandmother's hand._

_"Yes!" Sinthea yelped, leaping up and snatching it from her hand. "Where was it?"_

_"I washed it."_

* * *

But there was no Grandma Scarbo to come to the rescue this time. There _was_ no knife. It must've been washed away in the flood. And what could she have done with it anyway? Scrape off the paint? Sinthea steeled herself for whatever was to come.

She thought about Bruce, about how he was most likely somewhere out there struggling to remain alive just as she was. Probably not thinking of anything but his next meal, least of all his dying district partner.

She thought about Grandma Scarbo. About how she'd taken Sinthea into her home when she'd been rejected by her father. About how her addiction to drugs had caused her to wither in everyone's eyes but Sin's.

She thought about Peter. They'd had fun during that impromptu food fight that night in the Capitol. Just the two of them eating chocolate and popcorn.

She thought about Logan, how he broke Creed's nose and gave Sinthea hope that the mentors could be beaten. And they'd had a good time tossing rocks off the top of their building in the Capitol.

She thought about Pepper. How Sin had failed to protect her but had hopefully succeeded in granting her some little bit of vengeance. For what, Sinthea would never know.

She even thought about Tony. He was probably dead by now, either drowned or slaughtered by the Careers. She felt a tiny twinge of guilt, but it passed quickly. This was the Avenger Games, after all.

The robot reached its arm out and took hold of Sinthea's neck in a tight grip. It began to lift her up off her knees, high into the air. She choked, grabbing at her neck in desperation. But she was out of energy. Everything hurt. Everything.

"What are you?" she choked out.

**"I am the future. I am your end. I am Ultron."**

Sinthea couldn't breathe. The air in her lungs was slowly being used up. She struggled and struggled against this "Ultron," trying, desperately trying to get even a single breath of air. But she was more of a ragdoll than a threat.

_Just one breath!_ she cried to herself.

**"Where are your friends, little girl?"** The monstrous metal figure laughed.

"I don't have_ friends_." She admitted this out loud through her gritted teeth as the robotic arm clung to her throat. "Just the one. His name is—"

With a final crunch, Ultron smashed Sinthea's throat, crushing it.

Her last thoughts were of Crossbones. He was a friend, companion, trusted advisor. A true believer. She died with her mind full of the memory of his last act. She felt his lips on her cheek as he wished her 'good bye and good luck'. It was like a final farewell now.

In that moment, she realized that she loved him.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**


	66. Chapter 65: Notes From Underground

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back again with our second-last update before Christmas! At least, hopefully our second-last - I'll do my best to get another update tomorrow, but it'll be Christmas Eve, and things may get just a little too busy. But hey, we'll see! This time we move on to Bruce Banner, written by the sensational Miran Anders, and I think I'll leave you guys to the chapter!**

**Big thanks to Idalove2read and I-OfTheHawk for their reviews, as always!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Five **–** Notes From Underground**

**Night, Day Five**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"__In peace there's nothing so becomes a man_

_As modest stillness and humility:_

_But when the blast of war blows in our ears,_

_Then imitate the action of the tiger;_

_Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,_

_Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.__"_

– Shakespeare

* * *

Bruce stared into the dark passage and shook his head. The cracked, mosaic-covered tunnel walls had settled long ago, so he felt relatively safe even this far underground. He had to admit to himself, though; he had been a lot more comfortable in the green space of the park – or almost anywhere with open sky above him.

He looked down into a shallow crevasse in the main tunnel and saw here, too, the rails that ran along it. This entire tunnel system must have been amazing transportation before the war, although the tracks had only survived uncovered in a few places. The light that shone in through massive breaks in the roof had let him see fairly well – but if he took this turn into what seemed like an actual cave…

There it was again. Quieter, perhaps more stealthy. The sound that had started him running. Bruce took a deep breath and moved silently into the darkness, wishing he still had a light, wishing he were still camping under the stars.

_How the hell am I supposed to survive down here?_

* * *

That first night in 'Banner Manor' hadn't gone quite as planned. By the time Bruce had packed up his cooking kit, it was already getting dark. He decided that perhaps it would be better to go back to his makeshift castle rather than trying to explore a new area by starlight. _At least it's got a view, and it's dry. I can figure out what's next in the morning._

Because of a few unnerving animal sounds in the night, morning had become afternoon. In spite of his desire to move on, Bruce found that after hearing yet another cannon ring out, the idea of leaving his little nest of safety became almost overwhelming. But as the day wore on, he grew more and more restless – and more than a little annoyed with himself. _Okay, Banner. Just get moving. You may as well live a little more before you die._ He stopped at the small stream and boiled some water to refill his bag before hiking toward the buildings in the east.

What had looked like a straightforward path from his castle view turned out to be an exercise in rock climbing – that is, when he wasn't trying to find a relatively dry route through more swamp. It was dark by the time Bruce got to the collection of sprawling buildings, and by moonlight, it was all he could do to find a quiet corner and fall asleep. He was surprised he could sleep at all, but it turned out the sheer exhaustion of the day was incentive enough. When the dawn came, he had a little water, stretched, and started to look around.

The room he was in was enormous and had been made even larger since fallen sections of wall opened into the spaces beyond.

The space he had come in through appeared to be a huge window that had been tripled in size by the simple act of a bomb going through it. There was a damaged staircase leading up, and part of a second floor. Off to the right, there was a corridor of the same massive proportions, broken sections of roof acting as light wells. Gathering up his things and shouldering his pack, Bruce walked in that direction, fascinated.

It didn't take long for him to figure out that this must have been a museum. Huge display cases were now merely metal skeletons festooned with shards of broken glass, pedestals stood empty for statues that were no longer present, occasional brass plates on the walls described paintings that weren't there. Anything that had been left behind was in pieces, too damaged to be worth taking.

_Well, there must have been plenty of looting. I hope some of it survived. _He shook his head ruefully. _It's probably all at the presidential palace. Terrific._ As he walked farther along, he found a section of wall that was crusted with small squares of iridescent glass. The work was detailed, beautiful. He shook his head and spoke softly in the echoing space. "War. Makes a lot of sense to destroy all the most beautiful things a civilization has to offer…"

A quiet noise made him turn with a jump. _Crap. Someone heard me. Someone's in here with me. _He barely registered he was running when he got to another corridor, stopped as silently as he could, and slipped behind a partially fallen wall. He paused there, trying to catch his breath and still the racing of his pulse. As he edged further into the space, he saw daylight ahead and managed to push his way toward it.

The space closed in as it went, and for a few seconds, Bruce thought he was going to be stuck there. _A fine way to die, Banner. So noble. 'And here's the District Six tribute; we found his body stuck in a wall…'_

Behind him, he heard a snuffle and a low, feline growl. His heart pounded in his ears, and he flexed his arms in a panic.

He had no idea how he managed to move the section of wall blocking his way, but daylight never looked so good. He half ran, half jumped down what must have once been a grand stairway leading from the building and hit the street running, his heart hammering in his chest, dodging between brush and trees that had claimed the former roadway. He ducked and wove, not sure where he was heading, only knowing he was going _away_. Eventually, the buildings became somewhat smaller, although damaged and still littered with debris.

He slowed to a trot and looked around. While there was greenery almost everywhere, he couldn't help but feel that the city was dead. Ghostly windows that held no glass to give them the shine of life stared out at him, revealing only darkness inside. Vines had colonized many of the taller buildings, going so far as to trail from one to another overhead. There was a spooky kind of filled silence – a bare breeze riffling the trees, abruptly broken by the harsh call of some hunting bird. The sound startled him enough that he felt his adrenals squirting, causing him to break into a full run once more. He ran and ran, leaping over obstacles and bounding over dark holes in the ground that appeared to go down into forever.

Eventually, he exhausted the blinding fear that had kept him running, and it slowly burned into anger for the situation he was in. He had to assume at this point that there was enough space between him and whatever seemed to be considering him for breakfast, so he slowed to a walk and looked around wearily. Another bank of empty windows at what might have been a street corner caught his eye. _I could use a break. And maybe there's something in there to eat._

Ducking into the deserted storefront, he sat on a counter for a few minutes and sipped water before methodically checking for anything useful. The place had been stripped pretty bare – not surprising, since with all the dead refrigerator units, it had probably been a small food store. Bruce pushed over a tilted cabinet and saw a door. _Maybe a storeroom?_ Putting his shoulder to it and using his last reserves of anger, he managed to force it open.

It was dark in the small room, but it seemed to have been relatively untouched. Unable to see much, he pulled several boxes out into the light. He rummaged in his knapsack for his penknife and slit the boxes open.

The first two held paper towels. He took a small pack of them but couldn't see taking up much room with more kindling. The next one was bags of flour, but the paper sacking had been infested with bugs long ago, and all that remained was a sort of webby brown dust. He was losing enthusiasm when he opened the third. It was smaller than the others and filled with flat plastic packs made of a material similar to his water bottle. Pulling one out, he held it up to the light and saw that it was filled with brown, rough-looking strips. He frowned, cut the top of the bag open, and sniffed it. Then he pulled a strip out and bit off a piece, chewing. A smile came to his face.

_Jerky._ Cho's dad used to make it and send batches to him every couple months, and Cho generously shared some with Bruce – before he carefully hid the rest. _This is good. This could keep me going for a while._ He took one of the larger zip bags out of his sack and proceeded to methodically open and empty all of the smaller bags into one big one. He kept a couple pieces out as he closed up the bag and stored it carefully in his knapsack.

Feeling refreshed by the dried meat and more water, Bruce pulled out his notebook and headed out into the streets again. He saw a huge, dislodged piece of pavement that had been raised up on one end, slanting precariously into another bottomless pit. With a shrug, he carefully climbed up to get a better view. He stood there for a few minutes, surveying the area and jotting his approximate path onto his hand-drawn map. He had to laugh at the scientific part of his brain, which forced him to write 'not to scale' on the bottom of the page.

_Okay. So I think I've come mostly east. Maybe a little north. This part of town looks pretty quiet, but it's hard to see very far in any direction._ He looked farther down the street, which was more like a valley in a jungle here, and put an 'x' on the corner where he had found the jerky._ I think I need to get higher up. Yeah... I need a safe vantage point to see around me. Maybe if I keep heading that way, I can get some altitude –_

Abruptly, a large black bird swooped out of nowhere and nearly flew into his face. Bruce jumped back from it instinctively, waving his arms as his feet slid on the mossy surface beneath him. For a tortured moment, he danced on air, and then he tumbled down the slanted pavement, slipping off the far edge and falling into the darkness below.

* * *

"Ow." Bruce rolled over on the damp ground, reaching for his head and touching it gently. _Okay, no blood. This is good._ He sat up unsteadily, reached for the notebook and pencil that had landed nearby, and moved his neck gently. _Yeah, still works. Okay._ Shifting his legs and bracing himself against the wall, he gradually stood. A deep breath, and his back informed him it was not thrilled with the way he landed, but it would survive. He carefully put the notebook back in his pack before looking up to see that the edge of the tilted pavement was actually only about twelve feet up. Not a far enough drop to kill him, but too far to jump up to.

He leaned against the smooth wall and sighed. _Now what? _He could see farther off into the distance now that his eyes were acclimated to the dimmer light, and it appeared that he was in some kind of cavern. The tile on the wall was cold against his back and felt good.

At this point, his scientific mind came back from wherever it had wandered when he fell and posed an interesting question:_ Tile wall?_

He turned, almost too quickly, and stared at the spot he had been leaning against. It was covered in a mosaic of sandy brown square tiles, broken up with lines of white. Higher up, he could see what looked like parts of numbers, small blue tiles also outlined in white. Almost like a street sign, only built into the design of the wall.

_There's a street under the city?_

He squinted down the wall and realized it wasn't a cave; it was more of a tunnel. Curiosity led him farther in, feeling his way along the wall when it got too dark. It was no more than a hundred steps before his sensitized eyes saw the dim light of another break in the roof ahead, and soon, he could see a channel cut into the floor to his left. It went down about four feet, and this section seemed to have metal strips set into it. _Wait. These must be train tracks. Ah, underground trains, got it._ As he moved farther along, he heard a dripping sound and followed it until he got to a section of wall that was wet. Reaching as high as he could, he found a small trickle of water.

"Great. But where do I get enough wood to boil it–" He stopped abruptly as he glanced farther along the tunnel and squinted slightly. Something dull and silver was catching the light. Walking and climbing carefully, he reached the spot.

It was half-buried in debris, but since it had wheels and was down in the channel, Bruce assumed it was some kind of a train car. There was a glass window, and he wiped the dirt from it with his jacket sleeve to peer in.

A well-preserved skull stared at him. Bruce pulled his head back with a gasp, suddenly glad he hadn't been drinking too much water. He took a couple breaths to steady himself and found the outline of the door, levering it open with a stray piece of metal. In the dirty gray light, he saw that this must have been the engine of the train.

The skull he had seen was attached to a full skeleton by the usual means, with the remains of dark clothing wrapped around it loosely. Bruce tried not to think about it as he looked around the small space, finding a toolbox that he decided was too heavy, several small electronic devices that were useless now, and a small metal cylinder. He grabbed the cylinder hopefully. _Come on, I deserve this… come on…_He fumbled with it until he found a button on one end and pushed it. A beam of light came out, nearly blinding him.

"Yes! A flashlight." Bruce smiled broadly, then frowned. He unscrewed the back of the light and slipped the batteries out into his hand.

They were new.

"Damn it." As glad as he was to find the light, he didn't need the reminder that it had obviously been planted there – or at least had new batteries put in for any tribute that might find it. _They probably want better light for the broadcast._ He put the case back together and pointed the light at his face, even though he couldn't see any cameras.

"Banner here, District Six. Not dead yet." He snapped it off angrily and stepped back outside.

Moving to the end of the engine, he found another car, this one with a door that had only been partly bent. With some effort, he pushed it out of the way and stepped inside, turning on his flash once more. This car, at least, was empty. He looked around and decided it was a better place than most to spend the night.

Putting the knapsack down, Bruce took the flashlight and went out hunting for wood among the debris. With the help of the light, it was easy to find enough for a fire. Occasionally, he heard the squeak and scurry of rats – actually saw a couple of them, sleek, radiantly healthy things here in the wild, away from the trash of man. _I suppose I could catch one and…_ but his thoughts stopped there. He went back to the leaky wall, drank all the water he had left, and boiled more, eating some jerky as he did. By now, exhausted, he went back to the train car and wedged the door shut behind him. Curling up on a row of seats, he fell fast asleep.

* * *

Morning came along with an amazingly stiff back, reminding him of the fall that brought him down to the subterranean train tunnel. He took his time stretching and made sure he drank enough water before setting out to explore.

He used the flashlight sparingly, not knowing how long it would last. Its brief beams allowed him to see more amazing mosaic artwork, spindly broken metal gates, and broad stairways upwards that invariably ended in a blockage of debris. He even found, under one of the ever-higher openings in the roof above, the trailing vines of an orange berry that he recognized from the food section of survival training. It appeared that they grew on the highest piles of debris, taking advantage of the light and moisture from the outside world. Once he knew what to look for, the tiny jewels provided him with lunch as he traveled, giving him a chance to climb up a bit and see if there was any way out – which, invariably, there was not.

He was clambering down from one of the piles when he heard the noise.

He froze, waiting for the pebbles he had dislodged in his climb to settle down. When all was silent, he strained his ears desperately, trying to hear whatever he thought he had heard. He stood in ghostly silence for so long, he had nearly convinced himself that he imagined it. But there it was again.

A long, drawn-out, metallic sound. Like fingernails on a blackboard, if the fingernails were steel and the blackboard was a rusty plate of metal.

Bruce didn't know what it was, and he didn't care. He ran.

The flashlight beam played out in front of him as he snapped it on. He knew it would give away his position, but running through this tunnel in the dark would have been suicide. A side passage appeared, and he turned down it, flashing the light on unbroken walls. He ran until he hit a dead end, blocked by a mound of broken concrete and dirt. The flashlight beam showed a space at the top, and he scrambled up as quickly as he could, relieved to find the tunnel opened up again on the other side. As he slid down the debris on the opposite end, the light found a break in the mosaicked wall – more like a cave, actually. _This must have opened up with the shelling, or maybe an earthquake._ Bruce sidled up to it and had just turned the flashlight to look in when the light went out.

"Damn," he whispered under his breath, smacking the device with his hand. "Damn damn damn –" He closed his eyes for a minute to get them accustomed to the dark once more.

When he opened them, he could see a bit better in the main tunnel, but only a little.

Bruce stared into the dark passage and shook his head. The cracked, mosaic-covered tunnel walls had settled long ago, so he felt relatively safe even this far underground. He had to admit to himself, though; he had been a lot more comfortable in the green space of the park – or almost anywhere with open sky above him.

He looked down into a shallow crevasse in the main tunnel and saw here, too, the rails that ran along it. This entire tunnel system must have been amazing transportation before the war, although the tracks had only survived uncovered in a few places. The light that shone in through massive breaks in the roof had let him see fairly well – but if he took this turn into what seemed like an actual cave…

There it was again. Quieter, perhaps more stealthy. The sound that had started him running. Bruce took a deep breath and moved silently into the darkness, wishing he still had a light, wishing he were still camping under the stars.

_How the hell am I supposed to survive down here?_

Moving cautiously, one hand against the rough wall of bedrock, Bruce edged his way farther into the cave. Every few steps, he would stop and listen; but no new sounds followed into the black hole.

The air became more humid, and a damp, basement smell permeated the passage. Bruce thought he could hear dripping ahead of him, and spears of light in the near distance, coming down in a pattern of squares. Once he got to the spot, he looked up and saw a grid far above him, probably a drain in the street.

"Terrific. I'm in the sewers. Although if that's a drain from outside… this is probably a storm sewer. Rainwater, nothing… too terribly organic."

Bruce stepped forward and would have tumbled right off the edge of the walkway that edged the deeper trench if it wasn't for the rat. As it was, he stopped dead, staring.

He had to think of it as a rat. To think of it as a dog, which it was the size of, was a bit much to handle. It stared at him fearlessly, its beady eyes watching his every movement.

"Look, I don't want any trouble…" The rat stared, and Bruce rolled his eyes at himself. "Right, Banner. Negotiate with the nice rat. I'm sure he just wants…" The rat moved closer, sniffing, and Bruce edged his knapsack off, ready to swing it or at least shield himself. Then he remembered. Slowly he reached into the pack, slipped his hand into the bag that held the beef jerky, and pulled out a slice. He held it up, and the rat eyed it, sniffing again. "Rat want a snack? Go get it." Bruce tossed it down the walkway and only waited long enough for the rat to follow it before heading briskly in the other direction.

The tiled walks were slightly slimy and randomly slippery. He took his time as it got darker, farther from the drain. Then, he heard something, a big, dull sound – almost like something huge had fallen in a nearby tunnel. Then came a faint rumbling noise that echoed through the sewers and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

_What the – earthquake? Or is part of the roof coming down?_

He looked down into the curved main trench of the sewer and stared for a minute, then backtracked into better light and looked again. The water, which had only been about a foot deep, was higher, and rising fast. In fact, it was moving faster, too. He started back the way he came, but his friend the rat was leading a pack of others, and they were pouring into the dark passageway that Bruce had come through.

_Oh, no. I'm not going to get caught in the dark with a hundred frightened rats._

He threw his knapsack back on and hurried ahead, slipping on the walkway as he ran. "Damn!" he yelled, catching himself and trying to keep his balance. Almost immediately, another sound caught his attention. A much more human sound.

"Hey! Anybody there?"

Bruce stopped, his heart thudding. "Who's asking?"

"Me."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. He had a feeling he knew that voice, not to mention that reasoning. "Stark?"

"Yeah. A little help?"

Bruce almost countered with 'why should I', but the water level was still rising. Once he got swept off the walkway, he was probably done for – but he couldn't just leave someone. _Of course, it could be a trap,_ his mind offered reasonably. _Right. Thanks again, Brain._

As he turned a corner, he abruptly saw light. Not daylight, but artificial light, underground, in a large room carved out in the tunnel. "What the – what is this?"

"Mainframe. Sewer controls."

Bruce nodded as he looked around, then looked at the man speaking. It was Tony Stark, all right, and he was handcuffed to a support pipe. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Your district partner."

Bruce looked thoughtful for a moment, then dropped his head to one side. "Okay. Did she leave a key?"

"Seriously?"

Working his way over to Tony, Bruce looked at the workstation wiring that was pulled out and reconnected, traced the circuitry, and frowned. "What did you do?"

"Rigged it to flood the tunnels when the Careers came through." Tony looked toward the rising water and dropped his forehead against the pipe. "Listen, Banner … you should get out of here. It's taking longer than I thought, but the water is going to –"

"Yeah, yeah, I can see you did a bang-up job of it. Any abort scheme?"

Stark shook his head, not looking up.

"Of course. Well, we've got to get out of here." Looking on the floor next to the workstation, he picked up a stout piece of wire. "Here, work on picking the lock while I find something –"

"Look–"

"Shut up and do it."

"I'm as good as dead! Just go!"

Bruce stopped his search and stared at the young man in front of him, probably no older than he was. For a moment, their eyes met, and Bruce shook his head slowly. "I'm not just going to let you drown here." Then he looked down and saw a sword lying half-covered by Tony's pack. He picked it up and hefted it, nodding. By the time he reached the pipe, his eyes were hard.

Tony stared at him. "Really? You're going to –"

"Pull it taut."

"With my own sword? Is that so much better than drowning?" The volume in the control room doubled as the water began to flood in earnest.

"Pull it!" Bruce lifted the sword overhead, his face contorted in a grimace.

Tony pulled back instinctively, turning his head away as Bruce brought the sword down with a ringing blow. Stark fell backwards, startled, as Bruce stood panting. He had split the chains connecting the cuffs. He had actually dented the pipe beneath, as well. Catching his breath, Bruce looked at the blade, which was barely notched. "Nice sword."

Tony nodded. "Thanks. Let's get out of here."

"Where?"

They both raced to the workstation, pulling up diagrams of different parts of the system. "Come on, come on." Tony's finger ran down the screen as the water, now over the trench, lapped at their ankles. "Here."

"Maintenance shaft?"

"Surface bound."

"Might be blocked."

"Better if it is–"

"Right, air pocket. Which way?"

Tony looked at the screen once more before the water, which was pulling on their knees now, took out the power. He looked at Bruce in the dying light and pointed. "That way."

Half swimming, half running, they went further into the sewers, fighting the current. The noise was growing louder and louder when they finally found the metal ladder leading up into a recessed space in the roof. "That's it."

Bruce, who was still holding the sword, motioned with it for Tony to go first. He did so without arguing. Bruce got high enough that he was out of the water and slipped the sword into his belt before moving on.

"You know, that _is_ my sword," Stark panted as he hooked an arm around the ladder side, making room at the top for Banner.

"Yeah, right," Bruce replied as he caught up. They clung there as the water suddenly rose, closing off the bottom of their little space and rising.

They both looked down at it and looked up at the hatch above. Tony gave it a shove. Nothing happened. "I think this is as far as we go."

Bruce nodded and tried to slow his breathing down. "Calm down. No point in wasting air."

"I am calm. I just don't see why you think you can keep my sword."

"Shut up."

The darkness was complete in their little air pocket. They could hear each other breathing and feel the icy cold of the water climbing their legs.

"Bruce."

"Save your breath."

"No." Tony reached out in the darkness. "Thanks for saving me."

There was a pause and quiet exhalation. "You're welcome."

The water rose in the hatchway until it was at their waists, their chests … and then slowly began to subside. By the time they felt it was safe to climb back down, their arms were cramped, and Bruce was shivering, although he doubted it was from the cold water. Tony had used the time to pick the locks on the severed handcuffs and took great pleasure in dropping them into the still-high water and watching them wash away. Once the walkway was above water once more, somewhere a generator clanked, and emergency lights came on.

Bruce sat heavily on the wet ground and tried to breathe while Tony leaned against the wall and took off his boots, dumping the water out before putting them back on.

"So. About my sword–"

Bruce stood quickly, and there was a loud clang. The sword lay at Tony's feet, vibrating from the force of the fall.

"Take the damn sword. Take the sword and kill me _now._ Get it over with. I'm done."

Tony stared at him, dark eyes incredulous. "I never said I wanted to kill you. Why would I want to kill you?"

"Isn't that what you're _supposed_ to do? Isn't that the _point_ of all this?" Bruce waved a hand dismissively. Then he picked the weapon up again and held it by the blade, extending the pommel toward the other man. "We're all just here to die anyway. Just … get it over with."

Stark dropped his head for a moment. When he looked up, there was something different in his gaze. "You're right."

"I know." The words came out more harshly than he had intended.

"But _I_ was supposed to die down here. You keep the sword. Kill me instead. You're a bigger man than I am. You still have a chance of getting out with your humanity intact..."

For a long minute, they stared at each other, warm brown eyes against nearly black. Finally, Bruce spoke.

"You know, if we angled it against the rocks right, and held on to each other, we could probably both fall onto it at once." The bare edge of a grin spread from his face to Tony's, and they both exhaled.

Stark extended his hand. "Thanks again for saving me, big guy."

Bruce nodded, exhaling a small sound. "Let's just get out of–"

A distant, screaming cry echoed through the control room.

Tony's eyes widened. "What was _that_?"

"Who was that? Who's there?" Bruce called out.

"Who cares? Let's get the hell out of here."

"Help!" The voice sounded so desperate that even Tony paused. "Help me, someone…They've got me!"

Suddenly, Bruce's eyes grew wide. "Sin? Is that you? Hang on!" He grabbed the sword and was moving forward when a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Tony clutching his sleeve. "What?"

"Are you seriously going to go help her? We were supposed to be working together, and she nearly killed me. In cold blood." When Bruce didn't respond, Stark whispered angrily. "You're crazy. You're going to go save someone who you_ know_ should want to kill you…" He got that far when he realized what he was saying to the man who had just saved his life.

Bruce gave Tony an exhausted look. "Look. You do what you have to do," he said, shifting his grip on the pommel of the sword and shaking his head. "And I'll do what I have to do." With that, he headed down the sewer toward the sound.

Stark bounced on the balls of his feet and made a worried noise. "This is suicide," he said to no one in particular. Abruptly, he grinned ruefully, his head tilting. "Or sewer-cide." Then, he trotted after Bruce to catch up.

Bruce was in the lead as they moved farther down the tunnel. The cries had given way to gasping moans, and they twisted his stomach as he followed the sound. "I'm coming, Sin, I'm–"

He turned a corner and saw her lying on the walkway, her head twisted in an impossible angle, her throat crushed. "…Sin?" In a moment, he was on one knee at her side, looking at the bloody, broken body of the girl who had become, in some strange way, his friend. "Sin." He didn't realize he was weeping over her body until Tony stepped up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"We've gotta get out of here, Bruce."

"I know. I hate to leave her…" Gently, he straightened her bloody leg, turned her head carefully, and straightened her red hair to cover the worst of the damage after he did. Brushing a hand over her forehead, he whispered softly, "I hope you died fighting. I know you wanted it that way." He arranged her hands on her chest and left his own warm palm laying over her cold one.

"Bruce."

"I know. Just…give me a minute."

"Bruce, she's been dead for a little while."

"I know. She's cold."

"Do you? Then who was calling?"

Bruce swallowed hard and blinked. Then he stood and looked at Tony. "Who could–"

"Help…help me!" Sin's voice came out of the darkness of the tunnel in front of them, followed by deep laughter, and Bruce lifted the sword.

"Who's there? Who are you?"

A robotic figure stepped forward. It was taller than either of the men by a foot at least and gleamed with a silvery light. Its eyes and mouth were oddly expressive, glowing red when it spoke as if a diabolical fire burned within.

"Scratch that," Stark said, taking several steps backward. "_What_ are you?"

The figure laughed derisively, looking down at them. **"I am Ultron. And I will be the death of you." **Reaching out, the metal man grabbed a six-inch cast iron pipe and crushed it as if it were made of clay.

Stark spoke quietly. "Run."

"But Sin–"

"Run!" They turned and ran, skidding along the slimy walkway until they made it back to the control room. Behind them, Ultron's laughter echoed menacingly as they scrambled to the workstation.

"Can you do it again?" Bruce asked.

"I doubt it. Maybe we can." Tony punched up a screen. "Come on, come on –"

"What's the idea on this switch? The wires got washed apart."

"I wired it as a three-way – but just short it."

"Got it."

"Okay, the map says there's another hatch twenty feet down the next tunnel."

"Let's go."

Bruce twisted two final wires together, and Tony slammed his fist down on a button. Then they ran, hearing echoes of metallic laughter behind them and the more frightening sound of metal footsteps running. They sounded like they were getting closer.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**


	67. Chapter 66: His Fall From Grace

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our Christmas Eve chapter, even if it's technically crossed over to Christmas Day at this point on my end. So, without further ado, I'll get this chapter up for you to read – just wanted to congratulate Taila on another fantastic chapter for Loki!**

**Big thanks to VengefulVixens and sailorraven34 for their reviews! Glad to see Vixens back, and again I'd like to apologise for the delay we had with updates, which had a few people drop off - but delays will happen unfortunately from time to time, so for anyone worried about missing anything, you'll get email notifications every time we update if you follow the fic. Hopefully we won't have any more problems like that though – things are looking pretty good for the foreseeable future!**

**Enjoy, and a very Merry Christmas to you all! **

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Six – His Fall From Grace**

**Night, Day Five**

**Loki Odinson of District Four**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

_"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here." _– William Shakespeare

* * *

"It's going to rain."

Feeling another gust of wind cut through him, Loki shivered violently, wrapping his arms around his middle. "You don't say," he bit out, teeth chattering. "What gave you that idea?"

Shooting the younger boy an irritated look, Elektra pointed up with one pale finger, leaving said boy to follow her wordless instruction. Allowing himself to humour her, Loki looked up with slow movements, swallowing thickly once he caught sight of the dangerously dark clouds hanging over them.

"We're going to die," Loki announced flatly, looking back down to the crumbling ground beneath him. "Thanks to my idiotic brother, I shall not even go out in glory, but from hypothermia."

Elektra hummed, shifting closer to absently nudge his shoulder. "If you'd like, I could viciously stab you in the back... Does that count as glory?" she offered with a faint smile, lifting a brow when the boy beside her sighed dramatically.

"Oh, I think I'll pass," Loki drawled, narrowing his eyes as he glared ahead. "Then again, my offer from before is always open – should you be in a killing mood." His voice had dropped to a mere murmur as he once again met her gaze, gauging her reaction with a critical eye. "Or, better yet... A back-stabbing one."

Elektra stared him down, the howling of the wind speaking for her as she turned away. "No, thank you."

Making a noise in his throat, Loki sighed again. "Shame."

Seemingly unable to meet the younger boy's eyes, Elektra continued to stare out at the ruined city, her body tense and alert. She returned to her duties of observing the surroundings and searching for movement or signs or life.

Almost scoffing at the show of weakness, Loki rolled his eyes. _She's killed once, but now that her life depends on it, it's suddenly taboo,_ he noted dryly, staring ahead at the pair guarding their front. Thor and his admirer strode forward with purpose, their bodies poised in the same position: one hand firmly clutching a weapon while the other remained taut at their sides. Loki could see they weren't conversing – their shoulders lifted and dropped with deep, uninterrupted breaths – but they seemed to have an unspoken agreement.

_It's not like it would be overly difficult,_ he wondered._ One thrust of a hand, and he'd drop like a bag of potatoes. And she, one throw, and she'd fall to follow her idol._

Looking back to his now silent partner, Loki narrowed his eyes, curious as to why the woman had refused his offer. He had expected her to jump at the opportunity to remove more competition, but instead, she'd clammed up and ignored him for a length of time, pretending to focus on the buildings surrounding them.

He wasn't sure what was worse ... that she'd rejected his offer or that he suspected his brother had overheard it.

* * *

_They'd been walking for hours, searching empty buildings and walking deserted streets. Their eyes were peeled for a shock of red hair or the shine of a bow, thoughts of avenging the betrayal committed overriding the desire to speak with one another or show companionship._

_And Loki had thought the arena would never be boring._

_He hated being wrong._

"_Well, I must admit this is entertaining," Loki murmured softly, looking through the empty windows to his side. He wasn't overly interested in finding Romanoff; he was the one who manipulated her into leaving and betraying them all in the first place, so his attention was wandering. "Absolutely riveting."_

_Beside him, Elektra sighed quietly, her hand tightening on her blade for a split second. "We need to find her, Loki," she reminded him, searching through the streets. "She can't get away with what she did."_

"_With what? Betraying us or burning all our supplies?" Loki inquired, smiling bitterly when bright eyes snapped their gaze back to his form. "Or maybe stabbing her archer partner?"_

_Elektra juggled the weapons in her hands, rolling her shoulders with a curt nod. "I don't believe that," she admitted, her brow furrowing in confusion. "It was too planned."_

_Loki cocked a brow. "You think Barton allowed Romanoff to injure him? In a ploy to achieve what, exactly?"_

_Elektra fell silent in thought, and Loki allowed her to, amused by his own mind for the time being. He had played it all out so well, and everything had fallen into place like the pieces of a puzzle. It hadn't taken much _–_ a probe there and a question fired there _–_ before the red-headed assassin was so wound up all he had to do was make the suggestion._

Burn it all and run.

_And run she did._

_Natasha had barely even hesitated to betray them all, stockpiling what she could before burning the rest so they'd be without food or supplies. She'd been prepared to leave, it would seem, and would have if the rest of her team hadn't found her out. Her eyes had widened when Barton had narrowed in on her with an arrow, and when her hands lifted up, even Loki was beginning to think he might cause her surrender._

_Of course, when it turned out she was reaching for a knife to embed in her ex-partner, Loki banished those thoughts quickly._

"_In a ploy … to be the victor, I guess," Elektra finally revealed, cutting through the younger boy's thoughts. "What else is there to win? She injured him, he distracted us, she ran, and then he followed her."_

_Loki nodded, pursing his lips with a careful and measured smile. "You make a fair point," he allowed, becoming silent himself as he turned to study the buildings around him._

_It did seem planned, but Loki knew it wasn't. As he tended to the archer's wounds, he'd seen the complete and utter expression of betrayal dancing in the blue eyes, and that had been all he needed. With the information in hand, he'd whispered ideas to the older boy, slowly convincing him that the only course of action was revenge. The only course of action was to return the favour._

_Clint had been gone by morning._

_The others had screamed in outrage, while Loki had basked in his victory. It had taken little meddling to convince Barton to do what he wanted, and when Loki conveniently left the injured boy alone, he whispered his own goodbyes to him, knowing he wouldn't see him again. A long story short; Loki wasn't surprised to find the boy gone._

"_You're awfully quiet; what are you plotting?" Elektra questioned suddenly, turning to meet cunning green eyes doubtfully._

_Loki managed a practised chuckle. "Oh you know, the usual." He breathed, looking around once again. "My survival... The survival of those who help me."_

_Elektra shook her head in slight amusement. "I don't doubt it," she admitted, yawning in exhaustion. "How are you planning to survive?" she questioned next with genuine curiosity._

"_By taking out the threats to my life," he confessed, smirking when her hand tightened on her weapon. "Tut tut, I wasn't referring to you, dear," he rolled his eyes before looking ahead. "More to them."_

_Following his gaze, Elektra frowned. "Your own brother? I don't think he's a threat to you..."_

"_What makes you think he's not?" Loki snorted. "We may be family, but I don't think he's planning on dying for me. I doubt the thought has even crossed his mind... If only he was capable of thinking," he added under his breath._

_Elektra couldn't seem to find the right words. "Are you planning your own brother's murder?" she demanded in shock._

"_Aren't you?" Loki shot back._

_The teenage girl started, annoyance flitting across her features when she realised she couldn't deny him. "He isn't _my_ brother. He's my enemy."_

"_Ah, so it's morally correct for you to plan such a thing?" Loki smiled widely, revealing his teeth. "Is it correct for you to enact it?"_

_Elektra couldn't contain the expression twisting her features, shock colouring her eyes and tugging at her lips. "So you're not only planning his murder, but you're planning to keep your own hands clean?"_

_Loki felt the corner of his lips turn up. "It would seem so," he allowed, gauging her reaction. "You think I have the strength to defeat him? The wit, without a doubt, but the strength?" he chuckled with another well-practised grin. "I'd prefer to leave that up to someone else... Someone who's done such a thing before."_

_A flash of gold had Loki looking up ahead. Thor's hair resettled on his back. He frowned._

"_You want me to murder your brother? What about Brunhilde?" Elektra asked._

_Loki shrugged, eyeing his brother. "I can easily deal with her; she's not as strong as Thor and twice as easy to manipulate. She'd be dead before she hit the floor and wouldn't realise it until her body was already cold."_

"_I deal with Thor, and you deal with Brunhilde?" Elektra murmured, actually seeming to contemplate the offer before she shook her head. "I think I'll pass."_

"_Excuse me?" Loki demanded, catching another flash of gold from the corner of his eye. "You refuse?"_

_Elektra sent him a levelled glare. "Yes, I do; that doesn't bother you, does it?" she said in warning, completely missing the movement up ahead._

_Loki threw on another false smile. "No, not at all. It's only a mere setback."_

_His companion seemed unsettled but nodded nonetheless, turning to look around once again and leave the pair in silence. Loki's smile dropped as soon as she looked away, and he peered ahead, glaring suspiciously at his brother when he noticed the man's shoulders were tense._

* * *

He can't have heard,_ Loki assured himself. _He wouldn't be stupid enough to allow me to stay standing if he had.

"Thor!"

The loud call pulled Loki from his thoughts, and he looked up in curiosity, wondering what the murderess had to say to the others. The pair ahead of them came to a stop, turning back to wait for the younger members to catch up with an air of impatience.

"Elektra?" Thor nodded once. "What is it? Does something ail you?"

The girl in question looked up with a thoughtful expression. "The weather; it's going to rain soon," she spoke up, looking between the remaining four members of her pack. "We need to find shelter before it really comes down on us."

Thor blinked, looking up as his lips tugged down at the corners. "We can keep going for now," he declared, seemingly unconcerned by the black clouds. "There are many buildings we can take shelter in should it rain; we don't need to look for such a place now while the rain doesn't fall."

"But can you trust the arena, brother?" Loki raised his voice, gaining three pairs of eyes but only staring into one. "For all we know, the rain in this place could be acidic; it would be best if we found a place we can defend before such a thing occurs."

Staring him down, Thor didn't speak; he only continued to blink at his adopted sibling blankly. The annoyance that flashed in blue eyes confused the younger brother, and Loki shifted on his feet awkwardly, waiting for the elder to finally speak. "I know what is best, brother," Thor bit out. "I am the leader for a reason. We will find shelter when we must."

Loki sighed, tilting his head slightly. "Brother, I am not undermining—"

"End of story," Thor cut in, glaring as the boy spoke. "Keep moving; we need to find Natasha and Clint before the darkness completely takes over," he finished, gesturing to the setting sun.

Ignoring the thrum of surprise that coursed through him, Loki bowed his head in a nod. "Of course, brother, whatever you wish," he allowed carefully, offering up a smile as penance. "Have you seen anything yet?"

Thor shook his head, features falling lax. "No, brother, not yet, but they can't have travelled far in the time they had," he said, looking around with a studious stare. "We didn't give them long enough to run, but hiding is another matter..."

Loki almost sighed in relief when his brother's voice was void of malice or suspicion, instead allowing another smile to brighten his features. "You wish to search the buildings? Sewers? Subway system?" he listed, careful to remain close to his brother's side as he spoke.

It was as the older sibling answered that he noticed the first drops.

"Do we have the proper light to check the sewers? If we do, that may be — Ah, what?" Thor wiped at his cheek when a cold droplet painted the golden skin, his fingers coming back so he could stare at the tips. He grunted in annoyance, looking up as the rain started in earnest, leaving pinpricks of colour on the pavement. "Rain."

Loki nodded, lightly pushing his brother's side. "Rain indeed. Move, brother," he demanded, pushing him towards one of the nearest buildings. "Come on, quickly now."

Thor moved under the weak shoves, leading the others into the nearest building with barked commands and a booming voice. The four remaining members of the Career pack sprinted into the building, panting slightly from exertion as the rain truly came down outside, thunder rumbling through the supports of the ancient structure.

"Well, that's unfortunate," Loki breathed, swallowing harshly as he turned to look out the broken door once again. "And highly annoying."

Brunhilde grunted from behind him, already on her knees and attempting to create a fire. "It's useful," she corrected him blandly. "No one will be stupid enough to walk or travel through this. It'll stop Natasha and Clint's constant movement."

"If they're even together," Loki added under his breath, still unsure himself if the pair were in cahoots. "What do we do now?"

Thor was walking idly around the outside walls, occasionally glancing out the windows as he scouted. "We take shelter until the storm has passed," he informed the trio currently watching him. "We'll set up a patrol later in the evening. I need to finish scouting the area first, and then I'll take first watch with another."

The others nodded in agreement, and Brunhilde stood to assist with checking the building, her long legs carrying her up the decaying flight of stairs across the room. "I'll check upstairs," she called over her shoulder, nodding once when everyone looked her way.

She disappeared, the only sign of movement being the ominous creaks echoing from her footsteps. Content that they were alone – Thor having disappeared to check the rest of the building – Loki turned to Elektra, deciding to try his luck once more.

"Thor and Brunhilde seem to share your view on the situation," he commented idly, waiting for the feeling of eyes on his form. He didn't have to wait long.

"My view?" Elektra parroted.

He rubbed at his eyes, pushing back sleep. "You all think that Clint and Natasha were in it together," he reminded her, the fire casting shadows on his sharp cheeks. "That they planned the whole thing with a brain neither seem to have."

"Natasha is smart enough," Elektra argued instantly. "I wouldn't put it past her to create a plan where she got to draw blood."

Chuckling softly, Loki turned back to the fire, more amused by the ever-changing flames. "Ah, I suppose you are correct," he allowed. "But something about it doesn't seem right. Now that I think about it, when I spoke to the archer afterwards while tending to his wounds, he wasn't overly excited about the whole deal. The pain was raw in his eyes. You can't fake that."

Elektra nodded shortly, a deep breath constricting in her chest. "Really, do you think so?" she questioned, turning to face him with a quizzical expression. "He didn't seem too put out to me, honestly. And it's a clever tactical move to leave one person behind to distract us while she escapes. If Clint hadn't been injured, we would have caught Natasha for sure."

Loki pursed his lips, going over her argument within his mind and picking it apart, beginning to examine it from every angle. "I suppose... That would be a clever trap, one the redhead no doubt knows," he murmured, nibbling on his lower lip. "Well, best not concern ourselves with it now; the thoughts will not bring the pair of them back. Best talk about other things." He smiled over at her, moving from the burning fire to her burning gaze.

"What other things?" Elektra snorted.

Rolling his eyes, Loki shrugged one shoulder elegantly. "Hmm, what about the Games? What are you going to do once the others are dispatched? You will be faced with my brother, Brunhilde and myself, will you not?" he pointed out, picking at his nails.

"Do you really think we will all survive dispatching the others?" she inquired, lips tugging into a frown. When the younger boy nodded back, she made a small noise. "Well, I must admit – and I apologize in advance for your pride – that I'm not overly worried about you," she said, a minuscule wince crossing her features. "Thor... on the other hand, he's going to be difficult."

Loki couldn't help but agree, and another chuckle rose from his throat. "Yes, he will be... In a head-on battle, you stand no chance – I apologize for your pride."

"Maybe Brunhilde will wear him down," she said, waving a hand for emphasis. "If I 'distract' myself with you – sorry – she might attack him and weaken him enough so that when I fight him, I win."

A rare, genuine laugh burst forth from his lips. "Oh, I did not think of that," he admitted, cocking his head as he thought curiously. It was a clever plan, to use another to weaken the man she would have trouble defeating. "You shall take down two birds with one stone, I believe the saying goes... But, problem one: Brunhilde would never attack him."

Elektra swallowed thickly, eyes flashing in concentration. "She wouldn't? Dammit, you're right; she admires him too much..."

"She'll wait for you to try to dispatch him, then no doubt deal with you while you're weakened." Loki shook his head in amusement. "She'll use your own plan against you."

Frowning, Elektra crossed her arms with a well-hidden pout. "You're making the game harder," she complained. "How am I meant to win if you keep changing the situation?"

Loki inclined his head, pushing to his feet and beginning to pace a tight circle around the fire and his companion. "How indeed... This game of yours – and mine of course – will change on you before you can blink, and the rules aren't always going to be easy to overcome. So, how do you win once the rules change and the difficulty rises? You cheat," he announced, bending slightly at the waist and murmuring close to her ear. "If you expect to win with a clean conscience, you shall not. If you expect to win while remaining noble and sticking to the rules of the fight, you won't. Life is a game, my dear murderess, and the only way to win is by pushing the limits no one thought you would."

Elektra remained silent for a few seconds, mulling over his words before turning to watch him pace. "Pushing limits..." she echoed. "Like planning the murder of your own sibling?"

"He's not my brother," Loki snapped. "And you know it."

Elektra started before frowning again, looking down to her lap and speaking with a small voice; one that gained confidence with every word. "But you were raised together, played together... He's your brother by love and family, not blood, but it makes no difference."

"Exactly." Loki pointed to her, agreeing with her words. "Out here, it makes no difference either. Brother or not, raised together or not."

"If you want your brother dead, Loki, you will have to do it," Elektra stated firmly. "I may not win with my intentions, but any person I fight will have a weapon in their hand. If I win, I win by playing the game _right_."

Heavy footsteps echoed back into the room, and Loki looked disappointedly down on his companion. "Then you will lose," he whispered, turning a large, fake smile on his brother. "Thor? Is the coast clear?" he teased lightly, ignoring the melancholy woman behind him. "Brunhilde has yet to return from her check."

Thor nodded, looking past his sibling to the girl on the ground. "The rain is lessening, brother; come patrol with me. Leave the women be for now." He jerked his head to the side, not really giving the boy a chance to refuse as he strode off.

"Of course, brother," he called, turning back to meet Elektra's bright eyes.

"I will win, whether I do so with noble intentions or not," he informed the young teenager. "Whether you deal with him – or I do."

* * *

_The blankets were cold, startlingly so, and Loki shivered again, whimpering lightly as his body was attacked by a violent chill. His bed seemed larger than usual, a long stretch of mattress and cool covers, ensuring that the young boy remained in his tight ball._

_Unable to stand the temperature any further, the child slipped out of the bed, mewing quietly when his feet hit the cold ground. "Cold," he whispered, already moving towards his bedroom door. The wood moved easily under his fingers, and he shivered once again as he raced across the hallway to a door similar to his own. With a knock, he pushed it open, peeking through the small crack. "Thor?"_

_The figure on the bed stirred slightly, a messy blond head lifting from the pillow. "Brother? Are you well?" the older sibling questioned, pushing to sit up. "Loki?"_

_Shifting on his feet, Loki looked down in slight embarrassment. "I'm cold," he admitted in a small voice._

_A warm chuckle made him look up. "Then come here, brother," Thor allowed, waving his sibling forward. "Don't be shy now, come on," he pressed, lifting the corner of the covers up._

_Loki slipped under the covers, snuggling close to a warm and much larger body. _

_"Thank you, brother," he muttered, pressing his face against heated skin. "I felt as though I would die."_

"_Oh, do I have a drama queen here?" Thor teased, running a hand through dark locks in a friendly ruffle. "Did you not think to use the spare blankets in the closet, or the ones I stowed under your bed?" he questioned, patting down the hair he previously disturbed gently._

_Loki grumbled, allowing the warming touch and teasing words. "I did not know about such a blanket."_

"_You don't know everything," Thor reminded him. "But even if you did, brother, some things you must be told more than once, yes?"_

_Looking up, and snuggling closer as he did so, Loki frowned. "What would I need to be told more than once?" he demanded carefully._

"_The most important things in the world must be told often," Thor preached, nodding his head once as he agreed with his own words. Another hand came up to cup the younger boy's neck in a show of affection. "Things like; 'I love you.' You can never say that enough."_

_Rolling his eyes, Loki wiggled away from the hand on his nape. "Oh you're having a sappy moment," he realised with a sigh. "I'll leave you to it."_

"_The proper reply, brother mine," Thor commented dryly. "Would be to respond in kind."_

_Chuckling softly, Loki smiled up at his older brother, admiring the boy. "I love you, Thor," he said softly, shaking his head in exasperation. "How often must I say it?"_

"_As often as you can," Thor murmured, closing his eyes once again and ensuring the blankets were up to his brother's chin. "I can never hear it enough."_

_As the heartbeat under his ear steadied, and the chest he was using as a pillow rose and fell in even breaths, Loki smiled. His brother was always filled with words like those he had spoken, the soft affection and wise council always at the ready._

_Nodding to himself, Loki vowed to tell his brother how much he loved him as often as he could._

* * *

The water was falling lightly now, but it still managed to chill the younger sibling to the bone. His hands came up to wrap around his middle as he walked, a cool metal pressing against his side only succeeding in making the cold worse.

_But I shall keep the blade close,_ Loki promised, refusing to even entertain the mere idea of dropping it. _I'll need it soon enough_.

"Are you cold, brother?" Thor questioned, turning to lift a golden brow.

Loki nodded with a weak smile, breathing out slowly and watching his breath crystallize. "Quite, it would seem. This rain is not agreeing with me."

"I'm sure you'll survive. What happened to your uncanny immunity to the cold?" Thor asked next, shaking his head in amusement when the boy snorted. "Is it not as uncanny as I thought?"

He shot his older brother a sharp glare, making an annoyed sound in his throat. "I suppose the arena is different to the usual, bone-numbing cold I'm use too," he muttered bitterly. "Perhaps I have weakened in my age?"

"You are not old, brother." Thor rolled his eyes, directing his sibling to a bridge. "Hmm, best be careful while crossing here, Loki; the water is raging."

Thor wasn't lying, Loki noted, wincing as he looked at the wild waters running under the bridge. It looked as though the ground beneath it had fallen away, revealing the sewers it hid and allowing them to rage and boil to their heart's content. With careful footsteps, Loki moved onto the bridge, wincing with every creak and groan the wood let out.

"You and Elektra are close," Thor said, stopping his brother's movements with a commanding hand on his arm.

Loki frowned but shrugged with his free arm. "I suppose, as close as one can get in such a situation," he allowed. "What makes you say this?"

Thor chuckled, looking over the raging waters. "Oh, nothing; just the fact that you trust her enough to ask her to eliminate me." He smiled sharply as Loki looked up to him, revealing straight, white teeth. "I always thought you did the dirtier jobs yourself, brother, to ensure they were done correctly."

Loki felt his heart hammer in his chest, the organ pounding double time. "I didn't want to dirty my hands." He spoke evenly, offering a smile of his own. "I was wondering if you heard; I had my suspicions, of course."

"Of course," Thor echoed, narrowing his eyes. "You don't even deny it..."

Laughing loudly, Loki threw his head back into the sound. "No, I don't. Why bother?" He lifted both hands before gesturing to his sibling. "You already know, and denying would only succeed in annoying you further ... or perhaps you were hoping you heard wrong?" Loki wondered, cocking his head. "Perhaps you were hoping your beloved baby brother wasn't as corrupted as you feared?"

"Why?" Thor demanded, his throat moving as he swallowed. "I vowed to protect you, but you go about scheming behind my back!" he boomed, taking one threatening step forward. "I was going to die for you!"

"For me?" Loki couldn't help but laugh again, this one more bitter than before. "Oh, you could've at least attempted to sound honest, _brother_. You would no sooner die for me than for the filth under your boot," he snarled.

Thor clenched his fist, the hammer he favoured moving with the action. "I am the filth under your boot," he announced. "And it has been that way since Mother died."

"Don't..." Loki warned, lifting a finger to point with a dangerous air. "Do not use her to cover your own plights."

"My own plights?" Thor echoed, his lips twisting into a grimace. "I used to have a baby brother who adored me, who went to me when something bothered him or when he felt lonely. Or simply when he wished to tell me he loved me. Then, after I lose the woman who raised me, this brother of mine changes."

Loki shook his head, refusing to allow his anger and emotions to play on his features.

"Forgive me for no longer worshiping the very ground you walked on," he growled, taking his own step forward. "Did you miss your little admirer?"

"I missed my younger brother!" Thor roared over the howling wind. "I missed the boy who laughed so carelessly when I picked him up, the boy who crawled into my bed when he was cold or had a nightmare."

Loki stopped once his brother raised his voice, looking down with a sigh. "He's gone, Thor, and you know it. Would this boy of yours manipulate everyone around him, pulling the strings like a puppet master? Do you think he would've convinced a redhead to burn her team to the ground before hurting the man who loved her? You don't think he would've then convinced the scorned lover to go after her for revenge?"

When he caught the shocked expression the older teen wore, he laughed again, lips turning up. "Oh, please, you didn't notice? You didn't notice the way I acted or spoke, the way I slowly squirmed into every brain until I had them where I wanted?"

The man only stared, mouth working without sound. But blue eyes said it all.

"You truly are pathetic, Thor," Loki sighed. "And you would've been useful as well. It's a real shame I have to do this."

With that, he lifted the knife nestled against his side and plunged it into the soft flesh on the boy's shoulder. With a screamed yelp, Thor collapsed to one knee as the knife slid through his skin and muscle, forcing him to drop the hammer he treasured so much.

_Bingo._

"You honestly thought I cared at all about you?" Loki yelled over the rain, squinting as it picked up once again. He kicked out viciously, catching the blond in the chest and sending him onto his back. "And here I was thinking you weren't _entirely_ stupid."

He went to lash out once again, but his calf was caught in a tight grip before he was pulled to the ground, a grunt leaving his lips as the air was forced from his lungs. Loki attempted to roll, hoping to keep out of his brother's reach, but a hand on his lower thigh stopped him, a large figure looming over him. Thor's fist collided with his jaw before he could blink, and a shock of pain reverberated through his skull.

"I should've known better," Thor whispered, drawing back his hand for another punch.

Loki's eyes widened as the fist grew closer, and he jolted to the side, hearing a crack as the skin split on contact with the wood beneath him. His leg came up to meet his brother's hip, pushing the man away with effort. A metallic clang echoed, and Loki noted that the knife was dislodged as the older boy fell back.

"You really should've," Loki agreed as he pushed to his feet, watching his brother do the same. "I'm almost disappointed in you."

Thor shook his head, rolling his injured shoulder as Loki bent, picking up his stray weapon. The knife was a heavy weight in his hands, the end stained scarlet with the blood of his own kin. For a moment, he almost paused.

_No, you have to. Win or lose... Live or die._

Thor charged, and Loki danced to the side, moving to stab him once again – this time somewhere more permanent – but his brother stopped him with a shoulder to the chest. The knife dropped from his hands as he stumbled back from the force of the blow, coughing wildly before he fell completely.

The railing that caught his tiring body managed to hold until another cough wracked through his small frame. With a moan, the wood gave way, and Loki fell backwards, arms wind-milling as he tried to catch himself on the edge.

_Lose. Die._

Loki's rapid descent was stopped by warmth encompassing his wrist, the sensation of his shoulder popping out of place following close behind. He let out a pained yelp, his eyes snapping open in shock and zeroing on the source of the saving pain.

Thor grunted, a drop of sweat falling from his brow. "Hold on, brother," he ordered, not releasing the younger boy's hand or gaze. "Just hold on..."

_Hold on…_

The vice-like grip on his wrist was slipping, and Loki noted that his brother was panting, blood pouring from the wound on his shoulder. The wound Loki had purposefully inflicted so the older teen would be unable to swing his hammer…

Or hold up any weight.

Loki's wrist slipped a fraction of an inch, causing the older boy to cry out and grasp his hand instead. "Brother!" Thor fruitlessly tried to tighten his grip, clinging to blood-slicked hands desperately. "Don't let go, Loki," Thor commanded breathlessly, his features twisting in agony.

_You're the one holding onto me, you stupid oaf,_ Loki thought absently._ And you're the one that is beginning to give up._

"Loki... I..." Thor's expression of pain morphed into heartbreak. "I – I can't..."

_I know_.

Loki watched as his brother's features turned into something indescribable, the pure look of hurt and sorrow swallowing his bright blue eyes and usually upturned lips. It was a horrifying sight to see, and Loki watched it all, drinking in the last few minutes of his brother while he could.

"It _was _because of Mother," he admitted in a whisper over the roaring water beneath his body. He could feel it licking at his feet, frothing at the mouth at the thought of consuming his fragile body. "All because of her..."

Thor stilled instantly, his eyes darkening in sorrow. "Loki?"

Green eyes were glassy, lost in a maze of thought and memories. "You look so much like her, brother," Loki informed the boy. "It's why I couldn't... Why I refused you all those years. It's why I grew to hate you; you were too much like her... I couldn't take it."

"Brother, please, I can go get help; just hold on to the bridge – "

"Your smile is exactly like hers, but I don't know if you remember. She used to smile at me as I studied, and it was exactly the same way you smile at me," Loki whispered again, his brow furrowing. "You are so much like her, it hurts."

Thor didn't answer, tears falling from his cheeks instead of sweat.

"I pushed you away because of that, but I should've held you dearer. I thought I lost all I had of my mother when I found out about my heritage, but I didn't realise I had you..." Loki blinked, returning fully to the present and smiling weakly up at his older brother. "I'm sorry, brother."

Thor choked on air, his features falling further into a state of heartbreak. "No, no... I forgive you, it's fine, just hold on to the bridge, and I can go get help, but you need to hold on!"

"I _do_ love you, no matter what you think. No matter what _I_ think."

Once again, Thor stilled, recognizing the dismissal. He finally looked at his brother, really_ looked,_ and saw the raw anger and hurt that lay beneath cunning green eyes. He saw the pain of losing it all in a matter of years and not having someone to lean on. He saw the regret and finally the acceptance dancing in emerald irises.

"I – I love you as well, brother. I always will," Thor stated as strongly as he could manage. "Mother and Father did as well; you must believe me."

Loki smiled. "I do..." He breathed weakly, pain finally leaking into his eyes.

Fate, having given the brothers enough time to reconcile, turned harsh, forcing the younger boy to slip, slick fingers falling from the grip of his protector. Thor cried out, reaching out as Loki felt himself fall, the blue eyes he looked up to disappearing from sight before he hit the water, his bones aching from the collision.

Despite the raging water and the way it crept into his lungs, Loki smiled calmly as he kept his vow.

_I love you._

Over the noise of the rushing water, he heard a cannon sound.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: ?, District ? – Killed by ?**

* * *

**(A/N) Whaaaaat? Did I just leave you guys on a cliffhanger for Christmas?**


	68. Chapter 67: Reflected in the Storm

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after a short holiday delay. Hope you all had a good Christmas, and Happy New Year to you all! Here is our latest chapter, written by Ophelia Claire (formerly Lokisdottir) and featuring Kurt Wagner!**

**A big thanks to I-OfTheHawk and all of our writers who reviewed. Really glad the cliffhanger annoyed people as much as I had hoped it would, and will it be resolved in this chapter? I guess you'll just have to read on to see!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Seven — Reflected in the Storm**

**Night, Day Five**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Claire**

* * *

"_Ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." _– Khalil Gibran

* * *

The clouds were dark and heavy as Logan and Kate arrived back at their new hideout, and they opened up shortly after everyone was settled down around the fire. The rain thrummed heavily on the walls of the building, and while most of the windows were broken, the rain didn't reach into the middle of the room.

But the lights in this building, surprisingly, were still working. Kate had briefly lamented the fact that none of them had the District Three skills to tinker with the exposed wires and remaining bulbs before Peter had (slightly shakily) climbed atop an old sofa and gotten three of the lights shining within fifteen minutes. Combined with the blazing fire, it was bright enough to make out the rebar sticking out of the rubble piles.

Logan finished roasting three chunks of meat on one set of claws and offered the pieces to the rest of them on broken plates they'd found in a cupboard nearby. Kurt took his piece and was considering trying to use his sword to cut it into more manageable pieces but decided to opt for the quicker and easier (albeit messier) method of ripping it with his teeth as the other three were doing.

The firelight danced merrily on their faces and the walls, and the atmosphere was calm and relaxed — as relaxed as one could get in the Avenger Games. Kate was the most at ease, chattering about people from District Twelve. One name stuck out to Kurt — a girl named "America."

"Wasn't that what Marvel was called before the Infinity War divided it up?" Kurt interjected as the girl's name popped up in Kate's chatter once more. To everyone's mild surprise, Peter answered.

"Yeah, it was. There was a North America — that's Marvel — and a South, but I don't know if that was affected by the Infinity War or not."

"How d'ya know all that?" Logan asked.

Peter bit off a chunk of his meat. "My friend, Harry Osborne — his dad is clued in on a lot of this stuff. His dad tells him and me about all kinds of cool historical stuff."

Kate scooted closer. "Whoa, whoa, back it up, Spider-boy. Osborne? As in your mentor? Your mentor is your best friend's dad?"

Peter nodded. "Harry and I have been friends since we were kids. Harry, he … well, when I was younger, there was this kid at my school. Eugene Thompson — everyone called him Flash."

Kate snickered. "I can see why. If I had a name like Eugene…" She grinned. "Sorry, Pete, go on."

"Flash was a bully," Peter continued. "He picked on anyone that was smaller than him, which included me. And Harry, but Flash generally left Harry alone because he was scared of Norman. People in our district sometimes call him 'Stormin' Norman.' Anyways, there was a time when Flash was kind of focused on me, so Harry and I came up with a little revenge scheme."

Kate clapped her hands. "I knew I liked you."

"Harry and I decided to play off of Norman's reputation and spread a rumour that Norman had been teaching Harry how to … um … take care of enemies, and Flash bought into it so hard it almost wasn't funny." Peter chuckled. "Almost. So we started talking within earshot of Flash about how Harry had just started testing a poison on a new subject. We mentioned a few symptoms, like a rash, an upset stomach, that kind of thing, and Flash freaked out — because I'd been putting poison oak at his station and sticking this herb that makes you sick in his lunch at school. He was convinced that Harry had poisoned him and kept begging him for the antidote. Harry made him promise to leave the smaller kids alone with the threat of poisoning him again if he ever caught wind of bullying. I don't think Flash has even talked to the younger kids since."

Kurt and Kate laughed, and even Logan cracked a half-smile. Kate set down the bone she'd picked clean.

"Okay, but you're not a shrimp," she said. "I mean, you're not Logan." She gestured to Logan and his muscled arms. "But you look strong. Like you could climb a building or something."

Peter shrugged. "I worked in the factories, and I was one of the smallest ones, so I had to climb up to the machines where other workers couldn't fit. I had to have some muscles; otherwise, I'd have fallen off the beams, and Flash already had way too much ammo to use against me."

Kate slugged his shoulder gently. "Well, if you make it back, Flash won't be able to tease you about anything."

Peter smiled, but it faded quickly, as did the jovial atmosphere that had filled the room as everyone realized what Kate had said.

Kate tried to recover. "What about you, Logan? Any stories you want to share?"

"Nope." Logan's answer was short and gruff.

"Pleeeease?" Kate wheedled.

"I said no, Trickshot."

Kurt laid a hand on Kate's arm. "Don't push your luck,_ mein freund_," he said.

The look that appeared on Logan's face was awful. He looked … almost sickened by Kurt's words. When he caught Kurt's gaze, he quickly donned a grateful expression, silently thanking Kurt for reining in Kate, but Kurt couldn't figure out what he'd done that had shocked Logan so. He'd never seen the boy look so disturbed.

"What, uh, what language was that, Elf?" Logan asked, trying to regain his casual, brusque attitude.

"Where do you even pick up another language than English in the districts?" Kate added. She didn't seem to have noticed Logan's problem.

"A few years ago, there was a priest that came through town. My mother let him stay at our house while he was in town. He was from the Capitol, I think, able to pass from district to district without much trouble from the Sentinels. He knew this language — it's called, um, Garmin, or something — and taught me some words. He said it was from someplace across the ocean from Marvel. I don't know much, just a few phrases. He stayed in town a few days, then left." Kurt paused, unsure how to phrase his next words. "He also taught me a little about religion, what it used to be, old teachings and scriptures. I'm not a religious fanatic like there used to be, but it helps … when things are rough. I pray if I'm struggling, or if someone around me is struggling."

There was a pregnant pause after Kurt finished talking.

"Have you been praying during the Games?" Kate asked, her voice missing some of its brightness.

"A bit. Not much, but that first day, before I ran into you, I think I went through every one that I know, twice." Kurt wondered if that priest was watching the games. What had his name been? Father … Langdon? Lantom, that was it. If he was still alive … would he remember Kurt? Would he be watching, praying for Kurt and his family? Would he return to District Nine if Kurt didn't make it and be with his family? He decided to change the subject. "I have a better story. A happier one," he said.

"I said that when I was younger, some of the districts weren't as strict as they are now, so people like Father Lantom came and went on occasion. One time, when I was about seven or eight, a traveling circus came through for about a week. My mom took my friend Kitty and me to a show one afternoon, and it was the most amazing thing I'd seen so far in my life. Kitty loved the animal acts, but my favourite act was the pair of swordsmen who fenced on a high wire. I had a thing for swords back then — there was a book that my mom read to me. I remember being so afraid that they'd get hurt but also so impressed that I snuck out that night."

Kate gasped in playful surprise. "Whaaaaat? You? Our squeaky-clean Elf broke curfew?"

Kurt blushed. "Yes, after Mom had put the twins to bed. I climbed out of my window and went down to the field where the circus had set up." Even several years later, Kurt could recall the exhilaration of being out in the night air, the feeling of being alone — but in a good way. Being the only one out had made him feel like the ruler of the night. "You could see the lights from a few blocks away," Kurt continued. "The big top was decorated with strings of fairy lights, and it was the biggest light source at night. Almost everything went off after curfew." The other three nodded — lighting patterns were similar across the districts, it seemed.

A clap of thunder right over the building caused everyone to jump, even Logan. Kate grinned at everyone before Kurt continued his tale.

"The evening show was still going on, so I snuck in through a side flap and watched the end. I got to see the tightrope fencers again and went back to their tent after the show. I'm sure they were a bit surprised, but they were really cool and didn't call the Sentinels when they found a first-grader poking around their tent. They showed me their swords, let me try them out." Kurt chuckled to himself. "Looking back, I'm sure it was hysterical to watch — their swords came up to my chest, but they were nice about it. Haven't had much sword practice since then," he said, hefting the short blade he'd picked up, "but the interest stayed."

"I was wondering why you didn't go with a scythe as your weapon, being a field worker and all," said Kate, using her teeth to strip the last bits of meat from the chunk she held and tossing it into the flames. Logan offered her another piece, which she took.

"I did try one out during training, but Erik — Magneto — figured that a sword would be better for the arena. More versatility in a fight. Scythes are good for hacking, but they're too clunky for close-range combat." Kurt remembered the early conversation. "Kate, we kind of interrupted your story about your friends from Twelve; sorry about that. They sound like quite the bunch. How'd a classy girl like you—" He dodged Kate's playful punch. "—end up with a gang like that?"

"Well, the day after the Reaping two years ago, my older sister got married. It had been her and her fiancé's last Reaping, and they wanted to wait … you know, in case something happened. My friends crashed the party, because it was an awesome party; who wouldn't want to be there? And the Sentinels were all up in arms, but I liked my buddies' nerve, so I convinced the Sentinels they were with me. And, um..." Kate trailed off for a second, her face losing some of the playful spark it had held while she talked, but it returned almost immediately. "I found 'em later and told them that they were basically stuck with me now. They were a little sore — one of their members had been Reaped earlier." She fell silent, then managed a chuckle. "Boy, we just can't keep anything cheery around here, can we? But they let me stay, and that girl, America, I was talking about earlier, she's my best friend now..." As Kate continued chattering, Kurt scooted closer to Logan.

"Okay, Logan, spill," he whispered. "What did I do a few minutes ago that got you so riled up? And don't you try and pull any of that aloof-tough-Wolverine stuff. Something's got you shaken, and nothing shakes you. So…"

Logan glared at the embers of the fire, as though he could will them to burst back into flame with just a look. Then, he sighed.

"The day of the bloodbath, before we all ran into each other, I killed the girl from Ten. Raven. I don't know how, but she made her voice sound just like you. She called out to me and came up, pretending to be you, and I almost fell for it." Logan pulled at the rebar strapped to his wrists, lining the ends up evenly on his forearms. "She was even spoutin' some a that … whatever that language is. She called me … what didja call Kate?" Logan asked, his eyes squinted up as he waited for the answer.

"_Mein freund_," Kurt supplied quietly.

"Yeah, that," Logan rumbled. "Anyhow. There was a minute when I thought I'd killed ya, and... I can't even tell ya how relieved I was that it was her." He tossed a clean bone into the fire and shook his head with a grimace. "Don't worry about it, Kurt. It just brought back something I'd rather forget."

Kurt didn't reply right away. He was touched that Logan trusted him enough to reveal that to him and that he wasn't as much of a lone wolf — or wolverine — as he projected. He cared about his pack. But Kurt was worried for Logan's sake. Logan acted tough and almost callous at times, but it hid a troubled interior. District Seven had not been kind to the boy, it seemed.

And he really was just that, a boy. It tended to be forgotten because of his natural leadership tendencies, but he was only eighteen. Old in the Games, but young in life. It seemed he had been through more before he reached adulthood than most of the members of District Nine.

Kurt wished that Logan was more open with people. Kurt realized that it wasn't easy to open up after years of building walls around his feelings, but it couldn't be healthy for him to be so alone.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up," Kurt said.

A half-smile graced Logan's lips. "There ya go, apologizing for something that wasn't even your fault. Like I said — I'm fine now. I promise."

"Are you actually all right?" Kurt asked, letting himself smile as he threw the gibe at Logan, a none-too-subtle reference at their history with injuries.

"Yeah." Logan was still staring at the embers of the fire. Kurt heard him inhale deeply and tense up, like he was hesitating over something. The something followed fairly soon after.

"Hey, Kurt…. Why don't ya teach me a couple a those prayers ya mentioned earlier?"

Kurt was ecstatic, not because he loved teaching religion, but because Logan was finally letting the walls down a bit.

"Well, there's a couple classics you should know. There's the Lord's Prayer, which is just kind of a basic, every-situation prayer." Kurt clasped his hands — it was a habit — and began reciting it line by line so Logan could learn it. "Our Father, who art in heaven..." Logan was muttering the lines to himself, committing the words to his memory.

Kurt ran through a couple more for Logan before Kate seemed to get concerned over them not participating in the conversation. She looked like she wanted to investigate, but Kurt gave her a thumbs-up, and she seemed mollified.

The rain's noise died slightly in time with their conversations' waning. The sounds of the fire crackling could be heard, as well as a faint ripping sound each time one of them took a bite of meat.

And something else.

Logan (of course) noticed it first, dropping his half-eaten meat on the floor and standing up. Peter stiffened in mock horror.

"Hey, if you didn't want that I—" Kate clapped a hand over his mouth before rising and drawing her knife. Kurt listened, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

A scraping sound could be heard through the broken windows, like someone was shifting the concrete chunks or dragging something. Kurt pulled his sword free of his belt, and the four slowly moved into a back-to-back circle, even though Peter was weaponless. Kate scrambled for her backpack, pulling out the binoculars from Black Bolt.

"How are those going to help?" Peter asked.

"Night vision setting," Kate whispered back, pressing the lenses to her eyes and turning in a slow half-circle.

There was another bone-rattling thunderclap, and their few lights flickered out. The fire no longer seemed cosy and welcoming. Instead, the shadows dancing on the wall felt macabre and evil.

"What do you think it is?" Kate whispered to no one in particular.

"And are we going to wait for it to come in, or are we going to go and find it?" Kurt added. After the spider attack and subsequent raid on the camp, Kurt had been feeling pretty confident in their skills as a fighting force, but finding Peter had served as a reminder that many tributes — including Careers — remained in the Games. They had gotten lucky with the spiders — even mutts were only as smart as your average dog. But a tribute out hunting … that was a different story.

"I vote we stay in here; at least we can see…" Peter began and then trailed off. As he spoke, a gust of wind whistled through the broken windows and rattled around the room, setting the fire flickering violently before putting it out. "I stand corrected," said Peter in a very small voice.

The room was pitch black. Every few seconds, a bolt of lightning would flash through the sky outside, filling the room with bright light for the briefest of instants.

Kurt swallowed thickly, scanning the room, his eyes darting from one object to the next, afraid to miss something. He kept coming back to the window that pointed towards the street. He edged out of their little circle, inching towards the window in the dark. As he neared the sill, he was sprayed with rain blowing inside, and lightning forked over the building.

Kurt's heart leapt into his throat — had he seen something in the street? Or had it just been his frightened mind playing tricks on him? After all, what were the odds that someone had found them in the downpour? It was probably just concrete falling down. Kurt had seen it happen multiple times on their treks to new nests.

Then lightning flashed again, and Kurt's knees gave out under him. He clutched at the sill, for standing in the middle of the street, grinning madly with horrific, pointed teeth, was Cletus Kasady.

The boy's hood was plastered to his skull by the torrential downpour, and his clothes were soaked, but the creepy kid didn't seem to mind.

He waved at Kurt in the next white flash.

"Kurt?!" Kate was tugging him to his feet. Then she noticed Kasady, and her grip on Kurt's arm tightened painfully. Logan and Peter had followed her over, and both were staring into the dark, waiting for the next bolt of lightning to illuminate the street.

"It's Cletus," Kurt choked out as the white light lit up the street yet again. Logan's eyes locked onto the red boy still standing in the rain. When Cletus caught Logan watching him, his malicious grin widened, and he took off down the dark street. Logan raced for the door.

"Logan, no!" Kurt yelled. But his words were as effective on Logan as tissue paper. Logan burst from the door of the building and tore down the street in the direction Cletus had gone. Kurt watched him as long as he could, his eyes beginning to adjust to the darkness. The touch on his arm vanished, and Kate was running toward her pile of stuff. She scooped her homemade staves from the floor and headed for the door as well.

Kurt couldn't believe that any part of him was focused on anything but Cletus, but Kate's grip on his arm had, for some reason, sent a couple of butterflies flitting round his stomach, and he … sort of wanted it back.

"Kate, please don't!" Kurt cried. "It's bad enough that Logan's out there with him. That kid is a monster." Kate only glanced back at him, an apologetic look on her face, before she, too, disappeared into the night. Kurt felt something drop into the pit of his stomach as she vanished into the darkness.

Peter had retreated to the fire, pulling weeds from the cracked floor around him. He twisted the grass together and tied it around a nearby stick before lighting it from the embers of the fire. His face was thrown into sharp relief when he held up the makeshift torch.

"What do we do?" he asked, his voice high with hysteria. "Sh-should we go after them?" Kurt twisted his hands around the hilt of his sword before he nodded.

"Leave the torch, though. It's not going to keep going in that storm, and even if it would stay lit, we already have one lunatic running around out there. We don't need any Careers on our tail."

Kurt cast his eyes around the room and scooped up Kate's backpack, some supplies, and the sleeping bag, shoving the objects into the bag as he headed for the door.

"You coming?" he asked Peter. Peter set the torch down and hurried after him.

The boys were immediately soaked when they stepped outside and ran down the street, past the dilapidated buildings, in the direction their allies and enemy had run. They crossed an intersection, and Peter slowed.

"Kurt?" he shouted over the storm.

"What?"

"How do you know which way they went?"

Kurt's heart sank.

"…I don't."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17\. Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde**

**16\. Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15\. ?, District ? – Killed by ?**


	69. Chapter 68: Retribution

**(A/N) We're back with a new update, as we go to Clint Barton's…second chapter of the round? Whaaaat? Unfortunately, due to landing a job in Disney, GeekyChic123 (writer of Natasha) had to drop out, which is why DeadWoman and Clint are returning, as they take over the chapter. I think you'll all agree that she does a great job!**

**I believe there's something wrong with Fanfiction at the moment, where it eats reviews, so I'd like to thank everyone that took the time to leave one since our last update, and hopefully they'll all come through shortly!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Eight — Retribution**

**Night, Day Five**

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

"_What is this power the dead have over the ones they leave behind? It's strange and beautiful and frightening, this deathless love that human beings continue to feel for the ones they've lost." _

– Sangu Mandannan, _The Lost Girl_

* * *

The sun was just setting, letting the moon take its place, when the rain started. It instantly clouded the sky and Clint's mood. He was planning to…hunt. As inhumane as that sounded, it was the truth. He would hunt for Natasha, make her tell him why she did what she did, tell her…

_Tell her what? That you loved her? Sorry, I said past tense, didn't I? You still love that bitch. You're a mess, Barton. Get your head back in the game and focus on winning. What's your end game here? Making sure that the others and the audience know that you're weak...or winning the Games and escaping District Two?_

"Shut up," Clint snapped. His head was a mess.

The rain was soaking him as he sat, in a clearing, on a rock, but he didn't bother moving and looking for shelter. His wound still hurt, despite the Careers patching it up that morning. He didn't know if they were all still alive. They had been good – good as they could be – to him that morning, perhaps even sympathizing with him over what had happened.

_Then you left them. Bad move, Barton. Here you are. Sitting on a rock. No supplies. With your bow and arrow. What? Are you waiting for someone to come so you can kill them? Go hunting now. Why sit here? Kill Natasha Romanoff._

"That's not what I want."

_First sign of madness, talking to yourself._

Clint gritted his teeth as the word 'madness' echoed around his mind. He wasn't mad; he had never been saner. The whole world had never been so clear to him. It was like before he had been living in a haze; still stuck on the fragile idea of the good left in humanity. Now, betrayed and alone, the fog had cleared. The rain had washed away every misleading thought he had that led him to the arena. Training and trying to be a hero, volunteering for that boy. Volunteering had been some misguided notion of doing good. It was a selfish act, really.

All of Marvel knew his name. Clint Barton – the boy with the bow. They were all watching him now. People he didn't know. Strangers from every district and the Capitol were watching his every move. The Gamemakers were most likely wanting to send some threat his way. They would probably force him and another tribute together. See if he would give up before he had exacted his revenge on Natasha.

_Revenge? What a powerful word. Didn't know that you wanted rev—_

Clint shut the voice out. It was poisoning him. He tried to clear his mind, tried to relax, but every sound – the rain hitting the ground, the cries of birds, the thunder rumbling in the sky – made him jump. It made him…scared. He hadn't been absolutely terrified in a long time. Being beaten up, sent to his death, betrayed…all that he could handle.

This fear came from an ancient place inside of him. The childhood fear that shook his body to the core. The fear of the monsters under his bed and inside his closet. The fear of the creatures the dark could be hiding. The fear of the unknown, lurking just beyond the light. This fear made him feel more alive than he had in a long time, too. It terrified him, but he relished it.

He swallowed any doubts as he stood up, bow in hand. It was all he had now. He hoped that he got to keep it if he won. He doubted he would want it in the end, but right now, he did so want it.

Clint started to move. His limbs were sore and heavy from being in the same position for so long, but after a few minutes, they started to warm up. He ripped fabric from his jacket and fashioned it into makeshift gloves to keep his hands warm. He washed the heavy coating of mud off his boots in a nearby puddle. He counted the arrows in his quiver, letting the rain clean each one and rid it of the dirt that he couldn't quite avoid in the arena. He waited until he found the tallest tree in the area before climbing it, stretching out his legs and arms and ignoring the slight pain from his injury.

He surveyed the part of the arena that he could see. Trees had grown in among ruins, and ruins had collapsed into what must have once been parks and small parts of natural beauty in this big city. There were no lights from fires or torches, there were no signs that anyone else was in this place. That was how Clint liked it. He liked the solitude.

It wasn't quiet for long.

There was a flash of lightning in the sky, accompanied by a loud scream. He couldn't tell if it was human or animal, never mind boy or girl. This storm was going to bring bad things, he could tell. And, just as he was thinking this, lightning struck his tree.

He was falling. Ever so slowly, he was falling. It felt like the whole world had been slowed down as he felt every nerve in his body light up and every brain cell telling him that it goddamn hurt. Then everything was speeding up. The ground came closer and closer, the branches scratched him as he passed, and he was bleeding from somewhere. He could taste the copper of blood in his mouth, and he could feel it dripping down his arm. Now, he could taste the saltiness of tears as his vision blurred, as he kept falling, as pain shot through his body, as…

* * *

_He woke up to the sound of soft voices. He was in a hospital ward. His body didn't hurt anymore, which was good, but he didn't know where he was, which was so very bad. _

_"Hello?" he called out. He couldn't sit up. Maybe he was paralysed and that's why his body didn't hurt. The thought scared him until he felt the restraints binding him to the bed. That didn't just scare him; that terrified him. A girl around his age appeared beside his bed, wearing a white dress and the smile you give to someone who's dying._

_"__Hello," she said._

_"__Who the hell are you?" Clint struggled against the restraints, frowning as they seemed to get tighter. "Where am I? What's going on?"_

_"__It's all okay now, Clint," the girl said softly. "You're going to be just fine."_

_"__If you don't tell me what's happening, I swear to God, I'll rip your throat out," he growled._

_The threat didn't seem to bother her. "There's no need for violence here," she said as if replying to a mild comment about the weather. "In fact, you never have to fight again, here. You can be happy."_

_"__I'm not happy, right now. I need to get back…back to the arena."_

_"__You can stay here. You'll be happy here, I promise. You'll never need to fight again. You can have everything you've ever wanted here."_

_"__I want to go back to the arena." Clint felt anger bubble up inside of him, and he wanted to scream, and then he was free of the restraints. He sat up, and the girl seemed alarmed, leaping backwards._

_"__This isn't supposed to happen. You're not supposed to break out. Clint, if you just let go, you can be happy here. Just…let go…"_

_He knew what she meant. He knew what he had to let go of. He knew that he wouldn't. "I have unfinished business. I'm not ready to let go just yet." He got out of the bed, looking in disgust at the white hospital clothes he was wearing. Everything here seemed so clean and pure. "So, you," he said as he looked at the shocked girl, "can fuck off."_

* * *

Clint woke up.

The mud had enveloped his body, seeping into his every crack and crevice. Thankfully, it looked like not much time had passed, so he got up, checking that everything worked. He didn't have any broken bones, which was a miracle. In fact, he had nothing more than a few scratches and bruises. He guessed that the mud had broken his fall, but he still sent a silent prayer of thanks up to whatever hellhole he had just been in.

Then Clint did what he had always intended to. He went hunting.

* * *

An hour later, he found her. He hadn't expected to, not really, but he found her, cursing and holding her right arm. It had taken a lot of tearing down overhanging branches, a lot of desperate prayers that seemed to go unanswered, a lot of tired and weary thinking, but he had found her.

It was a coincidence really – an accident. He had been running by the area when he had heard something move in the undergrowth. Closer inspection had revealed a fox, slinking through the buildings and the trees like it belonged in this city. It was the first thing Clint had seen in the arena that hadn't made him want to throw up. It was real, not artificial like the trees and birds seemed to be.

He shot it in its neck. Food, after all, was food, and who knew when he'd next get an opportunity like this?

Then he'd seen another fox, perhaps its mate, and that fox was running away from something, someone. Clint had walked in the direction it had come from and saw her.

Despite everything, she looked at him like he was still her ally, still the boy that had squeezed her hand on the stage of District Two. "The Reaping seems so far away, doesn't it?" Clint called out. Natasha laughed, dropping her backpack on the floor, as well as her weapons.

"It really does," she replied. "I guess this is it. No point in me trying to defend myself. I broke my arm. It's the end."

"Not if you don't want it to be," he said. "If I've learnt anything, it's to not give up when there's always another option."

"You just don't want to kill me." Natasha smirked. "There are no other options, Barton. Before you kill me, and you will, just promise me something. Promise me that you'll kill that bitch, Elektra."

Clint laughed, and she joined in, a small chuckle that made him smile even more. "Can't promise anything, Romanoff, but I'll try as long as you promise the same thing, after you kill me," he said. There was a pause in which he caught her staring at him, but she looked away as soon as she saw he had realised. "What happens now? I can't just send an arrow through your heart right now. That would be murder. Anyway, I don't want to kill you. That's just…wrong."

"Who would have thought?" She feigned surprise. "A killer with morals. I suggest that we fight. I give my best fight for the audience, and then I make a mistake, and you get the chance to slit my throat as I lie, defeated on the ground."

"I'm not going to kill you, Natasha." Clint told her. "Remember our training? First one to the ground gets to kill the other. And we both know that we won't hold back, because it's our training. We can't hold back."

Natasha looked at him, and he saw a glimmer of a smile before she attacked. She went for his bow first, wrenching it from his grasp. He responded with a kick to the back of her knee, making her legs buckle and giving him the advantage. He grabbed her hair and threw her to the ground. His foot connected with her broken arm, and she yelled out in pain. He was about to kick her again when she was up again. She threw a punch that made Clint's nose feel like it was on fire. She followed that up with a headbutt that threw both of them off their game. Natasha went reeling back, her arm twisted and her eyes filling with angry tears. Clint groaned at the pain. His vision went blurry; the whole world rocketed past as he fell to the ground. It seemed to aggravate years-old injuries, because he felt an old white-hot poker burn on his arm send searing pain through every cell in his body.

_You could let go._

She was back. Clint yelled out in frustration, pushing himself off the ground. Natasha was already running at him, kicking him back down again. He waited until she was drawing her foot back in preparation for another kick before rolling and letting her kick empty space.

_No one would blame you._

He stood up, grabbing her right shoulder and wrenching it back. "Shit!" Natasha screamed, and she punched him on the jaw before sending a well-aimed kick his way. It sent him flying into a pile of rubble, and for a moment, they paused.

Clint moaned. "What the hell are we doing, Natasha?" he muttered. "We…I love you. I love you. What are we doing?"

He saw the look in her eyes. The anger and the rage. For a second, he thought that all hope was lost. He thought that he hadn't gotten through to her and that she was going to kill him as lightning illuminated the scene and the rain washed away the blood.

Then, that look faded away. Something replaced it. Something like regret, but stronger.

"Oh God. Oh crap." She held her hand out and pulled him up, out of the ruins. "I thought someone else would kill you so I wouldn't have to. I thought that you were worthless."

"And what do you think now?" Clint asked.

"I think I was wrong."

"Damn right you were wrong." He was surprised at how upbeat he could sound, considering the conversation they were having and where they were having it. "I'm Clint Barton, and I'm the best male tribute in this whole goddamn arena and in the whole of the Games history! And you are Natasha Romanoff and you—" Clint smiled; the thunder was accompanying his words and making everything so much stronger. "—you are perfect."

"Clint, I—"

Then there was a crash and a scream, and thunder that was once so beautiful was monstrous, and lightning that once lit up the beauty of Natasha Romanoff was only exposing Clint to the scene before him. Bricks and stone lay all about them, covering the ground. Dust hung heavy in the air, clouds that reminded Clint of the photos he'd seen of volcanic eruptions.

It had been a wall and parts of a roof. It looked like it had once been a book shop, as old and torn books were in a mess on the floor, pages floating out of them. Maybe the explosion was intentional; something to excite the audience. Couldn't have them getting bored.

Clint got back to the situation, staring round him until he could orient himself in the real world again. He could hear screaming. It was him. He was screaming her name.

He could only see piles of rocks, piles of wreckage. Yet he seemed untouched. The mess buried the redheaded girl from the Red Room and all the promises that he wanted to make to her with it. "Natasha!" he yelled and started to desperately dig through the rubble. He found a hand and then an arm and then her. A large pile of bricks were on her chest, making it impossible for her to breathe properly.

"No." He felt tears run down his cheeks. "Not now."

Her eyes opened, and she looked at him. "Kill me."

"No."

"Kill me, Barton. It hurts so much. You need to send an arrow into my head. Like you were going to from the very beginning." She sounded so desperate that Clint began to waver, but he was selfish, and all he wanted was to hang on to her, just for a while longer. Just to help her win the Games.

"At the start of the night, all I wanted to do was kill you. Then I almost died, and I fought, and I came back and found you ... and you can do the same thing, Romanoff," he grabbed her hand and squeezed. "I love you. I will kill you," he realised. "Because that's what love is. Making sacrifices, even when it's not fair. It's not fair. I have to make it, though, and I will break when I do it, but I need to hear you tell me the truth first. Could you have ever loved me? If things had gone differently?"

_Selfish_, the voice in Clint's head whispered. _She's dying and you're asking about yourself? _

"I know, I know," he muttered in reply. She frowned but didn't comment on his momentary lapse of sanity.

"This isn't helping either of us, Barton." She coughed, small stones falling off her chest. It hurt him to see her like this, in pain, begging. "Please kill me."

"I don't want to." He let go of her hand. "I don't want to." He reached for his bow and readied an arrow. "I don't want to." His hands shook slightly. "You see the girl in the white dress, you tell her that Clint Barton said hi."

"You're not making any sense," Natasha murmured.

"I know." He aimed the arrow at her, glad that her eyes were now fluttering closed. He couldn't watch the life bleed out of her eyes as he killed her. He was hesitating now, though. But if he didn't do this, her last moments would be in even more suffering and pain. Prolonging her death wouldn't be beneficial for either of them. It would be more painful.

"Just do it. I'd rather die like this. At least it's somewhat honourable," Natasha whispered. She opened her eyes. "Clint…thank you." And then her eyes shut again, and her hands curled up into fists as if she was fighting someone. Fighting Death. _Please fight against it. Please._

Clint closed his eyes. He didn't need to look where he was aiming. He never missed a shot.

And he didn't miss now.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**


	70. Chapter 69: Stormchaser

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with another update for ITEYAK, this time from Ororo's perspective, as Deep delivers another stellar chapter (and I'm not just biased because I'm her boyfriend). Have just come back from seeing her play the Evil Stepmother in a Cinderella pantomime (Deep, that is, not Ororo), which was…an experience, to say the least.**

**A big thanks as always to I-OfTheHawk, sailorraven34 and our anonymous Guest reviewer for their feedback. Regarding Guest's observation, that the majority of fallen tributes have been girls, there's actually a simple enough answer for it – five of our fallen tributes had their writers drop out. And we've had characters die that, in hindsight, maybe should have made it a little further – sadly, all I can do is what I think is best for the story and the characters at the time. Things will even out a lot more, trust me. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Nine – Stormchaser**

**Night, Day Five**

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

"_It's like in the great stories, Mr Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end… because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing…this shadow. Even darkness must pass." _

_― _J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Two Towers_

"_When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." _

_― _Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

* * *

The sky had darkened early in the day, which meant that Ororo had failed to notice the mound of dust on the chair until it was too late. The chair looked pretty decent if she were a picky individual of furniture, with its enticing cushioned seat and a blanket that told her it would keep her warm during the night. She instantly claimed it as her own, rushing ahead of Steve and collapsing into its folds. The sigh of relief that escaped her lips quickly turned into an uncontrollable coughing fit as the chair relieved itself of dust and sent a cloud of it floating around her head.

"That's what you get for being impatient," Steve pointed out, shaking his head and giving a small chuckle. Though the girl wanted nothing more than to give an angry 'Hrmph' in his direction, she knew that it would never work out how she wished, as her eyes watered and her throat felt worse than getting caught in an Eleven sandstorm. Her coughing eventually subsided as the dust quieted itself around her, but the moment for harrumphing had passed, so she just rubbed her eyes and watched Steve's evening ritual.

He'd gotten much better at it over the past couple of days, though she would never say that he had been anything less than excellent to his face. She couldn't help recalling his...less than exceptional scouting skills on the first and second days, and bit her lip to stop herself from smiling at the thought. There wasn't really much time for smiling anymore. Not since Carol. Ororo felt the sobering thought creep around her head, invading the light-hearted memory of Steve's failings, and she frowned, the action catching the eye of her ally.

"Problem?" he asked, still with the same genuine concern he had shown her since the Bloodbath. Ororo shrugged, and gestured for him to continue his rounds. After a moment, he turned back to his affairs, though not before she heard the small sigh he uttered. She wasn't all that sure what _that_ meant either; sighs were such fickle and individual things, personal to the one who breathed it. Bringing her knees slowly up to her chin, so as not to anger the dust again, Ororo rested her head, her eye following the boy as he meticulously searched each and every door, cupboard and other oddity in their hidey hole of a building. _At least he doesn't have a basement to look in this time,_ she thought, groaning inwardly over last night's camp. The time he spent searching below them didn't worry her quite as much as sleeping near the black, yawning hole of the basement's door.

She voiced her thought to Steve, who gave a small smile.

"We would have known before now if there _was_ a basement. I don't really understand what the problem was anyway; I checked it _twice_. No tributes, no mutts." Ororo gave a little shudder.

"That's how they get you, Steve; nobody ever looked under the bed and _found_ the monsters 'cause they're really good at hiding...in the dark...in the small spaces." She shuddered again, and Steve resumed his check, muttering about their old camp being one of their best spots. _Well, if he wants to go back there, he can just go right off without me. _ She scrunched up her nose and hugged her knees tighter to her chest.

"Right then; I now declare this place fit for camping." That was another part of his ritual, she noticed; announcing the affirmative even though they both knew that it was fine. It was something they had been doing over the days, while evading the hunt on their tails. Find a suitable place during the day, and then continue on past it before looping back and re-checking it, to ensure they wouldn't be found. Steve had taken on Ororo's house-finding ideas of the first day; every building they entered, though sound to take their weight, was dilapidated and on either one or two storeys. She gave a small gulp, which she forced into a smile at Steve's words; it had just taken the ambush to remind them that several floors up did not mean safety, but a way of being trapped.

"Good job, Cap'in. Our bolt hole is secure?" she asked, her brows furrowing as she locked eyes with him. He gave a mock salute.

"Ma'am, yes Ma' –"

_Boom._

Steve's hand slowly went down from his forehead, and as one, they walked over to the window and looked out. Ororo knew that it was a silly thing to do, considering the cannons were just a way of informing other tributes of a death; they didn't show a location, or give the person's face. But there had only been two shots since Carol – and one of those had _been_ Carol's – and she felt the familiar rush of turmoil inside her at the noise. _Another one down._ She glanced over at Steve, whose eyes were fixed on the skies, and she followed his gaze in silence.

The purple and blue hues obscured it slightly, but the blinking lights of the hovercraft eventually became stationary enough to reveal the location of the unfortunate end of a tribute. Ororo thought that it couldn't be more than ten miles from where they were, which wasn't very far at all in the Games. The two stayed at the window as the hovercraft began to circle, its light roving around the ground below it. After a little while, it began move away, its cargo safely stowed away to be boxed and returned to its family of mourners. She knew what kind of box that was; pretty if not ornate, with a plush lining that she suspected were torn out by some families to be used as part of the furniture; Nanny hadn't done that to Eric's coffin, though she knew some gossiped in that way.

She hoped whoever it was wasn't torn apart too badly; the box did its best, but it was no Capitol surgeon, since the tribute was dead, so the wounds were still rather obvious.

"Maybe it's Cletus," Steve suggested, breaking the silence and giving a hollow laugh. Ororo echoed it with one of her own.

"Wouldn't that be something? Could be a Two, or a Four. That'd be nice too." The boy beside her looked away from the window, and moved to a countertop. Kitchens, they had decided, were good places to make camp, though they usually lacked in comfy furniture, like the dusty chair. Steve swung himself up onto it, his legs hanging towards the ground, and eventually shook his head.

"No. We want it to be Cletus. If it was a Career, that means the others are still around, and that means we're in danger. I don't know about you, Ro, but I'd like to stay in this house for the entire night, instead of running around out there." Ororo gave a grunt at the words. He was at it again, giving his soldier orders and using his Sentinel tones. She knew why, she knew what had caused it, but that didn't mean she liked it any more. She didn't point out that it couldn't have been a Career anyway, unless they all suddenly got jet boots to go with their bows and spears. She had seen the pack, or at least some of its members, way out in the distance earlier that morning, in the wrong direction from the hovercraft.

Saying that though would just start an argument, and Ororo was tired of arguing with Steve. She liked Steve. She liked his politeness. She liked that he was a good hunter – or at least, good at finishing something off. She liked their conversations as they walked, about home and family and the things they liked to do. She liked that he saved her from Thor; that last one was probably what she liked best about him to be honest. She walked back over to her chair, picking up the rucksack as she went and began to rummage inside it as she sat.

Steve was grieving, she knew this. She thought he probably blamed himself, for not being able to protect Carol from the Careers, and had now become paranoid about protecting Ororo. She cracked open a can of what looked like pre-cooked sausage, and offered part of it to Steve. He took it absentmindedly, and she began to chew the cold dinner. 'Protective Soldier Steve' was great and all, because it was still the same old Steve she liked, but they shared very different opinions, in her mind, over what to do next. The looping back and forth, and crossing their tracks to obscure the hunt was Steve's idea. Ororo wanted a more offensive approach.

_Maybe he does too,_ she thought, watching his face slowly change to a grimace as his brain caught up with what he was eating. _Maybe he just doesn't want to put me in danger._

"What...the hell am I eating?"

"Oh, Stephen, my dear boy, don't you know?" Ororo's nose lifted as she eyed him haughtily, perfecting her Capitolite accent. "Why, this is only the finest and most delectable dinner you have ever tasted!"

"It...tastes like dog food," he muttered through half-hearted chews.

"You've tried dog food?" Steve shot her a raised eyebrow, and she gave a small giggle, which caused her to choke on the sausage. The sound of her struggling to breathe properly as she felt like the food was going down the wrong track was masked by the unexpected laughter from the other side of the room. In between wheezes, she managed to shoot him a glare, which only succeeded in making him laugh even more. Her own gasps changed to match his laughs, and the two of them bent over, clutching their sides as the mood lifted in the kitchen, and the tension that Ororo hadn't realised was there dissipated in their mirth.

Eventually, the laughter subsided as the light dimmed in their hidey hole. Ororo thought she caught Steve wiping away tears as he swung back onto the ground, offering out his free arm. The girl hopped onto her feet, one hand still with half the sausage, the other linking through the boy's, and they walked side-by-side out into the streets, quickly ducking into a blind alleyway where they could see the skies but were not on display to the world.

"I needed that," Steve said, beginning to chew on his half of the sausage despite himself. "Now I can get through this for another evening." The Marvel anthem began to blare through the unseen speakers as the skies darkened even more. Ororo nodded upwards, the movement pulling at her ally's arm.

"That's a rain sky up there. Good thing we found shelter."

"With a roof and everything; no holes for us, Ro." They stayed linked together, finishing their cold dinner as the portraits began to light up the sky in a dazzling display. As usual, Ororo sent silent applause up to whoever had managed to finish Wade off, the only Career taken out at this point. She kept it quiet though, because it was not a good image to be seen cheering for the dead. The evening's cannon was not another of the pack as Carol's face appeared in the sky, skipping the Career districts, and Steve's grip tightened on Ororo. She had never warmed to Carol, whose fair hair and physique let her pass for her ally's sibling if the two stood together. It wasn't really the other girl's fault, and she couldn't blame her for being disgruntled; Ororo had, after all, given her one hell of a blow. Perhaps that was why she had felt the need to turn back, to beat every Career bloody over what they had done.

* * *

"_Come on, Ro! Run!" The shout of encouragement from Steve was not necessary, but she found herself running with renewed vigour, trying to focus on his voice, and not the shouts and the yells behind her that sounded so close. _Too close,_ she thought with a gulp, her heart hammering in her chest. It was worse than the dogs. It was worse than the Bloodbath, because _this _time there was a whole pack of them running her down. _This _time it was dark and confined and Ororo knew in her heart that they were trapped. _

_They hadn't checked the carpark after all. The looming structure of the building Carol had found housed a massive garage below the apartment quarters, and it hadn't occurred to any of them that among the old-fashioned cars could lie danger. They hadn't even checked for an escape exit; it had been pure luck that Carol had found the second stairwell, right before whoever was coming up the stairs they'd climbed reached their floor. Ororo was supposed to have had the second watch; instead, Steve had gone back into Carol and shaken her awake. Carol hadn't been happy, grumbling to the two of them, but had agreed once Ororo swayed sleepily on her feet. _Lucky,_ she thought with a gulp. Ororo wouldn't have heard their hunters until it was too late._

_Suddenly, as though they'd been part of the shadows all along, the two tributes appeared in front of her, and Ororo skidded to a halt, trying to backpedal away from them. But there was nowhere to go; behind her, the rest of them closed in, pounding down the stairs with whoops. Ororo felt her heart constrict and she couldn't breathe anymore. She lifted her arms up, hands balled into fists, ready to make her final stand. _Give Steve a chance,_ she thought. _And Carol. _She wished she had her rusty bar. She wished she had Steve's shield to defend herself, but it was heavy, so he had picked it up when Carol had told them to move. _

_Elektra and Natasha closed in, and Ororo had to pick one to punch; she swung blindly towards Elektra, fist miles away, and Natasha laughed. The girl's chest burned at the sound, and she clenched her jaw, her mind flashing to their training, to Logan, to the spinning kick. Her heart feeling like it was going to explode, she swung her body around, leaping off the ground and extending her leg sharply. Her breath exhaled in a loud whoosh as her foot, somehow, connected with something solid. Then she hit the ground, just like training, unable to land on her feet, scrambling about on all fours to skitter away from the duo._

_She glanced back to see that it had been Elektra's arms she'd hit, the girl snapping them forward to protect her chest as Ororo had sprung. Any sense of satisfaction over landing a blow on a Career was instantly shattered as Natasha made her move, swinging her blade casually. She didn't expect a non-Career to do anything._

_She had the arrogance of someone who underestimated the Fives._

_Carol's elbow took both Careers by surprise. She slammed into Natasha's back, sending the redhead sprawling half a foot in front of Ororo. The girl managed to get to her feet, Elektra momentarily surprised by the Five girl's action._

"_Shoulda watched your back," Carol spat out, twirling around and racing back the way they'd been heading. Ororo leaped around Natasha, pelting after her ally. Steve had been finding a way out in the precious seconds that had past, and gestured for the two girls. Ororo glanced behind again, seeing Natasha cursing and picking herself up, then raced on, grabbing the shield off Steve so he could support Carol._

"_Always say...the quip...after you do...it, Ororo," Carol huffed out as they burst onto the street, sprinting away from the Careers. She jerked Steve to the right, and the trio raced down the new direction. There were no more turn offs until the next block though, and the shouts grew closer as the pack resumed the hunt. Ororo shot a look at Carol and Steve. The boy's face was set in grim determination, the girl's a picture of pain; each step on her twisted ankle made her grunt. Ororo felt her heart grow tight again, and stole another glance behind. Elektra had rounded the corner, the pack on her heels._

"_Don't look back," Steve warned, and Ororo snapped her head back to the front. They passed a turn, but there was no point in turning and slowing down now, since they'd already spotted them. So they ran, and each step brought them closer, and the girl knew deep down it was the end of the road after two days. Carol turned her head back despite Steve's words, and swore multiple times, reeling them off._

"_Not gonna make it, Steve," she huffed, the pain clear in her voice._

"_We will. We just have to keep _moving,_" Steve ordered. Ororo agreed with Carol in her head; the shield was heavy on her arm, and she could feel it weighing her down._

"_Nope. _We're _not going to make it, but _you_ might." Carol took a breath, and then stopped suddenly, ducking out of Steve's support. It took a few strides to register what had happened, but as one, Ororo and Steve skidded to a halt and looked back. Carol had one hand on the staff, the other swinging backwards and sending something flying through the air. Ororo caught it with her free hand automatically; it was the backpack, still with canned supplies and the water bottle. "Run!"_

"_Carol, what are you doing?" Steve shouted in frustration, his feet planted firmly in the ground, the gap between the three never receding. Carol's hand tightened on the spear._

"_The good Lord saw fit to bring me into the world to kick the asses of those who need it most," she grunted. "Now get lost, Steve, before you make me change my mind." Ororo glanced over Carol's head as the Careers approached, then felt her stomach somersault as her shoulder was gripped and yanked from behind. She nearly lost her footing and gave a yell, before realising who owned the hand._

"_What're you doing?" she growled at Steve, the boy half-dragging her away from the scene, his long legs forcing her to run faster._

"_Leaving."_

"_We have to go back for Carol! She's part of our team, Steve!" The boy's face was set once more with a determined expression._

"_She's made her choice, Ororo. We should remember that."_

_She didn't look back once._

_Steve did, though._

* * *

Carol had no reason to try and save Ororo, to become a martyr; Steve could have carried her off if it had just been the two of them, and left the younger to the wolves. But she didn't, and Ororo's chest tightened as the girl's face faded from the sky.

"It was Sin," Steve said, his voice a little hoarse over the previous portrait. The red-head's image was every bit the personality of the stiletto wearing firecracker that Ororo remembered. She thought about the hostile air that surrounded the girl every time Six's mentor was about, and a twinge of pity went through her. _I hope you're happy, Schmidtt,_ she thought, wondering if the man even cared to acknowledge his daughter's death, or turned his attention straight to the other guy. _Six. Glasses Guy. Whatshisface._

"What's her partner's name again?"

"Bruce," he supplied almost automatically, his arm hold easing off a little as other faces took the place of Carol. Ororo gave a nod of thanks at the name supply. Schmidtt had always liked the boy best, and favoured him in a blatantly obvious way to the other tributes. She privately hoped that the Red Skull was actually a kind, old man who would fall into a black pit of despair over his child's death, and forget all about his other tribute, and then Bruce wouldn't have any help and she'd have one less tribute to worry about. He didn't seem all that strong anyway.

Though the names of the other fallen cropped up underneath their pictures, Ororo preferred her own nicknames. _Poor Witchy,_ she thought, as Blink went away and was replaced by the other girl. Then came Blue, and then T'Challa graced the sky, looking as proud and determined as the first night she saw the portrait. It was her turn to squeeze Steve's arm tightly, taking in her partner's features before they faded away and the sky turned dark again.

They stood in silence, both lost in remembering their partners, until the rain sky opened, and the drops began to fall, quickly becoming heavier and seeping through their clothes. Steve was the first to move, steering Ororo with linked arm back into their camp for the night. She returned to her chair, and he returned to the countertop, picking up his shield and blowing on it to remove the unseen dust and dirt. The good feelings hadn't quite gone from their laughter, though they had sobered up considerably, and the girl watched her ally, and tried to gauge his mood appropriately before broaching the subject.

"I wish this place had running water," she stated, glancing forlornly to the taps that they had turned on earlier to no avail. There wasn't much point in getting a building with running water – if it _had_ worked, Steve would have found them another place. Running water encouraged tributes in. Running water encouraged tributes to let their guard down. Running water was what got Carol killed.

"There's a high pressure shower just outside the doors," the boy replied, making a sweeping motion towards the entrance. Ororo watched the rain fall in sheets, the sudden downpour a surprise, and wondered if it had happened all at once in the Arena, or was spreading.

"If I go out there, I'll need a fire to warm up again," she pointed out. Steve didn't look up from the shield.

"No fire. We're trying to be covert." Ororo sighed at the expected response, going back to her former position of chin-on-knees. She closed her eyes, and tried to remember the feeling of the second evening, when there was a fire beside her feet, and she was _clean_. Even in Eleven, she'd never felt this dirty, with grime on her face and under her nails, sweat stains and stiffened clothes on her back, and blackened scabs on her arms and bare skin where she'd been scratched and scraped. It was a nice memory, the second evening. _Too bad it's never going to happen again._

"We could try lighting a smokeless fire," she tried again. "The rain outside, and the dark; who's going to see the smoke anyway?"

"Come on, Ro, just drop it." The finality in his tone made her hands clench into angry little fists, but she kept it in check, just like Sam told her to do. Just like T'Challa said to do. She glanced up, wondering where the cameras were in the building. Some were easy to spot, she had found; the ones on the streets, the high-tech, explosive-proof ones that she bet Tony could rig something special out of. The room ones were harder to find.

"Help me, Sam," she whispered. "Tell me not to do what I want to do."

There was, of course, no reply. Cameras were great and all, but only one-way.

A crack of thunder rolled overhead, its booming tones sounding suspiciously like cannons. Ororo glanced out the window, to check if it _was_ a cannon, and a hovercraft was about to appear to pick up a body. The rain and the dark made it impossible to tell though, and as the next roll of thunder came around, the girl put it down to the storm. The street they had chosen had a few working lamp-lights; the flickering glow cast dancing shadows on the wall, disrupting the dimensions and making the room seem smaller than it was. Ororo hugged her knees closer to her chest, and thought about the battery pack they had rigged up a couple of miles from their hiding place.

She flinched as lightning flashed across the sky, the sheet illuminating the street before plunging back into darkness a second later. Lightning, in her opinion, always meant something bad was going to happen. Lightning usually involved bad decision making, and temper flares. There had been lightning when her parents died. There had been lightning when she had been left in the orchards. There had been lightning when Eric died, and she had run away from Nanny's for a whole two days until Forge had found her. _Bad decisions,_ she thought. She could feel a bad decision brewing inside, pulling her away from her little island inside; though frankly, it wouldn't take much for that to happen. Ororo had felt herself losing the tenuous grip on calmness with each passing day.

"This was a nice area," Steve said, as the thunder cracked, and the lightning flashed, quicker this time, his fingers moving on the countertop beside him. The storm was coming, rolling in on top of them. Ororo nodded. "It's going to be a shame to leave it." She nodded again. That was what they had decided, after furious complaints by the girl when Steve had wanted to move as far away from where they had been found, and keep travelling away from the Tesseract. 'Travelling away', in Steve's mind, consisted of crossing the river on a bridge that Ororo thought was just begging to be used – and _everyone_ knew that when something in an Arena was asking to be used, that meant someone would quickly be dead if they used it.

They had compromised, after an argument, to stay in the same general area for two days. That way, Ororo had insisted, they'd have a better chance of catching something in their trap when they didn't have to move it all the time. She felt a twinge of guilt as she remembered Steve's eventual nod; she wasn't quite sure if it was an animal or a tribute she wanted to catch.

"I think," she started to say, but then paused, and dropped her attention away from Steve again. Their silence was broken only by the thunder as the clouds crashed together overhead, rattling at Ororo's calm island, cracking the edges. _Just say it,_ she told herself. She never had a problem telling Steve her opinions before the Games, and the early days. But now she knew him, and she knew what he would say, because despite his apparent best efforts, Steve was a strategic leader as well as a physical one, and what Ororo wanted to do would not create a tactical advantage for their alliance.

"I think we should go find more tributes," she blurted out, then ducked her head down between her knees. _If I can't see you, you can't see me._ She could feel his eyes on the top of her head though, sense them with the hairs that prickled at her neck. "I think we should find them, and they can help us take out the Careers," she continued in a small voice, barely audible over the storm that raged outside. She felt the space between them widen, though Steve didn't move from his counter, and she just continued to hug her knees.

The silence yawned a wide, slow yawn as Steve gave no response.

Eventually, Ororo peeked out from her head burying position, just to make sure that the boy was still there, and hadn't actually left her without her knowledge. He was there though, his shield resting on his lap, a hand holding it without any awareness to what it balanced. He was watching her under the picture perfect blonde hair – that seemed to become more perfect as the days crawled by with the addition of grease and sweat – and she held her breath for a moment; his eyes had that look of pity that she'd seen before. Pity, mixed with unwavering resolve.

"Ro, we already discussed this," he began and Ororo leaped off her chair.

"No, _you_ discussed it, and I listened, and I changed the plan to include _other_ tributes." The words spilled out quickly, like she was afraid Steve was going to interrupt her. It was his right, after all, being the leader.

"The answer is still no – even more of a reason now," he replied firmly. He didn't need to emphasise the point with a nod; his tone, just like T'Challa's had been, was more than enough.

"If we start a team, Steve, we can take the Careers down; we can avenge our partners!"

"T'Challa died to keep _you_ safe, Ro. Do you really think he would want you to risk everything over something as petty as vengeance?" Ororo flinched at the words, as Steve set the shield to one side and crossed his arms, his face still in that 'pity-but-not-moving' expression. Her nostrils flared as she shot him a glare. _Don't get mad. Stay calm. Stay _calm.

"It's not petty. If we find some others, we can take the Careers down before they get to us! They're coming, Steve, and if it's just the two of us, then we're dead." Ororo felt a case of déjà vu, recalling a conversation almost identical to this just a couple of days ago. Her fist met the arm of the chair.

"And then what do you plan to do, Ro? When there's only our team left, and you've gotten to know them? There'll only be our allies to kill then."

"That'll make it easy for you to win then." Ororo thrust her chin out, eyeing the boy fiercely so he wouldn't see her tremble as she said the words. Carol had died saving _him_. Sure, T'Challa had died saving the two of them, but Carol had definitely done it just for her district partner.

"Do you think I would kill my friends?" Steve asked quietly.

"We don't _have_ any friends. Not in here." Her words caught slightly, and she couldn't put her finger on the dominant emotion, her mind a whirlwind.

"I thought that we were friends, Ro." Steve's voice was still perfectly even, though it had lost its 'soldier' quality, and he sounded a lot more like her Steve; the one who shared her blanket, and watched their dead partners in the sky. Ororo felt very small all over again, but she steeled herself.

"I told you before that you're a good man, Steve. You just better not be _too_ good to fight for yourself. You have real friends to get back to, remember? Bucky...Peggy." She frowned as he mirrored the movement. "They're the ones you need to think about after we've finished the Careers, and you've just your allies left."

"What about your friends at home, Ro? Aren't you thinking about them? About Forge? Jericho? Misty? What about everyone else's friends at home?" Steve shot back, defensive against the girl's use of the names. Ororo folded her arms, and sank back into her chair because she didn't think she'd be able to stand much longer, watching him with her one eye.

"Of course I am. I'm trying my best to think about them more than everyone else, because I know that I'm too small, too young, too weak to beat you. But if everyone else is thinking the way you are right now, instead of home..." she trailed off. "Like I said, easy to win." _For you._

The silence gave a great yawn once more.

The rain rattled against their window, and the wind began to pick up outside, whistling under their front door. There would be nothing in their trap tonight anyway, if the deer and animals of the Arena had any sense. The two of them had tinkered away at the wires and battery pack, each time making the trap a little more sophisticated than it had been initially. Steve was hoping it would be strong enough to take out a deer in one go, so they wouldn't have to linger around it when they were severely lacking in food. Ororo was hoping the same thing, so the poor deer wouldn't have to stagger around for hours or days before dying. A thought struck her, and she looked out the window with a worried frown, into the rain and the decaying buildings and the plant life that had grabbed hold.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Steve looking over at her, glancing up from where he'd been moving his fingers on the counter. _Even now, he's still concerned,_ she thought, feeling another twinge of guilt at her apparent insensitivity. It seemed like he was torn between questioning her, and maintaining the silent standoff that was currently occurring. As expected, he was unable to do anything but choose the former.

"What's wrong?" She looked away from the window to give him her full attention.

"The deer...what do you think will happen to them once we're gone?" Before the Games, Ororo had only ever seen live deer once, when she and Forge had gone all the way to fence borders and looked out at the wilds. "Do you think the Director will let them go into the land between the districts? Did you _know_ there's land between the districts?" Despite the tension that had begun to build up in the silence, Steve smiled at the words.

"District Five isn't all that big, Ro. You can see the fence from my house," he informed her. Her eyes widened slightly.

"Wow." Steve seemed happy with her impressed reply. "I've only seen it once; it took Forge and I nearly _two_ days." This time it was her turn to smile as he gave an impressed whistle. "Yup, we didn't think it'd take so long – I thought Ebersol was going to _flay_ Forge when we got back..." Her smile faded. "But do you think the deer will be okay?"

"I...you know we eat the deer, Ro?" The girl made a snorting sound of obviousness. "I...I'm sure they will be." Ororo gave a small sigh, and smiled again at Steve, who despite lacking any sort of conviction, still gave an attempt to make her feel more secure. He gestured her over with two fingers, and she walked over to him on shaky legs, hopping up onto the counter. Nodding downward to where his fingers had been tracing, he gave her his best 'Steve-smile'. "Thought this might cheer you up," he said.

The layers of dust on the counter had provided Steve a crude canvas, and each stroke of lightning outside gave her a view of the image he had created. Even without the tools he had spoken of before for making shadows and adding depth and dimensions, the deer that looked back at Ororo seemed real, standing in the dusty background with a smaller one by its side. She wished she could have seen his drawings in District Five, that his face lit up over when he spoke about them.

"Woah," she said, moving back over to the chair. "Wish I could draw like that." The small, humble smile of pride his lips displayed when she said it made her happy.

She liked Steve.

She didn't want him to have to decide whether or not to kill her.

He'd probably try and convince the two of them that he would be honourable and die in her stead, or something like that. Somewhere in his head though it would cross his mind that for him to see Peggy, he'd have to kill Ro. _Fight for your freedom, whatever the cost._ She hoped he remembered her words. Steve was strong, in mind and body, but she didn't want to break him by letting him think about killing his ally. Ororo certainly didn't want to kill Steve. She owed him a debt, for starters, but whatever feelings of resentment and anger that currently swirled around her head, and the frustration over Steve's lack of desire to hunt the Careers, she could never mount them against him.

The lightning flashed outside, and Ororo pulled one of the cans out of the bag and into her pocket carefully. _Bad decisions in a storm,_ she thought. She yawned widely, and hopped off the chair, noting she still felt the trembles from yelling at the boy. Steve always took the first watch now, which she was okay with, trusting him not to take her out and run.

"You tired?" he asked. Ororo nodded, giving a long stretch. "Goodnight then. Hope the bed is comfortable." She gave a small smile at the words; comfy bedding was not a requirement anymore. The chair was about as far as they got. She moved towards the back of the room, where the bolthole was and a jutting wall that she and Steve had mutually agreed to be their area for privacy.

"Steve...I'm sorry about before," she started, ignoring his hand as he tried to wave it off. "You are one of my closest friends, and one of the best people I've ever met."

"I could say the same about you," he said. "We make a good team, you and I."

"Nah," she replied, hoping her voice sounded strong, and not watery like a scared little girl. "We'd be on different teams. Otherwise, you'd just overthrow my leadership. Just...maybe we'd still be on the same side." She smiled back at him as thunder crashed, feeling like it was right on top of their house, and moved out of sight to the bolthole. _Goodnight, Steve. Goodbye._

She guessed she had about ten minutes before Steve began to wonder what was taking her so long and thought it wise to talk to her and ask what was wrong. _Not that I'd _ever _take that long,_ she thought, as she began to run, rain instantly slicking her clothes to her skin and making her grateful for the secure boots they had been given. Ororo was fairly certain that if she'd spent longer than _five _minutes in the bathroom, her family would have kicked the door down to use the facilities, ignoring the girl's dignity. Steve, she felt, would definitely be more polite than that. _Possibly shuffle awkwardly,_ she mused, a giggle escaping her briefly before dying as a lightning fork lit up the sky, bringing the realisation that she wouldn't see his awkward shuffle anymore.

She didn't want to think about that though, so she ran.

It didn't seem to take very long before her breath started coming out in huffs, and her side began to stitch up; the days in the Arena had sharpened up her fitness level, but it was still raining and she was still running hard, attempting to put as much distance between her and her ally – _former ally –_ back in the house. She slowed briefly to a walk, lifting her arms up around the back of her head and taking in great gulps of air. The rain trickled underneath her hood and down her neck under her t-shirt, washing away the sweat and the grime of the previous few days.

The arena needed a good washing too, she noticed. Its greenery had been fading slightly as the days rolled past, thirsty for a downpour. Dust formed on bin lids and window sills was being erased, freshening up the place. There was a clean smell in the air and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply the mix of water and earth and electricity.

A crack of thunder above her jolted her out of the moment, and launched her back into a run, her footsteps pounding on the pavement, a light load without Steve's shield and backpack. Guilt crept into her mind; Steve was in for a sleepless night once he noticed the other watch-taker missing. She attempted to reason with herself as she ran; _At least I didn't leave him when _I_ was on watch. _The sense of betrayal if that had occurred would have been too much for her to bear, and she would never want Steve to experience it. _It's for the best. He'll do better alone._ She hoped he wouldn't go mad all alone; solo tributes falling victim to insanity were not uncommon in the Games.

She shuddered to a halt, left foot slamming into a puddle and sending a torrent of water from below. What if _she _went insane without _him_? She hadn't thought of that before she left. In the rain, Ororo shivered, and cast a look back the way she'd come. The lights flickered on and off, the shadows dancing, calling her to go back. That way was safe, they seemed to whisper at her. She took a small step back, and lightning split the sky.

"No." She'd made her choice. She couldn't go back. _Besides, Steve might have already left the house._ If someone didn't want to be found in an Arena, they usually did a pretty good job, if past experiences were anything to go by. She turned back to her path, and began to run again, her feet carrying her in the direction she didn't think Steve would look for her, because it was a suicidal route to take.

Earlier that day, she had seen the Careers in the distance. Naturally, she and Steve went the other way. She wondered if they knew what was in the direction, if they had found it and dismantled it without her knowledge. It was quite possible; that Natasha had seemed good at _everything_ in the Capitol, and Elektra's name alone spoke for itself and – in Ororo's mind – her obvious ability to know things about electrics. If they had found it, then the endeavour was doomed to failure.

She thought about what she would do, and how she could survive now that she didn't have her muscle power. Her trap seemed to be the only likely survival scenario. She hadn't been joking when she told Steve how hard she was thinking about her family and friends. She _did_ want to survive, more than she wanted Steve to survive, she just wasn't going to be the one to kill him, or vice versa. She thought about Forge, and his unusual ideas, and what he would do in her place. She frowned beneath her hood, unsure as to how far the boy would have gone. Would he have killed someone?

Ororo didn't really want to know the answer to that question. _I hope you're never reaped, Forge,_ she thought, remembering his offer to volunteer. Buildings moved by her at a slow pace, some vaguely recognisable from previous hikes through the city; a massive building with '**USEUM'** plated on its outside, a dilapidated one storey with alien lettering scrawled on its front, ragged lanterns hanging out of its windows. The lanterns were tossed and billowed in the wind and the rain, one detaching and flying through the sky, merrily disappearing from sight as the thunder rolled. The cannon-like sound no longer made her jump as much as the first few times, but she still cast an eye upwards to see if a hovercraft was appearing.

_They wouldn't be out in a storm like this, _she told herself. _You shouldn't be out either._ She had to get to the trap though, to be far enough from Steve to make a plan, and stay calm and collected during its process, and then kick some Careers to the otherworld. _The Gods can deal with them there._ She could do it. She found herself nodding as she sloshed through the rain, agreeing with her subconscious. Once she knew what she was doing, not even Cletus would be able to stop her. Everyone had underestimated her, but she knew better; Sam and Everett, the Capitolites and their bookies, the Careers, even Steve no doubt.

_Not Forge though,_ she thought, the slick bracelet sliding up and down her arms. _And not Nanny._ Her face blowing hard from the run, Ororo picked up with renewed vigour, passing open manholes where the sewage water bubbled up, overflowing from the storm. She was _strong_, stronger than they all thought. She could do this.

"_Little people know, when little people fight!"_ Ororo sang Nanny's old nursery songs as she ran towards an intersection, the thunder accompanying her. "_We may look easy pickings, but we've got some bite! So never kick a dog, because he's just a pu –"_

Ororo faltered, barely stopping herself in time as a burly shadow rounded the corner and nearly collided with her. _This _time, at least, he'd approached on her good side. There was a moment, a brief and pain-staking moment, where time seemed to slow, and it was just the silver-haired girl, clothes slick against skin, staring at the giant blonde warrior, his own hair obscuring his vision, a confusing expression on his face, the rain a curtain between them. There was a moment, where they could have simply been strangers walking through a street and meeting, about to raise a hand in greeting.

Then Thor swung his hammer towards her, with a bellow of, "_You!_" – and Ororo forgot all about being a strong, independent tribute, a high-pitched squeak escaping her lips.

The burly boy, his mind still not very focused, swiped again as she launched herself forward, the hammer succeeding in making contact with her back. Instead of the spine-breaking motion he'd been gunning for, the momentum of the swing caught the girl and sent her flying a few extra feet away from him, opening the gap between them. She felt the pain lance up her back, adrenaline flooding her system in an attempt to get away and forget about the monstrous bruise she was going to sport.

_Run!_ Her internal voice was screaming at her, thoughts swirling in her head as she raced through the rain. All ideas and notions of being calm and controlled were lost, her arms pumping furiously. She could hear his breath, huffing behind her like a rabid dog, his heavy footsteps ringing out through the streets; even with the rain, the sound echoed around her between the thunder rolls.

She ducked left as she reached another intersection, her heart pounding in her head, sweat and rain mingling together, her hood flying off her head. The rain hammered down onto her skull, in a similar way she imagined Sam was currently doing to whatever monitor he was looking at. _Was_ he looking at her? Or was he asleep, because T'Challa was dead, and unless Ororo reached where she wanted to go, she was dead too. _Ororo, this is why we told you to hide!_ She could see Everett pulling his hands through his hair. _And after all that work I did with Sparkles._

"You can't run forever, child!" Thor shouted from behind, his words sending a shiver through Ororo as she raced away from him. His legs were far longer than hers, and he had notions to spur him on; she had escaped him _twice_ by her reckoning, making him a fool in front of Marvel. He wouldn't let her slip away from him again. Nanny would say he would be third-time lucky. He was right as well; she couldn't run forever. She had already run from Steve, and trekked all day – something a _Career_ wouldn't understand. Still…

He'd called her 'child'. Like he was some discount-Logan.

Ororo gritted her teeth, and skidded down another turn, her feet remembering the route. She'd told herself before that she was fast, and could outrun Sentinels and Thor and mangy dogs. She risked a glance over her shoulder, nearly stumbling at how close he was, her breath catching. A fork of lightning connected to the ground near her, illuminating the tall tribute's attempt to catch her with the extension of his hammer. Despite the protest, she arched her back away from him, the weapon further away than she thought. _Calm down,_ she told herself. _He's not as close as you think._ She knew though, that she would never run far enough away to lose him in the warren of street blocks and buildings. That meant she _had_ to get to her trap.

The lightning lit up a hanging street sign, **'1****st**** Avenue'** printed in faded lettering, and fleeting hope rose up in Ororo's chest. The park was close, she could feel it. She jerked left thundering down the street, another flash lighting up where she wanted to go. _Almost there, Sam!_ _I told you I could do –_

Thor's hammer caught her on the shoulder, and she flew sideways, crashing down onto the slick pavement, feeling the gravel burn on her side through her clothes, her face instantly heating up with the burn. The breath left her with a great _whoosh_, and she coughed and spluttered in the water. _Get _up! she ordered frantically, forcing her body onto all fours, scrambling to regain her footing. Pain raced down to the tips of her fingers, and she let out a cry as she planted her hand on the ground.

"You won't get away this time, child," Thor said, striding over, the wind whipping his hair, the lightning flashing overhead, sparking the emotion in his eyes. Ororo skittered away, stumbling back up onto her two feet. She couldn't run, her muscles seizing up in fear, eying the way Thor seemed to favour his hammer-wielding side. She bared her teeth, a feral snarl, severing her connection with the calm island in her head and clenching her fist.

"Do it," she yelled over the thunder, the arm he hit dangling uselessly. "At least have the courage to finish what you started!" The boy faltered at the words, an unreadable expression on his face, then brought his hammer up in a rising arc, stepping towards her.

A massive crack of thunder rolled directly overhead, accompanied by a fork of lightning, the electric phenomenon meeting the street lamp a few feet from the two with an explosive noise, the circuits frying and sending a cascade of sparks towards the ground. The lamp groaned and wobbled in the wind, and Thor took his eye off the girl, and his prize, and suddenly Ororo thought that lightning was not just a prophecy for bad decisions but it was _good, _and she was _not_ going to die.

Epiphany realised, Ororo hightailed it towards the park. _Stupid Thor,_ she thought, throwing a look over her shoulder to see that he was cursing and following her again. _It's like he's never fought with a distraction._ Maybe he had, in Four, but she bet he'd never had underhanded tactics to deal with from his precious warrior friends. Each stride sent a jerky pain up her back and down her arm, the rain pelting her face and sending tingles of hurt running through her. She had opened the gap though between them, and that encouraged her to move faster, to reach the park's entrance in time to get to the battery.

The rusted gates were open, and with the noise of the rain and wind and thunder, Ororo wasn't sure if Thor would hear the click-click of the wires once she reached it. Somebody named **'homas Jeffer**' had owned the park, back when it was still ancient times, and people owned great lands. Now it was the home of Ororo and Steve's battery trap.

They'd edited it a little over the days, and discovered a way of recharging the battery using the street lighting. The battery hadn't been recharged since the previous day, but the girl thought there'd be enough power in it to do the job. Attaching the cables to the gates was supposed to, according to Steve, amplify the power, meaning he wouldn't have to finish the job. Steve had been referring to deer at the time, which wouldn't kill her if he was wrong. She really hoped he was right.

The gates loomed up in front of her, and she glanced back at Thor, lumbering ever closer. _Time to slide._ She seemed to slip on the mud in front of the gate, skidding through the open doors, alarm ringing in her head at the lack of clicking noise as she slid under the thin wire. _Oh no_. Shooting back up onto her feet, she took a few more steps towards the edge of the path, stumbling again, her fingers shaking – with fear, and the cold, and hot anger. They brushed along the battery in the gorse, reaching for the switch that she had forgotten to pull when she and Steve had left it before. She snapped it up blindly, thunder rolling and drowning out the crackle of electricity as the battery fired into life.

Then she stumbled back onto her feet, and stopped, and turned to face Thor.

He slowed down, Ororo safely trapped in the park. "There is no escape. This is the end." The girl's nostrils flared at the words, water droplets collecting at the bottom of her cheek, mingling with the hot liquid that trickled down from the gravel burn.

"Is that what you said to T'Challa?" she yelled over the void between them, her voice shaking. "Is that what you said, _murderer_?"

"I'm sorry for your district partner, child. You tell him that when you meet him." Thor grew closer, the wolf closing in on the prey. Ororo shook with anger, arching her chin upwards and glared at him, unflinching.

"Do you know what happens to a Four when he's struck by lightning?" she asked quietly, watching him quicken, his hammer raising up to get the right momentum to deliver the killing blow. _Work. Please._ Ororo reached over to grasp her dead arm, her uninjured one giving her a pitiful excuse of a hug. T'Challa had died alone, and if he could do it, then she could too. She looked Thor straight in the eyes, because whatever way it finished, she wanted him to see them. His hammer slowed its upward momentum as it reached the peak of its arc.

Then Thor ran into the wire.

The large tribute jerked on the spot, muscle spasms coursing through him, his cheek twitching, paralysed in his position, but Ororo didn't think he was going to fall to the ground with a stopped heart. The deer had jerked away from the circuit immediately, but as she watched, Thor gave another jerk, and the _click-click_ of the current sounded with each pulse. She still didn't think it had worked; the wires and trappings of their electric circuit had been effective, but not effective enough. She thought about running, but something rooted her to the spot, and it wasn't the effects of the electricity.

"The same thing that happens to everything else." Thunder rolled above them, and she watched a bolt of lightning fire down from the sky, landing on top of the hammer's crest. Thor jerked, the rain acting to further conduct the electricity coursing through his body and the energy blew the tribute off his feet away from her, muscles finally relaxing. The static from the electricity made her hair tingle against her face, rising slightly as she ducked under the clicking wire and walked over to the boy from Four.

The last shock had definitely finished him off, the remaining electricity running to ground. Thor's eyes were open, staring up at her in a glazed way, his hammer a few feet from his hand. His shoulder was wounded, not by her though, by someone else who didn't get a chance to finish the job. She thought she was supposed to feel something, to feel the utter remorse and vow to never kill somebody ever again. Somewhere, there was another Ororo making that choice. _But not this one._

"That's for T'Challa, ghost gum."

Ororo closed her eyes, tilting her face upwards, the rain washing against her raw skin, and her whole body trembled. She dropped her hand from her arm as blood and rain and tears began to mix together on her face, her body shaking as she heaved great big sobs of relief, the tension and adrenaline crying their way out of her. Her hair was plastered to her head, but she ran a hand through it anyway, feeling it spike upwards with each stroke, wiping it away from her face and her injuries.

Her clothes were soaked through, and her heart still hammered, and her back felt like someone had dropped a ton of bricks onto it, but at that moment, Ororo didn't care. The sobs turned to laughter, the tears of relief to tears of joy, and she lifted her arm up to the rain. Spinning around and around, she slammed each foot into the muddy puddles, dropping and raising her hand in an unaccompanied dance to give thanks to the rain, and the storm that raged, and the lightning.

She opened her eyes after a few minutes, breathless, and looked down at Thor, then back to the sky, raising her hand and gestured to her eye. "Thank you, Director." Lightning flashed again, and jerked Ororo back to the present. In one swift movement, she reached down with her good arm and picked up the hammer, staggering under the weight of it. She knew she had to get away from here, before the storm ended, and the park was not a safe place to be. Casting a look at the trap, she decided to leave it there; the battery would die within the day anyway, and besides, it might take someone else out.

She limped away from Thor, then paused, dropped the hammer, and moved back over to him and his glassy eyes. _The mangy dog,_ she thought, feeling the first little pang. She hadn't killed that dog, but she'd killed Thor. Ororo gave a small sigh, then reached over and closed his eyes shut, the rain washing over his eyelids. She picked the hammer back up, and walked away, not looking back as the thunder rolled and the storm crashed on overhead. She wasn't far from the river, she knew, and despite the grimy water, she was suddenly more thirsty than she'd ever been in her life.

She dropped to her knees at the riverbank, about to risk infection with the dirty water, then seemed to remember that it was raining. She cupped her hand in front of her mouth, yawning widely and catching the clean droplets, a steady trickle wetting her tongue. She finally started to relax and let the tiredness of the day consume her, unable to even think about finding shelter from the storm. Crawling away from the water, she slumped down into the weedy stones and sighed, blinking heavily.

Through half-lidded eyes, Ororo saw something in the water drift towards the bank. _Please kill me _after_ I get some sleep. _She barely registered the shadow as it washed up onto the dry land, unmoving_._

_Thanks._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**


	71. Chapter 70: No Strings

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our Thursday update, following on from Tuesday's Ororo chapter. This time round, we have another fantastic chapter for our very own Captain America, and his writer, Lili-Hunter. There will be a short delay before our next update (Deep and I are going to London for a few days, which'll slow us down a little, and I'm knee-deep in essays until the 18th), but it'll be worth it, I promise. Just don't worry if we don't have an update for the next week and a half or so - we'll still be working away on chapters, it's just a short delay. In any case, this chapter will leave you with enough awesomeness to tide you over for a little while!**

**A big thanks to sailorraven34 and I-OfTheHawk for their reviews. The last few chapters have certainly been intense, but that isn't slowing down any time soon, as this chapter'll make clear!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Seventy - No Strings**

**Dawn, Day Six**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"Only by binding together as a single force will we remain strong and unconquerable." –_ Chris Bradford_, The Way of the Dragon_

* * *

"ORORO!" Her name ripped from his throat as Steve crashed through the trees. Branches clawed him as he tore through the darkness, leaving shallow cuts on the exposed skin of his face and forearms. Roots pushed through the dirt to wrap around his ankles – he tripped more than once, crashing into the dirt, but he always got back up and kept running. Lightning flashed overhead, and he got a quick glimpse of the area around him before it plunged back into darkness.

He didn't care about the cuts or the bruises, or even if there was a tribute hunting him down right now, drawn by his yelling. Steve didn't care, he didn't care. All that mattered was the little girl he was chasing into the forest.

He'd already lost T'Challa, lost Carol – and _yes_, he knew that that was why Ro was hell-bent on revenge, but damn it, he was _not gonna lose her too_–

"_Ororo_!" Steve yelled, but his cry went unheard beneath a sudden crack of thunder. He felt the echo reverberate through his ribcage like a second heartbeat and felt a thrill of fear along his spine. The storm was getting closer.

Electricity was thick in the air, and Steve knew that this could be no natural storm. He could feel it tingling on his tongue whenever he took a breath, and the air felt far too heavy. It was going to rain, and soon – thick black clouds had rolled in overhead, and Steve could almost feel them teetering on the edge of a downpour. He only hoped he could find Ro before the storm truly broke.

_There_! Lightning struck the arena again, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled Steve's teeth. But in the sudden flash of light, he'd caught a glimpse of a break in the trees.

He burst through, stepping onto one of the many deserted streets inside the arena. It looked like the hundreds of others he'd already seen – trash blowing in the wind, cars lying abandoned and broken down. Steve glanced around quickly, taking stock of the situation – the street he was on extended to his left and right, with another road straight ahead.

Steve took off down the latter at a sprint. His mind was spinning, struggling to bring up a map of the area from when he and Ro had first set their trap. The trouble was, he knew exactly where they'd laid it – but he wasn't trying to get there. He was trying to intercept Ro before she made it there first, which was a lot easier said than done.

He kept on the main road for the next two blocks before taking a left, broken glass crunching beneath his boots. Steve kept glancing down every side street, hoping he'd see the furious little girl flitting from building to building. But the streets were empty, and Steve was alone.

Turning a corner, Steve skidded to a stop, sending glass and trash skittering across the ground as he nearly fell over. "Oh,_ no_," he breathed, frozen. A hand squeezed around his heart.

There were two tributes on the street in front of him. When he'd first seen them, they'd been doubled over with their hands on their knees – but now, they'd both straightened up, wary. Steve squinted, struggling to see their faces in the darkness – should he run, or were they safe? – and noticed that they were struggling for breath. Who had they been running from?

"Steve?" one of them asked, incredulous. _Oh_ – he recognized the voice, and suddenly, their faces just snapped into focus.

"Bruce?" he echoed, straightening from the half-crouch he'd been in. "Tony? Is that you?"

"This day just keeps getting weirder," Tony observed, speaking to no one in particular. He shook his head. "You would not _believe_ what just happened to us, Cap."

"I'll take your word for it," Steve said dryly, taking a step to the side. He didn't want to fight these guys – he still had to find Ro – and judging from their actions, they weren't really in the mood, either. Hopefully, they could part ways without any bloodshed. Then Steve paused, cocking his head to the side. It was better to be blunt about it, he decided. "Can I pass?" he asked.

"What? Yeah, just… do what you have to do," Bruce panted, breathless, at the same time as Tony lifted an eyebrow and asked, "Where are you going?"

Steve glanced at him over his shoulder and saw that they'd both turned to watch him leave. "I have to find someone," he told the pair and started to jog.

He was still looking at them when he turned the corner – Tony's mouth was opening to ask another question – when suddenly, Bruce lunged forward. "Wait!" he yelled, suddenly frantic. "Steve, not that way–"

Thunder rolled through the streets, and Tony's eyes widened. Steve halted in his tracks as Bruce went white and looked around him. There was nothing – the streets were empty. So why were they suddenly so afraid?

Then it hit him. The thunder hadn't been thunder at all – but a laugh, low and halting, resembling a mechanical whir more than a human noise.

"We need to leave," Tony said, all traces of amusement gone. "Right now."

But Steve barely heard him. "What is that?" he asked, searching for the source of the noise. He turned around and looked at the pair of tributes. His body was screaming at him to move – but _where_? He still had to find Ro, but from the sounds of it, something horrible was in his way.

Bruce took a step towards him, one hand outstretched like he was going to pull Steve to safety. For the first time, Steve noticed the sword hanging from his belt. "Steve," the other boy began, his eyes wide. "Let's go. Now."

To his credit, Tony was waiting for them both, though it was clear how much he wanted to bolt. "Don't play the hero, Steve," he told him. "You need to come with us."

The command grated him. Steve set his jaw. "I won't abandon Ororo," he growled, voice pitched low. There was a whirring sound just at the edges of his hearing, but he ignored it.

"Steve," Bruce began, but the other boy had already started to walk backwards.

"Go," he said. "It's fine. Whatever it is, I can handle it."

Before they could answer, a second mechanical laugh rumbled through the streets. Bruce and Tony tensed, and Steve wordlessly slipped his left arm through the straps on his shield. The laughter only grew louder.

Eventually, it ceased enough for the speaker to grind out two words.** "Too… late…"** it growled.

"No," Tony murmured, his eyes wide. "No, no, no no no no–"

Steve had already stopped listening – stopped breathing. Because, barely twenty metres away, a seven-foot-tall robot had just stepped out onto the street.

Instantly, his body froze. The robot emitted another mimicry of a laugh, and all of the blood drained from Steve's face. There was no way they could outrun this thing – it was a monster of steel and wires, yes, but also clearly highly advanced. It had even displayed a basic form of intelligence.

It was also clear that Tony and Bruce had only just escaped this thing, and it had already caught up to them. Actually, worse than that – it was_ toying_ with them.

This Capitol-engineered robot was going to kill them.

"RUN!" Bruce yelled, and they all burst into motion.

The boys turned on their heels and sprinted down the next turn. The robot disappeared behind him, but Steve caught the sound of that whirring he'd heard before, seemingly increasing in volume.

He swore loudly and picked up the pace. They picked turns at random, following each other without hesitation, instant allies with a huge robot breathing down their necks – but then, who would have done otherwise?

A huge _thud_ came from behind them. Then another, and another, and then so many in rapid succession that Steve risked glancing over his shoulder. His eyes widened – the robot was nearly upon them, seeming almost to be flying more than running. It lifted its forearm, and panels shifted, something extending from the main machine. Steve's brow furrowed, but then realisation burst in his mind like a bomb. "Watch out!" he bellowed and then threw himself to the side.

The explosion a few seconds later blasted Steve even further. He ended up slamming into the ground, scraping against the concrete for a few metres before finally, mercifully, coming to a halt.

Steve didn't pause, rolling onto his feet and reassessing the situation. Bruce and Tony had both managed to escape the blast from the rocket, luckily, and they were both getting back to their feet after having been thrown just like Steve. But they seemed relatively unharmed.

"Keep moving!" Steve yelled, staggering for the first few steps as he tried to make his way towards them. But then his balance evened out again, and he started to take longer strides, settling into a quick run.

Bruce and Tony obeyed instantly, turning down the nearest corner. Maybe they couldn't outrun the robot, but if they moved quickly enough, they could at least lose him in the urban maze.

Steve was definitely the fastest of the three and was running at their head in no time. The robot was still giving chase – he glanced behind and saw it turning the corner after them, but the shaking ground would have given it away regardless – so he yelled out more encouragement and led the trio down the next turn, knowing they had to stay out of sight as much as possible.

But leading the pack meant that Steve was the first to see the blonde girl propped against one of the buildings further down the street. At first he thought she was dead – but then Brunhilde lifted her head, and relief warred with dread inside his chest. She was, or had been, one of the Careers.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Steve heard Tony yell from behind him, equal parts frustrated and afraid. He had to agree; there was no way that this was coincidence. The Gamemakers had organized this, somehow – but why?

"Brun!" Bruce bellowed, and Steve wasn't sure if it was from familiarity or just because he was too out of breath to finish the girl's full name. Probably the latter, he decided, feeling his own chest burn. It was just dumb luck that he wasn't on the brink of an asthma attack, despite all the dust in the air. "Run!"

Ahead, the girl staggered to her feet. Steve could see the confusion on her face – she'd probably assumed that they had been chasing her down, not running from something else entirely.

But then her gaze drifted past them, eyes widening in horror, and Steve knew she'd just seen what they were running from.

Brunhilde took a single step towards them – probably wanting to fight the robot head-on, if she was anything like her district partner – but Tony echoed Bruce's warning cry, and she finally turned on her heel.

The same disjointed, mechanical chuckle sounded from behind them. **"You can… not run,"** the robot boomed, the synthetic voice clearly struggling with contractions. Steve might've found it funny if he weren't running for his life.

"What, you can't catch us?" Tony yelled back, a hysterical laugh trailing at the ends of his words. Ahead, a surprised laugh roared out of Brunhilde, and Steve choked on one too as he leapt over a pile of rubble. Bruce shook his head, running at a full sprint.

With a few words, Tony had broken the bubble of fear that they'd been trapped in. For a second, the situation became ridiculous – they were a group of dirty teenagers being chased by a _robot_; that alone sounded crazy, never mind the fact that they were supposed to be fighting each other to the death.

The illusion of safety didn't last longer than a moment. **"I can,"** the robot insisted, voice echoing along the street. It sounded different – perhaps one of the Gamemakers had taken control instead of relying on automated threats. It stopped running, and Steve made the mistake of counting it as a blessing.

His head swung to the side, scanning down a side street – and shock burst in his chest. Someone was running towards them; someone short and dark-haired, swinging something at his sides. Steve barely had a second to register who it was – _Logan_, he realized – before something exploded behind him, and he was completely blown off of his feet.

There was no heat, no flames. The robot had somehow managed to knock them all down with a concussive blast, and Steve's ears were still ringing. He lifted his head from where he was lying on the ground, feeling as though he'd just been smacked by concrete – which, well. He kind of had.

There was a cut on his forehead, blood dribbling down the side of his face. It took almost all of his strength to roll onto his stomach and lurch drunkenly to his feet, swaying. Standing up so quickly made his head spin, and Steve was momentarily tempted to just pass out.

But then he saw the robot advancing.

It had used a concussive blast because it hadn't wanted to kill any of them – seriously injure, maybe, but not kill. The Gamemakers had reacted swiftly to Tony's indirect taunt, probably because a tribute laughing in the face of his own death wasn't good for television. And now they wanted to create something that was.

Around him, the others groaned and pushed themselves into sitting positions. Brunhilde was the first to stand, thought she swayed back and forth while peering blearily at the robot. This close, it was easy to see that she was injured, somehow, but it hadn't been from the blast. No, she'd been hurt by someone else.

It didn't matter. Steve was too dizzy to run, so he walked forward to where Bruce was helping Tony to his feet. "You okay?" he asked quietly, keeping one eye on the robot that was walking menacingly towards them.

He knew it wouldn't attack, not yet, while it was still so far away. The Gamemakers wanted a show.

"Depends," Tony answered, and Steve looked a little more closely. He'd been hit the hardest, possibly because he'd made the sarcastic comment, and – wait, were his eyes crossing?

"On what?" Bruce asked.

"Which one of you Steves is the real one," he answered, slurring his words, with his gaze focused just over Steve's shoulder.

"Seriously? You're seeing double?" Steve grabbed his jaw, pulling his gaze, and Tony's eyes finally focused on him.

His grin widened. "Just kidding, Cap. Your double isn't nearly as pretty as you."

Steve rolled his eyes and let go. But he watched carefully as Bruce let Tony go, and sure enough – the teen stumbled slightly before righting himself but still swayed a little on his feet. He cursed silently; Tony had definitely been making a joke, but he also wasn't nearly as fine as he was pretending to be.

_Damn it_. This wasn't going well.

The robot laughed, drawing their attention. The blast had blown them further than he'd thought – the robot was only now walking past where they'd been a few seconds ago. Steve turned to face it and squared his shoulders, repositioning the shield on his arm. He could get a few decent swings in, at least–

Behind the robot, Logan stepped out of the shadows. Steve had completely forgotten him, distracted by Tony and the explosion. He took a step forward, and Steve saw that what had been swinging at his sides were actually … claws?

Sharpened steel blades extended roughly a foot beyond his knuckles, cutting through the air as Logan swiped at the back of the robot's knee. Straps wrapped around his arms and his elbows, keeping the blades in perfect line with his body, even though Steve thought they should have been ripped off.

The claws dug deep, and Logan grinned.

The robot paused – and then, blindingly fast, swung and smashed its arm into the attacker. Logan hadn't managed to get out of the way in time. The blow clipped his side and knocked him to the ground, his face smashing into the concrete.

Brunhilde was the first to move, running past Steve with bare fists and a war cry. Her movement spurred him into action, and he followed her into the fight without hesitation.

"What are you _doing_?" Tony yelled, and was promptly ignored. "We are meant to be running _away_ from the giant metal death robot, not towards it!"

Brunhilde slammed her fist into the side of its hip, the skin of her knuckles breaking almost immediately. Steve saw the bloody smear that she left behind – but the dent in the metal plating of its armour, too. The robot was distracted, struggling to track three threats at once – and Steve's foot slammed into the side of its other knee with a rewarding crunch, though nothing weakened visibly.

The blow had jarred almost his entire leg, though. The robot was made of strong stuff.

Spinning out of the robot's reach, he saw Bruce and Tony each leap into their own attacks. They'd joined the fight after all. And while they didn't seem to do much, the difficulties of tracking so many people was beginning to show. The robot spun, seemingly confused as to where it should defend itself first.

But just as Steve thought they'd found an exploitable weakness, the robot retaliated. A huge metal arm swept in a circle, slamming into the assembled tributes as though they were bowling pins.

It was only a glancing blow, but it was powerful enough to knock them back and interrupt their streak of attacks. And even though the swing had been relatively weak, Steve's whole side ached. What more could this robot do to them?

Brunhilde leapt right back into the fight. She ran straight at the robot, snatching a broken car bumper from the street as she passed. Just as Steve thought she was going to slam it straight into its metal face, Brunhilde dropped to the ground and slid neatly under the robot. She popped back up on the other side before the robot even had time to react, spinning on her toes and slamming the makeshift weapon into the back of its weakened knee.

The metal plating screeched in complaint, and the robot stumbled to one knee. The other tributes were quick to take advantage – Logan started tearing at it with his claws as Bruce sliced along its side with his sword, while Tony jeered and threw broken pieces of concrete at its face.

The robot made some sort of high-pitched growling noise – almost like two pieces of metal scraping together – and threw out its arms to balance, attempting to get back on its feet. Steve's right hand latched around its wrist as it shot towards him, moving on instinct. He went to punch it with his left fist, forgetting for a moment the shield latched onto his arm.

The vibranium crushed the inferior metal with ease, almost shearing straight through it. The shield's edges weren't sharp by any means, but the simple force of Steve's blow had almost completely destroyed the mechanics of the robot's wrist.

He shouted in surprise, having nearly taken off his own wrist in the process. The other tributes looked over just in time to see his shield buried in the robot's arm before it wheeled away from him.

The robot swung out again with its other arm. The tributes ducked beneath the blow, unwilling to be taken by surprise like the last time, and it sailed over their heads without harm.

**"You can... not win,"** the robot repeated, but its footing was off, and it stumbled slightly.

Tony laughed derisively. "You can't even stand straight," he told it.

As if to spite him, the robot stood to its full height. **"I am Ultron, and I am unstoppable,"** it insisted.

Brunhilde turned to grin at Steve, her eyes bright. "Perhaps if you buried that shield of yours in its throat, Captain," she began, her voice heavy with the District Four accent, "it would actually attack instead of talking us to death."

**"You **_**will**_** die,"** the robot interrupted, angered. Perhaps the Gamemakers were getting offended, seeing their monstrous creation – they'd even given it a name, _Ultron_, how pretentious – being flippantly dismissed by the children it had been sent to terrify.

"You know, that's not a bad idea," he told her and only just managed to leap out of the way as the robot lunged for him. Steve hit the ground with his shoulder and rolled back to his feet, spinning on his toes to face it again.

Ultron was watching all of them hatefully, its eyes glowing red. Its mouth opened again, presumably about to deliver another threat, when Tony's rock caught it in the side of the jaw.

The force of it had knocked the robot's head to the side; Ultron paused for a moment and then slowly swung back to face the District Three boy.** "Enough,"** it hissed and raised its arm.

Tony barely had time to throw himself to the side before the robot's rocket detonated, slamming into the side of a building and sending him flying from the blast.

Steve ducked behind his shield just in time. This hadn't been a concussive blast – it was an actual, honest explosion. He could feel the impact of debris bouncing off of his shield and knew without a doubt that being hit by just one of those things would probably have seriously injured him, if not killed him. When the onslaught of flying shrapnel stopped, Steve peeked over the rim of his shield. His ears were ringing.

Logan was getting to his feet – he'd dived behind an abandoned car and seemed to have escaped the worst of the blast. Brunhilde had a long cut down the side of her face, probably from flying shrapnel, but she'd been on the opposite side of Ultron and was mostly unharmed.

As he looked at the other tributes, Steve's breath caught. Tony was lying spread-eagled on the ground, unmoving and covered in dust and debris. Bruce had his arms hooked under the other boy's shoulders and was clearly trying to drag him to safety, despite looking dazed and half-dead himself.

A second later, Steve understood why. The explosion had destroyed at least half of a nearby building's ground floor. He glanced up, dread pooling in his stomach. The upper floors were hanging on by a thread; one more explosion, and the entire building would collapse.

They had to end this fight, and they had to end it _now._

Steve's gaze fell on his shield.

"Keep moving!" he roared, as the robot swung for another target. Steve pushed to his feet and charged towards the android. He mimicked Brunhilde's move from earlier, sliding beneath its legs as a mechanical arm swung overhead. Steve planted his foot solidly as he reached the other side, letting his own momentum push him into a standing position. He twisted at his hips, left arm moving into position – and slammed his shield into Ultron's weak, damaged knee.

The shield tore into the metal, carving halfway through the joint. Steve ripped it free and then struck with it again. This time, the shield left only the thinnest sliver of metal connecting the robot's knee to its thigh.

The other tributes didn't waste time, either. A blur passed on Steve's right, and he glanced over to see Brunhilde launching herself up the robot's back. Her hands latched around Ultron's right arm; the one with the rocket buried inside its metal plating. She wrenched it backwards, muscles bulging as she tried to tear the limb free.

She couldn't manage it, dropping to the ground a few seconds later, breathing hard. But Brunhilde had done more damage than Steve had realized – as the robot tried to straighten, its arm swung loosely around the joint, as though it didn't have full control over the limb.

Whatever Brunhilde had done, she'd severed the connection between its arm and the robot's command centre, or whatever the Gamemakers used to control it.

Logan wasn't shying away, either. His makeshift claws were sharp, and he was using them to tear at everything he could, aiming at the robot's weakest joints – its ankle, knee, and even hip. Each blow sent tiny pieces of metal flying, tearing into Ultron with each strike.

"Destroy its legs!" Steve yelled, skirting around the giant robot. A plan was forming in his mind – a stupid one, maybe, but one with a chance of success.

Brunhilde's attack had made him think. If she'd managed to destroy the use of its arm by destroying the connection to its command centre, what would happen if they destroyed the centre itself? The robot would lose all power.

Logan and Brunhilde obeyed instantly. Ultron was teetering, struggling to maintain its balance with one destroyed knee and a completely useless arm. Every time it tried to take a swing at Steve – the only target within the robot's line of sight – it nearly overbalanced.

"Captain!" Brunhilde's shout caught Steve's attention – she'd never really gotten the hang of Tony's mocking nickname – and he looked up as she pointed at his shield. If Brunhilde had that, the robot would fall quickly.

He passed it to her instantly, throwing the shield like a Frisbee. Brunhilde caught it easily, but it took her longer to slide her arm through the straps and start using it than he might have.

Steve barely had time to consider how much his familiarity with the tool had grown during his time in the arena before the robot began to whine. It was a horrible sound – like gears grating together, undercut by the screech of metal scraping against metal. It almost sounded like a scream.

Ultron began to fall forward, a crumbling titan. Steve watched, wide-eyed, right hand outstretched. He felt, more than saw, Brunhilde launch the shield back into his grasp. Steve slotted it automatically onto his other arm. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

With a sound similar to a collapsing building, the robot buckled; falling first to its knees and then – when it found that they couldn't hold – to its hips. Its left arm, the single limb left undamaged, was the only thing stopping the machine from falling face-first into the dust.

Ultron's head swivelled, turning to face Steve with tiny, red eyes. Its jaw worked for a moment, seemingly about to spit out a parting threat.

He didn't give it the chance. Abruptly, the world had resumed its normal speed – and Steve drove his shield through the robot's neck.

It sheared straight through the metal, slicing the wires in two. Steve's shield hit the concrete, and Ultron's head rolled.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing. With the threat taken care of, Steve felt his exhaustion for the first time. His limbs were heavy, his adrenaline all burnt out.

"We have a problem." Bruce said suddenly, his voice strained.

Steve glanced up, only now realizing that he hadn't seen him or Tony for the final half of the fight. The last time he remembered seeing them was after the explosion–

–_oh_.

Tony was still lying on the ground. Bruce had dragged him into a side street, away from the fight, and now knelt at his side. Tony's head was propped against the side of Bruce's knee – he was awake, too, and gave them a pained grin as they watched.

Bruce's hands were clasped over his chest, and blood was leaking between his fingers.

_Shit._ He ran to the two boys, alarm bursting in his chest. Footsteps clattered behind him, and he knew that Logan and Brunhilde were on his heels.

Steve fell to his knees beside Tony. "What happened?" he asked.

Bruce glanced at him. "Shrapnel from the blast," he explained. "It's in his chest."

An unexpected voice sounded from Steve's side. "Take off his shirt," Logan commanded, moving closer to Tony. "We're gonna have to see the wound."

Tony's words slurred together. How much blood had he lost? "If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could've just _asked_–"

Bruce lifted his hands, and Brunhilde shoved Tony's shirt and jacket up to his armpits, baring his bruised and dirty chest. He made a small noise of complaint, pain flaring in his eyes, but didn't say anything else.

Steve glanced at him before focusing on Logan. "You can fix this?" he asked.

"I have a small first aid kit, but… I don't know," the other boy said, not meeting his eyes. Tony's chest was a mess – metal speared his skin, and blood slicked the area around the wounds, pumping steadily. "Put pressure on that," he ordered, taking out the first aid kit from his backpack, and Bruce resumed his position, "but don't push the metal further in." By the looks of things, it hadn't punctured an artery – but there was no knowing how close the shrapnel was to his heart. "In my district, I lived alone," Logan explained, "I had to learn how to patch myself up if I got hurt. But this might be beyond me."

_Might_? This looked like a job for the capitol's top surgeons, yet Logan was offering to have a go – without proper tools, or even gloves. Steve peeked inside the kit and saw only bandages and what could have been a small bottle of disinfectant.

"But?" Brunhilde prompted, her gaze steady.

Logan glanced at her. "I can do my best."

Steve nodded, feeling sick. The arena had already taken too much from them, and he didn't want it to take Tony's life, too. But it might be too late. "That's all you can give," he accepted.

Logan gave him one more glance and then leaned forward. Tony's life was now in his hands – bloody, bruised, and rough though they were. Steve met Bruce's eyes over his bent back.

_Is this the right choice?_ he seemed to be asking.

Steve felt grim._ It's the only one we have._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**


	72. Chapter 71: Many Heads & Many Weapons P1

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're finally back with a new update for ITEYAK. "Finally!" I hear you saying, and with good reason. I knew there would be problems when I headed back this term (my last in college – getting near the end of my English degree now), but I was overly optimistic in thinking that I'd only be held up for a week and a half until my essays were all in. As it turned out, the second those essays went in my dissertation professor began turning the screws on how much progress I was making, to the point where I was spending about twelve hours a day working on it, only to have her tear the first draft up in front of me and tell me to start again from scratch (in fairness, what I had handed to her wasn't much good). That kicked off a host of complications, cutting down my writing hours sharply, but I was confident I would have this chapter ready to go up last Thursday, and that's when I found out that my granddad was dying.**

**He had been admitted to hospital that Tuesday, but I didn't think much of it, as he spends a lot of time in and out of hospital over fairly minor things. This time was different, however, and my dad, my brother and I went down to visit him Thursday night, preventing me from finishing the chapter. He's not well, I'm afraid, and the doctors don't think he's likely to get much better, being in the last stage of hear failure. So I'd like to ask, if you guys have any to spare, that you could send some good thoughts our way. It'd mean a lot.**

**At this point, it's starting to sound like I'm listing out excuses – which, to be fair, I am. Even though I was insanely busy with college work and editing the Games &amp; Tech section of one of the college newspapers (going to plug it now – it's called tn2, I write most of what we've put out this year, alas, but it's good, I swear), I should have had this chapter up long ago, and I feel terrible at having made you all wait. I _definitely_ should have had it up yesterday, but my stupidity hit me hard, and I lost about two thousand words that I had written on Sunday night when my laptop decided to reboot to apply new updates. I, the genius that I am, hadn't saved any of it. And to top it off, since Saturday I've been dying of a head cold, which has left me feeling very sorry for myself, but I'm feeling happier now that I'm no longer holding this fic up, and more importantly, holding up all the fantastic chapter that our writers have worked on. There's so much yet to come.**

**Some last notes now, to cap off the longest note I've ever put at the start of a chapter, but I guess that it's all warranted. I did owe you all an explanation, after all. So, firstly, I would like to thank robbiepoo2341 for keeping our companion fic to ITETAK, Before You Kneel, constantly updating while I've been away, and if you haven't read any of it yet but are enjoying this fic, I would heartily recommend checking it out. Secondly, you're probably thinking; "He made us wait **_**two months **_**for a chapter that's only 7,500ish words?!" Well no, this is just the first half of the chapter, the second of which is even longer. I just didn't want to put it up all as one, because it would have been **_**way **_**too long.**

**So, finally, a big thanks to I-OfTheHawk, sailorraven34, GeekyComicBookGuy, Idalove2read, Silver-'-Doe290s and our anonymous Guest for their reviews, and of course to any of our writers who also let us know how they felt on that last chapter. Again, I'd like to apologise for the delay, and to thank you once more for both your patience, and for enjoying our fic so far.**

**Now that we're back, enjoy!**

**... .-. .- -.-. . .-.-.-**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-One – Many Heads and Many Weapons: Part One**

**Director Nick Fury, Skye, Agent Phil Coulson &amp; Raina**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."_ ― André Malraux

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

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"_I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are good people and bad people. You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides." _

― Terry Pratchett, _Guards! Guards!_

* * *

"An interesting few days," Fury murmured, surrounded by the wall of monitors in front of him. There were twenty-four of the in all, most of which were focused on one of the remaining tributes – those whose tributes had fallen were now showing footage of reactions in the Capitol and the district, or else replays of footage from the past few days.

'_Interesting' was certainly the right word,_ he thought, but he could only hope that the President shared his opinion.

"The public view certainly echoes that, sir," Hill replied, standing a few feet behind him, her eyes scanning the various feeds on her data-pad. "Taneleer Tivan even went so far as to call the implementation of the Ultron unit 'positively inspired.'"

"Ah, yes, the Ultron unit," Fury replied slowly, his eyes flickering from the screen showing Steve Rogers to the one showing Kate Bishop, and then to Loki Odinson's. "It seems to have run remarkably well, for its first field test. The code that the Tadashis were able to recover, was any of it salvageable?"

Hill looked up from her tablet, her brows furrowed. "From what Coulson's team reported, the code seems to have remained mostly intact, even if the CPU itself was heavily damaged. That Rogers boy's got a good arm, his shield cut right through it. It's a miracle that the Tadashi brothers were able to pull anything off it, but from Agent Skye's report, it looks operational."

"Good," Fury replied, walking over to the window that took up a full wall of his office, placing his hands behind his back as he looked down on the bustling city beneath him. "Then we can mark that test a success, at least. A pity that it was taken down so quickly, but then again, I couldn't have foreseen the tributes cooperating to the extent that they did."

"It still took down Miss Schmidt, and as good as ruled out Stark from contention," Hill added, trying to highlight the machines' successes. "They're no longer taking bets on him being the next to die – the explosion really did a number on him."

Fury snorted, and returned to his chair, drumming his fingers against the glass table. "A pity it didn't finish him outright. I've seen plenty of men die from shrapnel wounds before – it's not quick, and it's _definitely _not painless. Make a note about that when we're reviewing the next design. I want something more suitable to crowd control, not urban warfare."

Hill nodded and jotted a note down on her data-pad, while her superior lapsed into silence for a moment, lost in thought of the future.

"Think of it, Hill," Fury finally murmured, leaning back in his chair. "A suit of armour around all of Marvel. Our Sentinels replaced with machines capable of working harder, longer and more efficiently. No more danger to human life. We're gonna be able to neutralize a lot of threats before they even happen. A golden age, without the fear of external or internal threats. Peace, in our time."

Hill cleared her throat and looked slightly uncomfortable. Fury knew she held reservations about the project – hell, he had plenty of reservations of his own – but their goal, at its source, was pure.

"You still have doubts?" he asked, and she flushed slightly, looking downwards.

"I like to put my trust in humanity, sir. I'm still not sure how I feel about machines maintaining law and order," she replied, frowning. "In any case, it's far too dangerous to be developing that technology now. Just think of the damage that it could do if it fell into the wrong hands."

Fury raised his hands in conciliation. "I know. I know – take things one step at a time. We still have plenty of trials to run first, before we can even think of implementing it. I think it's time to move to the next stage of the Weapon Infinity Program – after all, we've been sinking enough money into it, it's about time it started paying off a few dividends. A helping hand, as it were, and leg too, for the Sentinels in the districts. God knows those poor bastards will need it."

"You don't think it'll draw too much attention?" Hill still sounded wary.

"Oh, it will, but not the kind that could compromise our plans. It'll be looked on as a minor miracle, a marvel, not anything underhanded."

The doors to Fury's office swung open behind him, and Fury paused, noting that whoever the visitor was, they hadn't been announced but instead allowed straight in. That narrowed it down to one of a handful of people, none of whom he'd be happy to see.

He fixed a smile on his face, and turned as a tall, blue-skinned man clad in a Nova Corps uniform strode into the room, holding a long-handled hammer that looked far too impractical for anything other than ceremonial purposes, and yet still managed to look that little bit threatening.

"Ronan? Come in, come in. To what do I owe this…pleasure," Fury asked wryly, the hesitation only barely noticeable if you knew him well, or else had been waiting for it.

"I'm here to provide a list of names, Director," the man drawled, his violet eyes glimmering malevolently in the light of Fury's office. Ronan was, in Fury's opinion, embodied the problems within S.H.I.E.L.D. – the nepotism, the corruption, the casual brutality. That a man who revelled in violence and bloodshed could rise to a prominent position within the President's own security was… well, it was unacceptable.

As head of Thanos' personal guard, the only person who technically outranked Ronan was Irani Rael, the Nova Prime of the Nova Corps. Of course, in reality, Ronan served as Thanos' right arm, whereas Rael's work covered administration. She remained a valuable ally – after all, he had served with her for years in the field before they ended up in their respective positions – but Fury couldn't count on her to swing the Nova Corps his way, should he ever need to.

One day, he knew, something was going to have to be done about Ronan. Today, however, was not that day.

_A list of names…ah, yes, _Fury thought, remembering a memo the President had left him that morning. It seemed the aspects of the Games had drawn Thanos' ire, as they so often did, and he had been given enough time to review the Reapings and single out those who had raised red flags in his mind. His paranoia knew no bounds these days, Fury gloomily reflected, as Ronan passed him over the worryingly-long list, and he scanned down through the first few names.

_Walter Lawson of District Five, Mayor T'Chaka of District Eleven, his son Hunter…_the names ran on, perhaps twenty in all, and Fury placed the list down on his table, his good eye still locked on it.

"The President leaves their fates in your hands, Director," Ronan informed him. "Make it look like an accident, if you can. You know how the President hates to have…attention drawn to his actions. Any taken alive are to be delivered into my hands for questioning, and mine alone."

"Questioning," Fury said evenly, looking away from the list of the soon-to-be-dead. "Is that what we're calling torture these days?"

A moment of silence passed between them, as Fury's words settled down around them like dust.

"Your arrogance knows no bounds, Director," Ronan replied grimly, his knuckles having tightened around the handle of his hammer. "I would watch what you say in my presence. It wouldn't do to make an enemy of me."

"Is that a threat?" Fury asked coolly.

Ronan smiled, or at least, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly upwards for a moment. "I wouldn't dream of threatening a Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. After all, what would be the point? I've seen so many of you come and go, over the last few years. In fact, I may have been the last person to see your predecessor, and his, and the one before that two. You have the President's favour now, Director, but his moods are…prone to change. I can only hope that you can keep up with them, or we may end up seeing a lot more of each other."

Fury offered him a mirthless smile in reply. "Don't worry, Ronan," he said as the blue-skinned man made his way out the door, his message delivered. "I've got my eye on you."

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us." _

― Ken Levine

* * *

Skye groaned, stretching to alleviate some of the muscle pain, exhausted after the endless drills she had been made to run through for the past two hours. "Why do I even have to do this? I'm sure Fitz-Simmons' supervising officer didn't make them do this muscle stuff."

"You said you wanted to be a field agent, like Coulson," Ward shot back, frowning, his tone condescending. He had barely even broken a sweat, Skye noticed, hating him for it. "Well, if you'd like to switch disciplines...Hey, Simmons. What did your S.O. give you guys for morning drills?"

Simmons glanced over at them, her face suddenly lighting up. "Oh, atomistic attribute drills," she gushed, and Skye shivered inside. "Yeah, we'd name the mechanical, chemical, thermal–"

"–Electrical properties of materials," Fitz added.

Skye sighed in defeat, and shook her head tiredly. "Okay, okay. They made your point."

"I thought you were into geeky stuff?" Ward asked, half-teasingly, like a born bad winner.

"Not _that _kind of geeky stuff," Skye replied with a shiver of distaste.

She glanced over at the lab at the back of the plane, where Fitzsimmons were hard at work setting up all the flasks and beakers and various other pieces of glassware that allowed them to do…well, whatever it was that they did. She briefly considered asking them, but realised that she was afraid that she might get an answer. Fitz would regale her with the latest updates on the next generation of icer rounds that he was working on – apparently he was trying to get them to work in aerosol grenade form as well – and Simmons would end up enlisting her help in dissecting whatever mutt the Capitol were designing for the current Games.

_Been there, done that, bought the inability to look at meat in the same way ever again, _she thought mournfully, remembering the night she had spent throwing up after she had watched Simmons tear through one of the giant spiders.

Nothing had the right to look like that. She had spent the next week convinced the images had been burned into her retinas, for she could see them every time she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, adding a far more anatomically detailed terror to her nightmares.

They had been on the plane – though 'plane' seemed too small a word to describe an aircraft that included, among other things, a laboratory, a gym, a rec room, a briefing room (holograms and all), a kitchen, separate rooms for each agent and, most importantly, a fully furnished minibar – for about two and a half hours, and Skye still had no idea where they were going. In fact, she didn't real know anything about why they had been assembled and packaged away, which frustrated her no end, even if it didn't seem to faze the others.

In fairness, there were worse places she could be than in the relative comfort of the Bus – the name Fitz had insisted the team refer to the plane by, which had been the first of many facts that he had imparted during the impromptu guided tour that he and Simmons had abducted Skye for. The tour hadn't even been all that bad, she had to admit, remembering back to the twenty or so minutes she had spent being shuffled from one room to the next, until Ward had found her and told her that she'd be better off spending her time preparing for the mission.

And by 'preparing,' he had meant introducing her to his favourite things in life, which consisted of drills, exercises, drills, long-winded safety lectures, and, of course, more drills.

She still wasn't quite sure why she had agreed to it, but perhaps it was because you could only listen to Fitz talk about planes for so long – "You may find it interesting to know that the Bus was formally known as the CXD 23215 Airborne Mobile Command Station, and is officially designated as 'S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6'" – before your brain turned to mush and you became susceptible to any kind of suggestion.

In fairness, the tour had actually been fairly interesting in its own way, even if it had gotten awkward at one point. The scientists, while having gone above and beyond in making her feel welcome since she had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. were nonetheless still a bit unsure of how to handle her…unorthodox recruitment.

* * *

_Fitz gestured to the walls and roof of the room, and by extension, the rest of the plane. "Officially, it's an airborne mobile command station," he explained. "But we call it the Bus. We find it best to use shorthand when in the field. But everything has to be just so, you know, because of the danger," he added, gesturing to the equipment on the table in front of him with an admonishing look, noticing Skye's restless hands creeping towards one of the shinier objects._

_Skye sighed, remembering the brief flight from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Hub to the Triskelion. "Yeah, I've been up here before, but I didn't see much because of the bag that Agent Ward put over my head."_

_Simmons laughed uncomfortably, well aware that Skye hadn't meant it as a joke. "Yes, so sorry about that."_

* * *

Well, that made it all right then.

Skye asked Ward for permission to hit the showers, and he hesitated before reluctantly agreeing, obviously aware that he had pushed her about as far as she could go for one day. She heaved a sigh of relief and left with a cursory goodbye to the scientists, and heading towards her room.

However, instead of entering her room, she passed it by on a whim, making her way to the cockpit where May was currently piloting the Bus, in the hope that maybe she could get some answers out of the older agent. She _was _Coulson's right hand woman, after all, even if Skye wasn't entirely sure what was going on between them. She could go from avidly shipping them as friends with benefits with Simmons' enthusiastic approval to deciding that they were simply old friends, strictly platonic, to thinking that they actually didn't really like each other all that much, all in the same day.

Hell, sometimes it was even all three in the same conversation.

She wasn't holding out _too _much hope, however, since she wasn't entirely sure if May actually ever said anything, and certainly didn't think she was one for small talk, but figured that it was still worth a try.

Skye clambered in to the cockpit, greeting May casually, but received no hint of acknowledgement in return. Not one to be put out by something as small as a person entirely ignoring you, Skye let a moment of silence pass between them, as she scanned the range of dials and numbers on the dashboard in front of May, idly wondering what they all meant.

Of course, that could only go on for so long, but she couldn't just jump into the interrogation, so tried to angle for a little small talk instead.

"Everything looks beautiful from up here," she said with a winning smile – or at least, with what had been her winning smile up to this point. May didn't even as much as glance in her direction.

_So much for small talk. Guess we'll just get right into it then._

"So, May…where are we going?" Skye asked, but May merely glanced back at her and then returned her gaze to the landscape before her without a word.

"Not even a hint? A clue? How about the exact GPS coordinates?" she asked, a note of desperation entering her voice.

No answer.

Skye sighed. "You're not going to say anything, are you?"

Nothing.

_The silent treatment. Right._

Skye rolled her eyes and ducked out of the cockpit, making her way to the back of the Bus where Fitzsimmons were setting up their respective equipment. The space had been designed specifically for them, all chrome and steel and holograms, not all that far from their lab back at base.

"What're you guys up to?" she asked, overcoming her earlier reluctance to quiz the pair, thankful at least that these two would always talk to her. It was getting them to shut up that could be a problem.

Simmons smiled, and gestured aimlessly at the equipment around them. "Still setting up, I'm afraid. The lab had been left in quite a state by whoever ran the Bus before we got it, and this really was our first chance to move all our equipment in. It'd help if we knew what kind of mission we should be preparing for, but we'll cope for now."

"So, Coulson still hasn't spilled the beans?"

Fitz and Simmons shook their heads, perfectly in sync. "I'm sure he'll let us know when we need to know," Fitz murmured philosophically, and Skye suppressed the urge to hit him.

"It doesn't…I don't know, bug you guys that we're heading out on a potentially dangerous mission, and we know nothing about what we're getting into?" she asked, but the scientists only shrugged.

"It's all part of the job," Fitz replied, and Simmons continued, "Coulson will let us know when the time's right, Skye, just be patient. There's a chain of command for a reason, after all!"

Skye rolled her eyes but bit her lip and accepted that they might have a point. She sat down on one of the unused tables, and stared at her two teammates, noticing, once again, how fresh-faced and inexperienced they looked, even to her eyes.

"Y'know," she began slowly, catching their attention. "I have a small question, because I've been feeling like the tag-along hayseed rookie, but now I'm getting the sense that Ward doesn't know which one's Simmons and which one's Fitz, and that you've seen even less gunfire than me. I'm no rocket scientist but...is this your first mission together?"

"No, of course not," Simmons mumbled defensively, refusing to make eye contact. "It's our second."

"I was your first?" Skye exclaimed, to the embarrassment of the scientists. "That's sweet."

"We broke dozens of records in the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy," Fitz added, as if that changed anything.

"Really? Did any of those happen to be on mucking out monkey-mutt cages, or feeding them, because that's most of what I've seen you do since I got here," Skye said critically. "And there won't be any of those where we're going."

"Not for want of trying," Fitz muttered grimly. "I definitely could have found a use for them."

"Really, Fitz?" Simmons asked, temporarily forgetting that Skye was criticising both of them in her exasperation. "What would they have done? Have you been training them in ninjutsu or something when I've had my back turned?"

Skye sighed. Sometimes they made it _too _easy. "Putting the monkey business aside, can you do anything that might be useful when you're under fire?"

A moment passed, and Fitz's face fell. Skye straightened up and hopped off the table, walking over to him and petting his shoulder reassuringly.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do just fine. Coulson wouldn't put us in any kind of position that we wouldn't be prepared for, after all."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

"_A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for." _

― William G.T. Shedd

* * *

"_I'll be going into the field?" _Skye repeated, almost hysterically, as Coulson tried to reassure her that it wouldn't involve much risk on her part. In any case, wasn't that why Ward was training her? Didn't she _want _to be a field agent?

"I don't even know where we're going," Skye said bitterly, crossing her arms and changing the conversation. Sure, she might have wanted to be a field agent, Coulson knew, but that didn't mean that she was ready to become one _now._ She had barely even started into her training, and Ward certainly hadn't been that impressed by her results.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as though Coulson had a lot of options at the moment. His team were still pretty green, and it was very important to Fury that this mission went off without a hitch. He'd just have to do his best with what he had.

Coulson glanced over at her and shrugged, figuring that it couldn't do any harm to tell her. "District Eleven. That's where the 0-8-4 was reported."

"And an 0-8-4 is?"

Coulson smiled mirthlessly. "Asset captured in the field. In this case, an agent tasked with investigating recent insurgent activity in District Eleven – something we haven't had to deal with in…oh, about twenty-four years. So hey, you'll be making history! I'll be briefing the team soon, don't worry. I'll tell you the rest then."

"Huh," Skye replied, clearly surprised by Coulson's sudden ability to share. At a loss for words, she nodded slowly to herself, then back away, heading towards the Bus' computer terminals – no doubt to start looking into current goings on in District Eleven.

Coulson shook his head slowly, and then turned back to the cockpit, ducking in and dropping into the co-pilot's seat, offering a wry smile in May's direction. He squirmed into the seat, making himself as comfortable as possible, and let out a quiet yawn, looking down at the clouds beneath them.

"Maybe I should learn to fly," he remarked absentmindedly. "It's not too late, right? I could learn. What do you like best, freedom, the view?"

"The solitude," May replied, and even Coulson couldn't mistake her tone.

He glanced over at her and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Got it," he said ruefully, before getting up and heading back out again.

Coulson returned to his room and replayed the message Fury's daughter had left him. The fact that it was one of her men that had been captured wasn't lost on him – they were supposed to be uncapturable, ghosts even. On the books, they weren't even supposed to exist.

He was just glad that she wasn't aware of the plan he had come up with. Even by the standards of her squad, it was…_risky_, to say the least.

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"Whattya doing there?" Ward asked, and Skye glanced away from the monitor in front of her.

"Coulson said we're heading to Eleven – wanted to do some research before we got there, get myself prepped ahead of time."

"Ah," he replied. "I'm impressed. Getting the lay of the land beforehand – we may make a real S.H.I.E.L.D. agent out of you yet."

"It's how you trained me," she shot back, more than little sarcastically, but Ward took no notice.

"This area has lots of rebel uprisings," he said, exhausting his full knowledge of District Eleven, its people and its culture.

"Yeah, people are fighting back against the Capitol's mining policies," Skye gushed. "It's pretty kick ass."

Ward stared at her for a moment, frowning. "Yeah, it's kick ass, all the violence," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Skye merely rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean," she said, and Ward huffed and left. She glanced back at his retreating form as he left the room, leaving just enough space for Fitz to duck through the doorway, looking a little surprised by Ward's hostility.

"Someone's in a great mood," he said after catching Skye's eye, nodding back at the door Ward had just left through, and Skye rolled her eyes again in agreement.

She turned away from Fitz for a second and returned to the monitor in front of her, only to hesitate and turn back again.

"Hey, Fitz," she began slowly, wondering if Coulson would be okay with her sharing this information, and then deciding what the hell. "Have you ever heard of an 0-8-4 being a person?"

Fitz only laughed in response, until he noticed her expression and saw that she was being serious, and hastily cleared his throat, uneasy. "No, but I suppose it's possible," he replied, hesitating before adding; "I'd hate to meet the guy."

"Why?" Skye asked, confused.

"Well, think about it. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent hasn't been captured since the Civil War, and there's a reason for that – there hasn't really been any rebellious activity of note since then. Any hint of insurgency and either S.H.I.E.L.D. or the local Sentinels come crashing down on them pretty hard," Fitz reasoned. "This guy-"

"Or girl!" Simmons yelled, coming in through the same door Fitz had just a few moments earlier, and Fitz rolled his eyes.

"This guy _or girl_," he amended, "is slap bang in the middle in the worst trouble you can think of. I know a few guys who've just come back from Eleven on Sentinel duty – they said the whole place has gotten _really _tense ever since the mayor's son got drafted. Just about the worst thing that could have happened, they said."

"I would have though him _dying_ would be considered worse," Skye remarked wryly, and Fitz checked himself.

"Well, of course," he spluttered, "but he died to save his district partner. If anything happens to her, things are _really _going to hit the fan."

"District Eleven?" Simmons asked, sitting down next to them, and the others nodded.

"Coulson say anything about the briefing yet?" Skye asked, and was surprised when a voice spoke up from one of the other doors into the room.

"I was just about to," Coulson announced, stepping forward, and Skye felt herself blush out of embarrassment at being caught out. "Get everyone together – it's time to let you all know what we're doing here."

"Two days ago, an agent went missing after his team were compromised while investigating recent rebel activity in District Eleven, which, as of late, has begun to get out of hand," Coulson announced, bringing up a holographic projection of the district on the holo-table in front of him. "The rebel group in question have been under surveillance for a while now, in the hopes that we'd be able to unearth their ringleaders, but local Sentinel forces have had no luck – which is why a S.H.I.E.L.D. team was drafted in."

"The rebels in question attacked a group of Sentinels escorting equipment to a new base in the south-east area of the district about a month ago, which was when the decision that the Sentinels could no longer keep the situation under control was made. Nine Sentinels were killed; the other three were left badly injured, though two of those succumbed to their wounds in hospital. The survivor spoke of white animals that descended on them in the night, armed with Sentinel-grade firearms."

"How they'd get their hands on Sentinel weapons?" Ward asked, interrupting the briefing. "The possession of firearms is an offence punishable by death in the districts, or have things changed since I was last in the field?"

Coulson shook his head wearily. "Recent reports from the District Eleven Sentinels suggest that local insurgents have probably been stockpiling weapons for years – they've previously had one or two guns going missing a year, but wrote them off, assuming that they'd turn up sooner or later," Coulson continued, before glancing through the report again and swearing to himself. "_One or two a year?! _Should have been reported immediately, but I guess they figured that the locals couldn't do much damage with just one or two firearms."

"Nine or ten, on the other hand…" Ward continued, seeing where Coulson was going. "That could be just enough to get the drop on a group of Sentinels, especially a group who were probably as lax with field work as they were with paperwork."

"Great," Skye interrupted. "So the rebels are organised and patient enough to pull this off over several years, and now they're well-armed as well. Do we at least know where they're set up?"

Fitz breezed by Coulson and pulled up a topographical hologram of the district, gesturing to small area to the north highlighted in red.

"The agent was outfitted with a tracker, and thankfully the rebels don't seem to have found it. As far as we can tell, it's in an old, unused warehouse in one of the areas in the district that became defunct after they rerouted the railway," Fitz explained, and Skye glared at him, realising that he had evidently known more than he had let on. "Nowadays it's too isolated to use the area for storage, and population density hasn't gotten high enough for people to be moved out there. Sentinel patrols go through there daily, just to make sure that it remains unoccupied, but I guess these guys must have found a way to get by unseen."

"Or come to an arrangement with the local Sentinels," Ward growled.

Coulson brought them back to ground. "Either way, we'll be raiding the warehouse. Hand was already on site transferring prisoners to the Hub, and Fury's assigned her to take control of local Sentinel forces until the agent is rescued, and has made her our overseer for the duration of the mission."

This announcement didn't go down particularly well, given that a certain member of the team still harboured some well-founded feelings of resentment.

"Hand? The one who had her men break into my house in the middle of the night and tranquilise me? The one who locked me up in a cell for two weeks until Agent Boring over here," Skye practically yelled, stabbing her thumb in Ward's direction, "brought me out and threatened to torture me-"

"-I never used the word 'torture,'" Ward cut in, but Skye ignored him.

"_She's _the one who gets to decide how we carry out the mission?"

"Yes, that the one," Coulson replied evenly, then held up his hands in conciliation. "Look, I'm in charge of this task force, I get the final say in how we go about this. Hand's been tasked with evaluating our methods and offering her expertise in this case – she has a lot more experience with District Eleven than anyone on this plane, and she's a good agent. She's just a bit…frosty."

* * *

"We don't need your help on this, Coulson," were the first words uttered by Victoria Hand at their rendezvous, and Skye remembered once more why she had disliked the austere, professional woman. Admittedly, it _was _partially due to the rather sad strand of dyed-red hair, which reminded Skye a little of the business men in the less decadent sections of the Capitol with the uniform grey or black suits, who used brightly coloured ties as a means to suggest, somewhere, there was still a human being trapped within.

"Victoria! You're looking as beautiful as ever," Coulson said in an attempt at charm, but judging by the frosty features of its intended target, it didn't seem to have taken much effect.

"Fury didn't need to send you out, we had things under control already," Hand stated, unmoved.

"So, that's why there's a full-scale rebellion brewing in your backyard?" Coulson asked, dropping the charm offence. "Or why you've turned to some pretty drastic measures of crowd control since the last attack. Further restricting the curfews, stepping up public lashings, even executions…it's all a bit much, Victoria."

Hand drew herself up to her full height, looking furious at the implication Coulson was making on her mishandling of the situation. "I did what was necessary to maintain peace. I really don't appreciate you marching in here and making assumptions based on whatever data you managed to scrounge up – the reality is far worse than what's been reported."

"People believe what they want to believe to justify their actions," May said, surprising Skye by speaking up for once, and Hand visibly bristled in anger, until Coulson stepped in.

"Look, Victoria, Fury sent us to help, and if I have anything to say about it, we're going to damn well help. But you're right, you do know the lay of the land better than we do, so I'd appreciate it if you'd lend us whatever help you can until we complete our mission."

Hand stared at him for a moment, her eyes hidden behind the sunlight reflecting off her glasses, sizing Coulson up. Eventually, she inclined her head slightly.

"Come with me," she said, and turned on her heels, marching off towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility whose runway they had landed the Bus on.

Coulson glanced back at his team, and shrugged, gesturing for them to do as she said, and the six of them made their way after her, finally following her into a large room similar to the briefing room on the Bus, only, well, bigger.

"As I said, things have gotten pretty bad out here," Hand began after a moment of hesitation. "Ever since the mayor's son was reaped, things have been on a knife edge. Fury sent me out here after that, seeing the potential for…rebellion," the word was said with distaste, as though being physically repulsive to her. "Things only got worse after T'Challa died. The mayor disappeared for a few days – perfectly natural, they follow a period of mourning out here after the death of a family member – but when he returned, well, he hasn't been the same. He held the district together, pretty much by himself. With him gone, we've seen insurgent activity pop up pretty much all around the district."

She held out a hand, and once again, the team found themselves looking at a holographic representation of District Eleven. After a second, a number of red spots began to pop up across the map, presumably signalling rebel activity. There were a lot of red spots.

"All of this since T'Challa's death," Hand intoned. "Mayor T'Chaka's political rivals have stepped up their game naturally, with M'Baku, the White Gorilla, reputedly supporting rebel forces, but we haven't been able to make any of the accusations stick."

"You could just execute him anyway?" Ward offered, and Hand glanced over at him.

"We considered it," Hand admitted with a sigh. "But he's gained too much popularity by this point. If things are bad in the districts now, having him killed would only accelerate the problem, not solve it. We also believe the mayor's adopted son, Hunter, is involved in some role in the rebel's leadership, but he's gone to ground."

The map of the district shimmered and vanished, and this time a video played. It took a moment for Skye to work out what she was seeing, until her eyes accustomed to the gloomy images in front of her, and she recognised the features of District Eleven's mayor. Across from him, a young man with white skin stood, and the two appeared to be locked deep into some kind of argument.

"_You sent him to his death! You _let _him die! Of _course, _I blame you! What's all of this worth, what's it all been for, if you can't even protect your own son! _T'Challa's dead,father!_" _this said by the younger man with a sneer of disdain. _"At least he went to his grave honourably, while you stand here and tell me keep the peace. Your son is _dead! _My brother is dead. And you want me to act like nothing has changed?!"_

There was a brief pause, as the raging figure caught his breath. T'Chaka, Skye noticed, remained silent.

When the young man spoke again, his voice was a lot calmer, but the undertone of anger still ran strong and clear. _"I'm sorry, _father, _but I can't do that. I can't – I won't – let this stand. They have to pay for what they've done, or what's the point in living at all. I can't be a slave any more, even if you can."_

"Big brother is always watching," Skye noted sourly as the video ended, something about the invasion of privacy rankling away at her, even though, if pressed, she would grudgingly admit to its necessity.

Hand snorted, evidently sharing no such delusions. "This was the last footage we have of Hunter, before he dropped off our radar. It occurred two days after T'Challa's death. No one, to the best of our knowledge, has seen him since."

"You think he's tied up in our missing agent?" Coulson asked, and Hand nodded emphatically.

"We do. The rebels are clearly organised beyond anything we could have anticipated, and Hunter had both the intelligence and the charisma to organise them. If things had turned out differently, he could well have ended up following in his father's footsteps," Hand admitted, almost regretfully. "We've had him under surveillance ever since his brother was reaped, having identified him as a possible source of discontent, and while we never turned up anything that is directly useful, it seems almost certain that he was associating himself with other…discontents."

She turned to face the team. "I trust you've all been briefed on the basics?" she asked, to a murmur of assent. "Good. Now for everything you don't know. We rerouted an aircraft to fly over the compound earlier today, used the opportunity to get some aerial surveillance. This is what we found."

The hologram changed once again, and became a bird's-eye view of an old warehouse that Skye presumed must be the one where the agent's tracking signal was emitting from. There was a brief moment of silence as the team regarded the image, before Fitz let out a soft groan and the others began to murmur unintelligibly to themselves, leaving Skye confused.

"I'm sorry, what's the problem?" she asked through gritted teeth, irritated at having to show her lack of knowledge in front of Hand.

"There's a protective barrier around the compound," Fitz explained quietly, pointing at certain markers that Skye either wasn't able to follow or simply see. "Sentinel-grade, mainly used for riot control to barricade streets. You try and walk through it; you're going to end up with some pretty serious nerve damage.

"Without a man inside to deactivate the generator, it's impossible, unless you're immune to pulse laser emissions," May added from Skye's other side.

Fitz's eyes suddenly lit up. "If we had a monkey, we could get in. If we had a _small_ monkey, he could slip through the sensors and disable the fence's power source with his adorable little hands."

Coulson sighed. "We don't have a monkey, Fitz."

Fitz sniffed. "Only because you vetoed my request before we left," he muttered darkly, evidently still stinging over Skye and Simmons' earlier Chitauri jabs.

Hand stared at them for a moment, an eyebrow raised, evidently not sure what to make of that debate. "Actually, we won't need a man inside. From our best estimations, it'd be all but impossible for the rebels to get their hands on enough fuel to keep a generator going, so we believe instead that they've tapped into the district's power grid to run the fence. The relay to the grid for that sector is actually located _outside _the fence's perimeter, just on the periphery of the compound."

"So you'll need two teams," Coulson concluded, to Hand's surprise. "One to deactivate the grid, the other to be on hand to break into the compound and grab our missing agent."

"Exactly," Hand replied, looking slightly deflated. "Unfortunately, there are further complication. Our transmissions suffer from heavy interference in that area, and we suspect that may have set up a jammer of some kind, even if we have no idea how they got their hands on that kind of technology. We also don't know what kind of shape our agent is in. His tracker, while still functioning, was also outfitted with a self-destruct sequence should he ever be captured by hostile forces. We activated it a few hours after his capture, only to find that it had malfunctioned, or possibly had been damaged in some way. His team reported that he had been caught up in some kind of explosion, which may have been the cause."

"You tried to kill your own man?" Skye asked, and Hand shrugged.

"The agent in question knew what was in store for him if he fell into enemy hands," she replied archly. "In any case, it would probably be a kinder fate than the torture that he's no doubt going through this very minute."

Coulson stepped in between them, and turned to the rest of his team. "A conversation for a different time," he said, ending the argument between Skye and Hand before it could really begin. "I thought it'd probably come to something like this. May, Simmons and I will make up Team A, we'll be the ones to rescue the agent – we'll need Simmons on hand in case Victoria is right, and medical attention is needed. Ward will take Skye and Fitz to deactivate the power grid to take the fence down. Any questions?"

"I still don't understand why I need to be in the field for this one," Skye said, confused. "Ward gets Fitz to the relay, Fitz deactivates it. What else is there?"

Coulson glanced over at Victoria Hand, and she sighed. "Access to the relay is restricted by a randomly generated encryption algorithm. We _should _be able to access it remotely, but it seems that the rebels have found a way to cut off our access to standard security protocols in this area, meaning that it'll need to be decrypted on site."

"_That's _where you come," Coulson added helpfully.

"Don't worry, I'll get them to the relay," Ward stated, sounding far more confident than Skye was currently feeling. "We'll get you in, don't worry. What kind of weaponry are we looking at here? We're going to need some serious firepower if we end up fighting our way out after taking the fence down."

"Icers-only, I'm afraid."

Ward tilted his head to the side, nonplussed. "What?"

"This is a black-ops mission, Ward," Coulson explained. "We have no formal authorisation to carry out any kind of operation in District Eleven. We are not supposed to _be_ here. When we leave, we will _never have been here._ Dead bodies will show up, and will leave a paper trail that Hand can't make disappear. Men who only get knocked unconscious – well, they're hardly going to go running to tell the Sentinels, are they?"

"The risks are still too high, Coulson," Hand said, frustration evident in her tone. "You should stand down and let me send in the local Sentinels, rather than risk your team on a suicide mission. No single agent is that important. If his tracker hadn't been damaged, we'd have eliminated him from the equation already."

Coulson turned to face her, his patience clearly wearing thin. "This is the job we've been sent here to do, Victoria," he said quietly, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. "Once again, I'm going to ask you: are you going to try and stop me, or are you going to help?"

He paused, and silence fell around him.

"I'm not going to ask again."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**


	73. Chapter 72: Many Heads & Many Weapons P2

**(A/N) And we're back for the second part of our long-delayed chapter, so for anyone joining us now that hasn't read part one, there was an update yesterday so go back and check it out! The announcement today won't be nearly as long, don't worry, but I felt I owed you guys an explanation over what had happened to me. No single thing, no matter how serious, would have kept me from updating for so long – the problem, unfortunately, that there was a host of problems, some of which I didn't have the chance to touch on, and I won't now either. The point is, we're back, and I promise we won't have a delay like that again. After all, my dissertation is due in less than a month!**

**So, a recap of all the stuff that has happened in our absence – Deadpool! Season Two of Agent Carter! The Superbowl (Trailers)! Legends of Tomorrow! The Daredevil Trailers! Casting on Iron Fist (okay, sure, it would have been nice to cast an Asian or Asian-American actor, but at least Finn Jones will be good in the role).**

**And, once again, I'd urge you all to check out our companion fic, Before You Kneel, if you haven't already. There are some great one-shots there that do wonders to further the development of our cast of characters, so if you'd enjoyed the work we've done here, you should enjoy those too.**

**Should have an update for you all tomorrow, and then we'll resume a more normal schedule. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Two – Many Heads and Many Weapons: Part Two**

**Skye &amp; Raina**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_Plans are invitation to disappointment." _

― Derek Landy, _Mortal Coil_

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well." _

― Isaac Asimov,_ Foundation_

* * *

"Didn't think Coulson could be so scary," Skye commented, as Team B sat waiting on the edge of the one of the unused fields outside the compound, hidden behind the foliage that had sprung up along its border. "Have to hand it to him – it got Hand to back down."

She started and laughed softly to herself, drawing confused looks from her colleagues.

"I said you 'have to _hand _it to him'," she explained slowly, and an awkward silence fell between the three of them, as Ward and Fitz slowly turned away.

"Coulson is a man of many talents," Fitz murmured, scanning the area in front of him through a pair of binoculars. "I'm just surprised he took May along with him rather than one of Hand's agents. Hope they're able to keep Jemma safe."

"May?" Skye asked, surprised. "Why? I've seen her destroy a guy back at the Triskelion. Douchebag tried to hit on her in the gym, didn't give up after she ignored him, ended up with a broken collarbone and three broken ribs."

"Agent May?!" Fitz hissed in frank disbelief. "No. No, no. She transferred from administration."

They both turned to look at Ward, who had remained noticeably silent during their conversation. He shifted uncomfortably under the focus of their combined stares, and finally shrugged.

"You've heard of the Cavalry?" he asked, and while Skye's face went blank, Fitz' lit up instantly.

"Yeah! Everyone at the academy talks about the stor-" he paused, coming to a sudden realisation. "_She's _the Cavalry?"

"She doesn't like it when people call her that," Ward replied, slightly uneasily, and Skye wondered if he had learned this from experience.

"Why do they call her the Cavalry?" she asked, but before Ward could answer Fitz cut in.

"We've got movement," Fitz said, and Skye and Ward reached for their own binoculars, just as a vehicle began to pull up by the entrance of the compound. At first, Skye thought it was some kind of pickup truck, but realised it was far too big a moment later.

"Some kind of carrier," Ward murmured. "Wonder what they've got inside…"

"Nothing's turning up on thermals," Fitz informed him. "Whatever it is, it's not people. You think they're transporting weapons?"

Ward shook his head. "No, they can't have stockpiled enough weapons to need a transport that big, and you wouldn't take anything bigger than absolutely necessary unless you wanted to draw attention to yourself."

The carrier was waved through the gates by the two armed rebels on guard, and Ward began humming under his breath, clearly uneasy.

"The carrier is one of the ones they use down at the mines," Fitz said. "They use them to transport vibranium ore. Could they be hoarding that?"

Ward shook his head again. "I doubt it. I mean, what would that achieve? Someone would notice, surely, you could fit just about anything in the back of one of those things…"

"Or anyone," Skye said, a thought dawning inside her head.

"What?" Ward asked.

Skye put her binoculars down. "Hand said they had an aircraft do a flyover earlier today, right? Sure, that kind of thing happens all the time in the districts, but what if the rebels got spooked anyway. If they're as competent as Hand says they are, maybe they thought it'd be better to be safe than sorry and decided to move the prisoner?"

Ward looked troubled. "We need to talk to Coulson," he decided, and reached for the transmit button on his earpiece.

"Coulson, we've potentially got a problem. A vehicle had just entered through the front gates, we believe that it may mean that the prisoner is being moved out of the facility, over."

A moment of silence, then their earpieces crackled into life.

"**Copy that…Ward…take Skye…and Fitz…prisoner…over."**

Ward gritted his teeth, and went to transmit again. "Sorry, sir, but we're getting some interference on our end. Could you repeat that, over?"

"**Ward…interference…Hand…right…jammer…" **The message dwindled away into nothing as static took over, and the agents looked glumly at one another.

"Guess Agent Hand was right about the jammer," Fitz noted sadly, and Skye raised an eyebrow at Ward.

_What now?_

"Just give me a second to think," Ward snapped back, and Skye shrugged, picking her binoculars up again. The two rebel guards were no longer alone – a third man was with them this time, looking considerably more alert that the other two.

Through the binoculars, Skye saw an intense conversation carried out between the guards and the third man, who was presumably their supervisor, or captain or what-have-you. Who knew how the chain of command worked with this group? What caught her interest, however, was one word that continued to flash up between them, with considerable vitriol and, possibly, a touch of fear to it as well.

_Klaw? _she guessed, wishing that she had paid more attention to the lessons Ward had given her in lip-reading, back in the Triskelion.

She glanced back at her S.O., knowing that he'd probably insist on carrying on with the mission as planned, even though something in her gut was telling her that if they didn't act now the captured agent would slip right through their fingers.

_Screw this._

"Follow my lead," she told Ward and Fitz, who stared at her in confusion for a moment, until they say her get up and stride out of the foliage, down the hill they were perched on and make her way down to the road leading up to the compound. She ignored Ward's furious hissing after her, her heart already in her mouth as she began to question the wisdom of what she was planning to do.

Skye walked up to the guards, glancing back to see Ward and Fitz cautiously following her, trying to look as though they knew what was going on. Well, Fitz tried, at least – Ward looked like he was struggling to overcome a desire to kill her for pulling a stunt like this. She could only hope that the guards would be too preoccupied to notice.

However, even though the guards raised their weapons and ordered her to stop in her tracks, her nerves had settled slightly now that she had gotten a closer look at the pair, who looked as though they'd score a six out of ten in a test on 'What Is Your Name?'

"Who are you?" Genius Number One asked, just slightly ahead of his compatriot.

"I'm here on behalf of…Klaw," Skye replied haughtily, barely missing a beat, as though the guards' presence was of little interest to her, and that her decision to stop was solely because she had deigned to stoop to their level. "We're here to check on the status of the prisoner _before _you transport him. Can't have you guys try and convince us he was damaged during transit, can we?"

One of the guards glanced at the other one, spooked by the name Skye had uttered. Both looked confused, and possibly a little worried, but did their best to hide it.

"We were not informed that Mr Klaue would be sending a representative. Who authorized this?" Genius Number One asked, Number Two remaining silent, clearly trying to puzzle something out in his head.

Skye stared wordlessly at the speaker, who met her gaze for a moment or so before breaking away. "It is not Mr Klaue's prerogative to provide you with a warning of his inspections," she hazarded, struggling to remain in control, but buoyed by the fact that the guards seemed to be hesitant to take any action against them. "Take us to the prisoner now, or bring me to your superior so that I can explain to him why you held up the entire exchange, and drew Mr Klaue's displeasure."

The guards remained frozen by indecision, until the thought that he had been struggling with finally went off in Genius Number Two's brain, and he tilted his head slightly to the side, confused.

"Did you call him _'Klaw' _when you-" he began, but was cut off as Ward's arm snapped up from his side, pistol in hand, and fired off two shots, disabling the guards.

The guards collapsed onto the ground, and Skye turned around to face Ward, disbelief evident in her features.

"They weren't buying it," he said, half-apologetically, shrugging. "It's okay, they're just stunned – icers-only, remember?"

"You can catch a lot more flies with honey than with napalm," Skye retorted, and Ward rolled his eyes.

"And you can catch a lot more bullets with stupidity," he said, pushing past her. "Now keep low and follow my lead. If you attract anyone attention, I'll-"

"Kill me?" Skye quipped, and Ward frowned.

"I'm pretty sure the rebels will beat me to it."

* * *

She attracted someone's attention. In fairness, there was nothing that she could do about it. They had made their way into the warehouse that the tracker's signal was being broadcasted from, and Fitz had passed Skye a small device that allowed her to see whether or not they were getting closer to their target.

Ward had disabled a rebel guard at one of the side entrances to the warehouse, and the three of them had stuffed him in one of the empty containers inside, hoping that no one would notice him until they had gotten out of here.

Eventually, after slowly and carefully creeping through the side rooms, avoiding the rebel patrols, they had made their way to the loading bay, and finally caught sight of the carrier they had seen enter earlier. To Skye's satisfaction, no one appeared to be unloading anything from it, or loading anything _into _it either, which meant that they still had some time.

"The target must be nearby," Ward whispered to the others, who nodded and followed him as he made his way behind the carrier, listening intently for any tell-tale noises hinting that there might be rebels on the other side.

After satisfying himself that he could hear nothing, Ward and the others crossed over to the back of the carrier, Ward lifting up the tarpaulin to confirm that the target hadn't already been moved there.

"Looks like you were right, Skye, this thing's empty," Ward murmured grudgingly. "They're definitely planning to transport _something._"

Behind her, Skye suddenly heard the sound of something flushing, and turned almost dreamily as a door opened behind her, a rebel stepping out, wiping his hands with a damp rag, before noticing the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and stopping in his tracks.

"We were sent by Klaue?" Skye offered weakly, as the rebel's hand reached for his gun. However, before he had time to raise it, Ward had whipped out his own gun, firing off an icer round and knocking the guard back into a wooden crate, which collapsed under his weight.

"Do you think they heard?" Fitz whispered, just as Skye's ears began to pick up on the sound of a footsteps coming quickly down one of the side rooms, probably the six-man patrol they had crept past a few minutes earlier.

Acting on impulse, Skye's dived behind the cover of a rusted car, its axles resting on broken cinderblocks, its wheels long gone. The other two agents ducked down next to her, Fitz swearing under his breath, Ward removing a second icer from its holster. Skye began breathing deeply, beginning to freak out, wondering what she could possibly do to get them out of this one.

Ward moved over to her, and pressed an icer into her hands, his face grim and serious. "There will come a moment when you have to commit to this or bail," he said slowly, just loud enough to be heard over voices of the incoming guards, as Skye trembled with each breath that she took. "Every field agent has a defining moment. Ask Coulson. When you have to make the hard call to either dedicate yourself to this or to curl up in a ball and run."

He paused, and looked her deep in the eyes, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. At the same moment, the doors at the opposite end of the room swung open, and the rebels called out to the man they had incapacitated, asking if he was okay. "This, Skye, is your moment. What's it gonna be?"

She swallowed and nodded, her knuckled whitening as she gripped the icer firmly. Ward raised three fingers, and then lowered the first, the second, and then the third, and the pair of agents came up firing.

To Skye's surprise, her first shot took one of the rebels directly in the chest, knocking him out instantly. Her second went a little wide, and her third caught another rebel on the shoulder, winding him, but not rendering him unconscious. The fourth caught the same shoulder in the abdomen, and this time he slumped to the ground, the rounds taking their toll on him. She didn't need to fire a fifth shot, for Ward had incapacitated the others with ease.

"Not too bad," he said to her with a grin, and Skye returned it with a smile of her own.

"Not too bad yourself," she replied coyly.

"Guys, I know the adrenaline is pumping and all, but can we stop with the unnecessarily flirty compliments, get our man, and get the hell out of here?" Fitz asked, and Ward and Skye broke eye contact, looking embarrassed.

"Yeah, right, I'll get on that," she muttered, pushing the icer into the waistband of her jeans and drawing out the signal tracker that Fitz had given her.

"It'll be faster if we split up – I don't think there's anyone else around her, or else they would have already come running," Ward said, and Skye nodded, taking the door to her left.

She found herself in a gloomy, dusty room filled with tarpaulin and miscellaneous machine parts, and shook her head, pressing a nearby light switch without much hope, and wasn't surprised when the room remained just as illuminated as it had been beforehand. She sighed, and moved carefully through the room to the door at the opposite end, taking care to tread lightly on the rotting floorboards.

The next room was just as dark, and since her eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, it took her a moment to take stock of her surroundings.

In the dim light, she could see a man lying on a makeshift gurney. Skye's stomach churned slightly as she neared him and saw the burns running down the right side of his body, mottling his dark skin and marring his features. The other half of his face had an odd sheen to it that she recognised – skin grafts, or something like it. His right leg ended at the knee, no doubt lost in the same accident that had…well, that had done what it had done to the rest of him.

The man had been maimed so horrifically that it had taken her a second her two to get her bearings, but then she remembered Fitz and Ward still searching for the man in front of her.

"He's here!" she yelled back at them, hoping that her voice would carry, before turning back to the wounded S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. This time she took in several details that she hadn't noticed the first time round, now that she was beginning to be able to get past the man's deformities.

His left arm was hooked up to some weird kind of catheter, pumping some sort of orange liquid into him, but Skye decided not to interfere with it until Fitz came and got a look at it – odds were, he might know what it did, because she sure as hell didn't.

The tracker, though…Hand had mentioned that it has been permanently bounds to the agent, making it impossible for the enemy to take off should he ever end up in a situation like this, but other than that she hadn't been all that specific as to what she should look for.

However, it only took her a moment to realise that Hand really didn't need to have clarified – around the man's neck was some kind of metal collar, which was, judging by the noise emitting from her tracker, where his tracking chip was located.

_Like a dog, _Skye thought angrily, wondering if Hand had been the one to approve it.

Ward came through the door behind her, took a second to take stock of the scene before him, and then began to move towards the drip, clearly intent on unhooking it.

"Wait!" Skye hissed over to him. "What if it's keeping him alive? Where's Fitz? Fitz?!"

"Yes, I'm here, I'm here, what?" Fitz asked, appearing in the doorway, before noticing the figure on the gurney in front of them. "Wow, that guy's in pretty bad shape."

"Do you think we can unhook the drip?" she asked, and Fitz's eyes flickered towards it, and then to the catheter in the man's arm.

"Well, this really is Simmons' area of expertise," he murmured uneasily, moving towards the drip in question, "but I'll take a look."

Ward glanced at her. "Stay with Fitz," he ordered. "I'm going to see if I can get that jeep started – they must have planned on using it to transport him, the keys must be on one of the guys we took down."

He disappeared, and Skye turned to Fitz, who was in the process in the process of removing the catheter.

"You sure that's safe?" she asked nervously, and he glanced up at her, hesitated, and then nodded.

"Pretty sure," he replied. "Well, at least seventy per cent. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is just extremis – you know, the anaesthetic they banned back home a few years ago because of how addictive it was? I'd heard that it's being used for…recreational use, out in the districts, but I've no idea where they get it from."

"So it _won't_ kill him?"

Fitz frowned, and finished hooking the drip. "Well, I didn't _quite _say that. Chances are this is the only thing keeping his pain at bay – there's enough of this stuff pumping into him to keep a bear nice and sleepy. It'll take a while for it to leave his system, but he's going to have a pretty rough awakening when he comes to."

"Well then let's hope we've got him back to the Capitol by then," Skye replied, and helped Fitz move the gurney into the other room, where Ward was still rooting through the bodies of the unconscious soldiers.

She helped Fitz lower the access ramp at the back of the carrier, and together they forced the gurney up it. As they did so, Skye found herself looking at the agent's features once more, but this time something about him seemed oddly familiar to her, even though she couldn't quite place him.

The nagging feeling of recognition persisted while they began tethering the gurney to the floor, and began to frustrate her.

"Does he look…familiar to you?" Skye asked Fitz, as they began tethering the agent to the bed, hoping to restrict his movement for when the carrier would be moving.

Fitz glanced at the injured man for a second, before shaking his head. "I'm sorry Skye, can't say I've ever seen the guy before. There are so many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents out there, even if I had, I can't say I'd recognise him. Especially not as he is now, with all that burn damage. Must have been one hell of an explosion."

She nodded slowly, but still the feeling persisted, and she ducked out the back of the carrier feeling unsatisfied, leaving Fitz to finish the tethering.

"Any luck?" she asked Ward, who glanced up at her with his hands in the coat pockets of one of the rebels, and glared.

"Oh, yeah. Found them five minutes ago," he replied bitterly. "I'm just doing this for kicks now."

"Wow, no need to be so bitter," she said back to him, before hunkering down to search through the pockets of the unconscious rebel nearest to her. Her hands reached into the right pocket of the man's jacket, and she grinned as her fingers brushed metal.

Skye didn't even say anything as she drew the keys out, she simply held them out in Ward's direction and jangled them slightly, smiling as she did so. He glared again and snatched them from her, snorting in disbelief.

"I was going to check him next," he muttered bitterly, and Skye rolled her eyes. "You and Fitz secure the target?"

"He's about as tethered as he's going to get."

Ward nodded. "Right, then I'll try to raise Coulson on the comms again. Maybe we'll get lucky – I still can't see how it could be a jammer, where would these guys get that kind of equipment? Let's just hope they haven't tried to go ahead with the mission when we didn't take the grid down."

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than short bursts of gunfire began to sound off in the distance, accompanied by the shouts of far off rebels.

"You just_ had _to jinx it, didn't you?" Skye asked critically, as Ward held up in hands in protest. The shouting began to sound a lot nearer now – some of the guards must have been sent to secure the prisoner – and Ward tossed her the keys, drawing his icer.

Skye leapt into the driver's cab just as the first two guards came through the main doors, and were swiftly dispatched by Ward – two chest shots, two guards down. However, she could hear more of them making their way towards them, and the sound of the icer going off, despite its suppressor, had clearly attracted some attention their way.

She struggled to fit the key into its slot, her hands trembling with a cocktail of fear and adrenaline, but she finally managed to do so, and the engine roared into life.

"Ward, get your ass over here!" she yelled, slamming the door that she had left open behind her.

Ward glanced over at her, and fired off three rounds at the small group of rebels who had entered through one of the side doors, sending them scurrying for cover, and used the brief lull in gunfire to make his way over to the carrier, vaulting over its hood, and scrambled into the passenger seat next to her.

"Hit it!" Ward yelled, slamming her elbow into the window and shattering it, allowing him to lean out and continue to exchange fire with the rebels. Skye didn't need to be told twice, slotting the carrier into gear and taking off.

"The doors at the entrance are still locked," she reminded Ward, and he glanced back at her with a smile on his lips.

"Trust me, that won't be a problem," he said, and Skye gulped, pressing down harder on the accelerator as they neared the doors in question.

As Ward had predicted, they didn't prove much of a hindrance to the carrier, which smashed through the rotting wood with comparative ease, emerging into the outside world in a haze of dust and flying splinters.

Behind them, the yells of the rebels they were escaping from rang out, but so too did the roar of several engines. Ward glanced out the window and swore, raising his icer once more.

"How bad is it?" Skye asked, the carrier dipping on bouncing on the uneven of the road.

"Two motorcycles and a jeep," Ward replied, before squinting as he took arm, and firing off a shot.

The was a brief yell in the distance, and the noise of something slamming into the ground. "Make that _one_ motorcycle," Ward said smugly, firing off another shot.

This one, however, fell short, and Skye yelled for the others to brace themselves as they approached the gate they had entered through, bursting through it with ease.

"Get us off the roads," Ward ordered, and Skye glanced over at him, confused, but did so anyway. The carrier began to jump even worse, now that they had left the dirt tracks behind, but Skye continued to follow Ward's lead as he corrected their course every now and then, in between firing at their pursuers.

As they neared their destination, Skye realised just where Ward was having her take them – right out to a wide-open area, where Ward would have an unimpeded shot at the rebels following them.

"Stop!" Ward yelled, as they got about two hundred yards into the abandoned field, and he got out of the carrier, icer out, lining up his shots. Three rounds were spat out by the gun, the motorcycle went down immediately, while the jeep continued on for a while before rolling to a halt, the rebel in the passenger seat falling out through an open door, the driver incapacitated.

Skye clambered out of the driver's cabin and ran to the back of the carrier to check in on Fitz and the rescued agent, only to find a white-faced Fitz slumped on the ground next to the gurney, his shirt torn to make a make-shift bandage around his left forearm, which was already soaked with blood.

"One of their bullets caught me," he offered weakly by way of explanation, and Skye called for Ward, helping Fitz out of the back of the carrier.

Ward unwrapped Fitz' bandage, and whistled in appreciation. "Well, that's gonna leave a scar," he told Fitz, almost admiringly, "but you should be fine – looks like a through-and-through. You jump into the passenger seat and I'll take the wheel, and we'll get you patched up when we arrive at the rendezvous point. Skye, you again to stay in the back with the target?"

"Sure," Skye said, and hopped into the back of the carrier, trying to ignore the sight and smell of Fitz' blood in the far corner, instead trying to find another place to comfortably sit down. The carrier roared into life, and Ward soon got them back on the road, speeding past the empty fields and former villages, and Skye settled in, hoping that Fitz would be okay, and that the others would be too.

They finally came to a stop, presumably reaching the rendezvous point - a former Sentinel barracks that had fallen into disuse once the people in this part of this district had been relocated, and the fields left barren - and Skye stood up, wondering if she should get out until Ward popped his head through the tarpaulin. "Stay here with him, okay?" he asked. "I'm gonna get Fitz seen to, and send some medics down to take him off your hands, or Simmons if they made it back before us. It'll just be a minute, I swear."

Skye nodded, and Ward disappeared once more. She sighed, and leaned back against the gurney, hoping that he really wouldn't take too long, feeling bone-tired and just wanting this day to finally end, although she had to admit, a part of her was burning inside, feeling alive for the first time.

A hand grabbed her arm, and she screamed, snapping out of her moment of self-reflection. She tried to jerk her arm away but the hand held on with an iron grip, pulling her slightly forward.

The injured agent had woken up, she realised after a second, though his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. He opened his mouth and hissed out something unintelligible, and Skye, calming down, struggled to keep the confusion off her face.

"I'm sorry?" she said, and the eyes focused slightly, and once again she was struck by a sudden sense of recognition.

"They knew…we were coming," the man rasped, wincing with each word. "They knew…they knew…"

"How did they know?" she asked, leaning towards him with her ears straining to hear the next two words that the man spoke, before his eyes closed slowly and his hand fell from her wrist, the pressure eased.

Skye reached out her other hand and checked for a pulse, and to her relief she found one – weak, but still present.

"Simmons!" she yelled, praying that the agent was already on her way, and was relieved to see agent climb in a moment later, looking red-faced and out of breath, hair dishevelled.

"Fitz got me up to speed," Simmons informed her, opening up a rather serious-looking pack of equipment. "I've got to stabilise him before we can move him. The extremis in his system will be wearing off – has he regained consciousness yet?"

"Only for a second or two," Skye replied, not sure whether or not she should share what the man had said.

Simmons nodded, apparently missing the slight hesitation that had preceded Skye's answer, and got to work, ushering Skye out of the carrier in order to give her more room to manoeuvre.

She stepped out into the sunlight, blinking after having grown used to the dark haze within the back of the carrier, and made her way over to the rest of the team. Coulson was arguing with Hand over something or other, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. medic was treating Fitz' wounded arm. Ward wasn't there for some reason, so Skye was left with little choice than to sidle up to May, who looked thoroughly unmoved by the day's proceedings.

"You guys get out okay?" Skye asked weakly, as May's head snapped in her direction, her mouth turning slightly downwards.

"We were forced to try and disable the laser grid at one of the source points, and our cover was exposed. Once we heard your team's grand escape, we put two and two together and realised what had happened, and pulled out," May replied, in what was possibly the longest time Skye had ever heard her speak for.

"You abandoned the plan," May pointed out, after a second or two had passed. "You had orders to take down the grid, and you ignored them, putting the whole mission in jeopardy."

Skye hung her head slightly, embarrassed and guilty. "I know, but-"

"You did the right thing," May said, cutting across her. "The situation changed, so you did what you thought was the right thing to do, and it paid off. A little sloppier than it could have been, which is what Hand is so mad over, but at the end of the day, you got the job done. Good work."

She left, making her way over to Coulson as the agent finished talking to Hand, leaving Skye with her mouth hanging open, for once at a loss for words.

_Was that…was that a _compliment?_ From _May?

Moments later, a pair of medics entered the back of the carrier and escorted the gurney down, taking the agent that they had rescued away in order to give him the medical attention that he needed.

Again, Skye was struck by a sense of recognition, and felt, perhaps, that it was something to do with the backdrop of District Eleven that was generating this effect. The connection was right on the periphery of her mind, and she strained to make it, but her concentration was interrupted by a voice coming from behind her.

"Simmons says he'll probably make it," Coulson said, following her line of vision. "Severe third-degree burns covering a large portion of his body, a hashed leg amputation, and possible loss of sight in one eye. I wouldn't have that kind of strength."

"He spoke to me," Skye replied, turning to face him. "Just after we arrived, before you guys got here. Said they knew his team were coming."

"Is that so?" Coulson asked, his face blank, which in itself was enough to set Skye's mind ablaze. After all, it should have showed _something,_ even if it was just surprise or confusion. This could only mean that Coulson had known this already, or at least, had a pretty good suspicion.

"He also said something else. When I asked him how they had known, he gave me a name," Skye continued, thinking to the last two words that the man had uttered before losing consciousness, his voice barely rising above a whisper as he had said them. "'The Clairvoyant."

_This _time Coulson did look surprised, though he quickly tried to mask it. "So we're dealing with psychics now?" he joked half-heartedly, but Skye wasn't buying it.

"What's going on, Coulson?" she asked tiredly, but she already knew that he wouldn't give her a clear-cut answer, so she cut him off before he could say anything, holding up her hand to stop him. "You know what, it's okay. Just don't."

She stalked off, royally pissed off and fed-up with the chain of secrets that seemed to pop up before her at every corner, her former happiness at May's praise now worn off. Instead, she sought out the rest of her team, and found Fitz and Simmons on the Bus' entry ramp, a beer cooler pulled up beside them, each holding a half-empty bottle.

"Skye!" Simmons exclaimed, swaying slightly. "We were wondering where you had gone to!"

"How many of those have you guys had?" Skye asked, half-jokingly, half-nervously, eyeing the cooler with a certain degree of apprehension. She had serious doubts as to how much alcohol either scientist would be able to handle.

"Oh, Skye," Simmons said, exasperated, waving her hands aimlessly. "It's important, when in the field, to unwind from time to time."

"Yeah, especially after a hard day of everyone almost dying," Fitz chipped in, pointing to his now-patched up arm. Skye briefly considered asking him if he should be drinking, given that he had almost certainly been put on painkillers, and probably other drugs as well, but dismissed the notion. After all, it wasn't in her to be the responsible one.

"Well…" Skye began, before giving up and shrugging. "Oh, okay then. Just give me the one, for now."

She ended up having far more than just the one.

* * *

Later, when they were flying back to the Capitol and her hangover was mostly past, she felt that it might be worth asking Coulson about the agent they had rescued, even if she knew she couldn't expect to get anywhere with him. It wasn't hard to find a moment where it was just the two of them – May was piloting, after all, Fitzsimmons were working away in the lab on god knows what, and Ward had been preoccupied with something ever since the mission.

The two of them were alone in the briefing room – well, Skye had followed him in there when she saw that he was alone, but the important thing was that it was just them in there.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked nervously, still feeling unsettled and unsure as to how she should proceed, wondering if she may have been mistaken, but confident at the same time that she wasn't. She was also pretty sure that Coulson had been avoiding her ever since their last conversation, but she supposed that she couldn't blame him. It hadn't exactly ended well.

"Yes?"

Skye swallowed nervously. _Now or never._ "The man that we picked up yesterday, that we rescued…I felt as though I _knew _him. Like I had seen him before, somewhere…"

Coulson turned to her, and this time his features weren't fixed and blank like they had been before. This time, he merely looked sceptical. "Skye, he had half his face burned off – even if you _did _know him, you wouldn't have been able to recognise him. His own mother wouldn't have. To be honest, it's a miracle he's still alive."

Skye shook her head, unsatisfied with Coulson's answer. "No, Coulson, I've seen him somewhere before – I've _seen _him. I just don't know where or when, but I know it. Do you know who he is?"

"I'm sorry, Skye, but even if I did, I couldn't tell you his name," Coulson replied sadly. "It's classified – Level Ten – _way _above your pay grade. All I can say – all that I know – is that he's with S.H.I.E.L.D. Some sort of special ops unit or something."

He sighed, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I promised you front-row tickets to the strangest show on earth, didn't I?" Coulson asked, half-heartedly joking.

Skye bit her lip, and inclined her head before nodding slowly. Her fists clenched slightly out of frustration, but she hoped that Coulson wouldn't notice. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

"We all have secrets, Skye. When you work in our line of business, you realise that there are so many of them out there that they stop worrying you. You just take each mission at a time, and let go of them when they're over."

She nodded again, and Coulson sighed once more, retracting his hand and walking by her. He only made it five paces before he stopped, glancing up at the ceiling and humming under his breath.

"Skye?"

"Yes?"

Coulson exhaled softly. "The special ops unit, it goes by many names. The one I know it by…well, they call it Weapon X."

* * *

**Raina**

* * *

"_I am not loved. I am not a beautiful soul. I am not a good-natured, giving person. I am not anybody's saviour." _

― Chuck Palahniuk, _Choke_

* * *

Raina glanced around surreptitiously, feeling confident that she hadn't been followed. It had been the work of a moment to get out of her duties for the evening, but she had managed to feign illness well enough to convince Dr Whitehall to let her leave early. And the good doctor wasn't known for his kindness.

Of course, what she was doing _technically _wasn't anything Dr Whitehall could object to. It wasn't like she had been passing information on to the other side – and here, in the Capitol, there were _so _many sides to pick from – after all, just another head of the same organisation.

However, technicalities only applied so much to reality, and this one didn't apply at all. What she was doing, if found out, would not be lightly forgiven.

It wouldn't be forgiven at all.

A shape gradually emerged from the darkness, from the opposite end of the street that she had come down, and she tensed slightly until the familiar features became visible: a small, unkempt man with a receding hairline, but still in good physical condition, with a certain self-confident swagger to his walk, as though saying that this was a man who knew all about the dangers that lurked the city's streets at night, and that the worst of it was him.

His eyes, though, were what made Raina uneasy – something that she would never admit to anyone but herself. They bored through you – no, worse – they looked past you as though you didn't exist, with a subtle promise that this could become a reality if you weren't careful.

The unkempt man's name was Edison Po, and he and Raina had known each other for about two years, ever since her benefactor had first made contact. Through him, she had risen through the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. to where she know stood, right at the heart of some of the most interesting experimentation that the organisation had ever carried out.

They acknowledged one another with a silent nod, and a moment or two of silence passed as Raina waited for the man to speak.

"I spoke with the Clairvoyant, regarding the information you passed on at our last meeting," he eventually said, after casting a cursory glance around their meeting place, still not trusting Raina's ability to make it to a point unfollowed. Paranoia was one of Mr Po's many negative traits, but Raina repressed the urge to comment. Anger and violence were two of the others.

"And?" she settled for instead, raising a delicate eyebrow.

Po paused before shrugging. "I'll share the information when the time is right."

Raina sighed, but only internally. "I would love to hear much more than just information," she replied, struggling to keep the note of bitterness from her voice, aiming instead for simple curiosity. "Will you tell me what he's like?"

"Never," Po snapped, and Raina's face fell, disappointed.

"The last person who tried to learn these things got a knife for it," Po reminded her, as if her memory required any prompting on that regard. "I don't want to have to do that again, Raina. You have such pretty eyes."

"I first contacted you because I wanted to get in touch with the Clairvoyant," she reminded him, but she kept her tone subservient, not wanting to provoke him. Her eyes had begun to itch at his last comment, but she maintained her self-control and kept her revulsion off her face.

Po frowned. "And I told you that the Clairvoyant does not like to be touched. You are lucky, Raina, that both he and I prize you as much as we do, or you'd already be dead. Now, do you have any information for me, or did you call me down here to waste my time with your questions?"

"Of course I have information," she reprimanded, but gently. "I would never dream of wasting your time, Mr Po. My…sources have come across some interesting information regarding something called 'Weapon Infinity'. From what I can tell, Director Fury's kept the details of it entirely to himself, not even sharing it with heads of our organisation."

"Do you know what it is?" Po asked, and Raina shook her head.

"No. Only that Fury thinks it's important enough to keep to himself, and given the nature of the secrets he's willing to share, _this _one must be something special indeed. All that I know is that it may be tied up, somehow, with an injured S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that arrived in from District Eleven earlier today."

"Do you know the agent's name?"

"He has no name," Raina replied, smiling at Po's confusion. "What I mean is; he doesn't, in the strictest sense, exist. At least, not according to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Then that means-"

Raina nodded. "Indeed. It seems that even Director Fury's secrets have secrets."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**


	74. Chapter 73: Hawkeyes Peeled

**(A/N) As promised, we're back with a new update for ITEYAK, as we return to the tributes. And not just any tribute, but Kate Bishop, written as always by robbiepoo2341. Our next update will probably go up on Saturday or Sunday, and then I think we should be able to go back to three updates a week (but maybe only two next week, as I have an essay due Friday and don't want to make promises I can't keep).**

**A big thanks to sailorraven34 for their review! Also going to reply to Ophelia's (normally I ignore the ones by our writers, not because I don't appreciate them, but because I guess I just expect them to let each other know what they think of their chapters), who raised a very good question. With Skye and Raina in the fic, will we see Terrigenesis come into play? Well, rather than answering that, I'm just going to direct you all to think about what Inhumans are in this fic, and what that means for those two.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Three – Hawkeyes Peeled**

**Morning, Day Six**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

"_Loneliness is my least favourite thing about life. The thing that I'm more worried about is just being alone without anybody to care for or someone who will care for me."_

– Anne Hathaway

* * *

_The rain was screaming at her._

_It was hitting her, spitting at her, hissing words in her ear._

Coward. Child.

_The lightning screamed at her, too. It streaked across the sky, and when she looked down, she saw where it had struck. It was dark…and then, suddenly, it wasn't. It was too bright in the lightning's glow, and she saw, for just a moment, the blood._

_So much of it. Red and warm and clearly fresh. And as she followed the trail, she felt her breath catch in her throat as, in a second flash of lightning, she saw gorgeous, dark hair, now soaked and matted with his own blood. Kurt's sightless eyes couldn't meet hers as she rushed to him._

_But no, now it was Peter, his mouth still half-open like someone had caught him mid-quip._

_Now it was Logan. He was hardly recognizable, covered in blood — it had taken too much to take him down. But no, she hadn't been there. She hadn't been there to fight with him._

_But no, no, that still wasn't where the blood was coming from. She could feel it, warm and flowing, as she sank to her knees, and as she clutched her stomach, she pulled her hands away to see that they were absolutely coated, bright red._

_And then, as she turned, she saw a pointed, grinning smile—_

* * *

Kate jolted awake, the scream still ringing in her ears before she fully realized that it was her own. It was raw and coarse and tasted like sandpaper, but she could also taste her own adrenaline. Like something bitter on the back of her tongue.

_A dream. It was just a dream._ She'd accidentally fallen asleep trying to find her way back to her boys. That was all. Her boys were safe — they just _had _to be — and she had been looking for a way back to them when she stopped to get her breath, and she must have fallen asleep after that.

"Focus, Kate. Focus," she whispered to herself as she wiped the sweat from her face. She was soaking wet, through to the skin, and it wasn't just because of the previous night's storm.

_The storm_.

She remembered now—

* * *

_The flash of lightning, illuminating the kid from Ten. The scrambling sound as Logan ran out the door. The fire that coursed through Kate's veins as she realized what was about to happen._

_A real fight. Not mutts, not spiders. A tribute._

_And Kate was surprised when she found herself making a grab for her staves, her own heart pounding in her ears, the beginnings of something like hatred bubbling in her throat._

_She wanted to _kill _Cletus Kasady. She wanted to sink her knife into his chest, wanted to be there when Logan cut him down._

_Kate had never wanted anybody dead before, and it was only the _look_ Kurt gave her, just before Kate slipped out the door after Logan, that gave her pause._

_Kurt had always been too good for these Games — and maybe, in that moment, he had realized that Kate wasn't._

Kate stood up, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. Her neck was slightly sore — she had fallen asleep behind a hollow log. Yet another stupid mistake; anyone could have found her and killed her while she slept. But she had been so _tired_.

* * *

It wouldn't help her to dwell on what had happened. It _had _happened. She had to move forward now.

But she couldn't. She couldn't stop thinking about her boys, about last night, about the _hours _she'd spent desperately searching for them after they became separated. She was supposed to have the eyes of a hawk, and she couldn't find three boys. Couldn't even find _one_.

Some Hawkeye she was.

She stared down at the binoculars banging against her chest. Purple and gorgeous and useless, absolutely _useless_, in the rain of that storm.

* * *

_She'd run after Logan, he had been right there in front of her, but then something had happened. He had heard something and run in that direction, and she hadn't reacted fast enough. A flash of blinding lightning, a sickening laugh, someone screaming her name in the darkness … or was she the one screaming?_

* * *

Kate sighed and slumped against the fallen log again. She'd lost them. She'd lost her boys, and she had no idea if they were even alive. And every time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing them, lying there, dead or dying, always asking her _why_. Why she'd left them.

_I didn't want Kurt to see me kill someone_, she realized.

It was a stupid, selfish reason, and Kate could actually feel the hot tears stinging her eyes. The shame blushing over her cheeks.

She cried then. Quietly, so she wouldn't draw attention, and with her knees drawn up to her chest so that she had something solid to hold on to as her chest heaved.

Kate hadn't wanted the Games to change her, but she'd known they would. She was just upset that it had happened so quickly.

Kate only cried for as long as she needed to, though. She let out her frustration, and then, she did what she always did. She bottled it back up and wiped her eyes. And then she hoped that no one back home or in the Capitol had seen her crying, hoped that something was going on somewhere else in the arena to keep their interest. It wouldn't exactly help her 'everything is awesome' image if they were playing footage of her little meltdown.

She sighed and picked herself up, checking her surroundings for any of the signs that Logan had taught her about how to find humans and not animals. And yes, there were her tracks, bumbling and tired, from when she had stumbled to her knees at some time close to morning and said she was only going to close her eyes for a few minutes.

She didn't know how long she had been asleep, but she knew from the fatigue pulling at her stomach that it wasn't long enough. And still she didn't know where her boys were.

She couldn't find their nest, either. Not that the boys would return there, now that they knew Cletus had found it. But even if they had gone back, Kate couldn't find her way there. The storm had changed the landscape, erased trails, toppled a few trees. Everything was different.

Kate was _exhausted_. She'd spent the whole night trying to find her way back to her boys — and when she wasn't running towards them, she was running _away _from that horrible boy, from that horrific laughter that carried far too easily on the wind, like even his voice could reach her and hurt her.

She'd run so far and so fast, and she'd been half-convinced that she could hear his footsteps following her, getting closer and closer, and so she ran faster.

_Coward_, she thought grimly, remembering her dream.

And now, it was morning. The storm was gone. There was no more darkness. No more rain.

No more alliance.

_There's only one thing for it_, she thought as she plucked a leaf out of her wet, tangled hair. _I'll just have to find my boys by myself._

She trudged along on her own for a while, sorely missing her backpack and the supplies back at the nest, shivering and thinking longing thoughts about her sleeping bag, before she found a decent-sized building and shimmied up it, shrugging her binoculars into her hands once she had a good, solid perch.

"At least now these things will come in handy," she said out loud before she realized that Peter wasn't there to laugh at her, and she fell silent again, holding her binoculars to her eyes.

The storm had been fairly violent and destructive, and she could see the places where it had left its marks on the arena ground. Windswept trees, scorched lightning scars, fallen beams across already-crumbling buildings.

_Maybe the storm killed a few tributes last night_.

Kate knew it wasn't a pleasant thought to have, but it almost sort of cheered her up — the idea that the herd had thinned, that she and her boys might be a little closer to victory.

Still slightly smiling, she swerved around until she spotted something. She played with the focus of the binoculars, trying to get a better angle, but there were taller buildings in her way. But whatever it was, it looked sturdy and concrete and definitely like a place where she could get a better bird's eye view, if nothing else.

She scrambled nimbly back down the side of the building and made her way towards the remnants of roads, careful to step the way Logan had taught her, careful not to make a sound, always listening for any sign of her boys. A frustrated, swearing Logan. A chipper, joking Peter. A gentle, laughing Kurt.

But there was nothing. No sign of them.

The sun was higher now, and though she tried to keep out of sight and in the shadows, it was warm enough to evaporate the water from her clothes. Now, nearly dry and no longer freezing cold and dripping everywhere, she made her way to the concrete thing she'd seen through her binoculars, climbing the occasional tree or building just to check her progress.

It was a bridge.

Kate stopped to stare at it, to really let the sight of that huge thing sink in.

The giant highway crossing stretched out across that oil smear of a river, but the important thing was that it had the crumbling remnants of height that Kate could climb so she could see out over everything else for miles around.

"Now we're talking."

With energy that she hadn't had since the day before, she sprang onto the bridge, practically leaping up, higher and higher, so that she could at last find a proper Hawk's Nest.

_You're never going to let that go, are you? _She could practically hear Kurt groaning.

"I _like _being a Hawk," she muttered under her breath to the imaginary Kurt.

Up and up, higher and higher, until Kate could no longer find footing that was suitably stable. And then, Kate sat down, pulled out her binoculars, and kept her eyes peeled. Watching. Waiting.

She scanned the areas on the side of the bridge where she had emerged, because that made sense. But then she turned her attention to the other side. Just in case.

She was surprised when she saw movement somewhere in those buildings along the edge of the river, on the other side. It was indistinct, shadowy — someone who knew how to stay out of sight.

_Someone like Kurt, maybe._

Kate frowned and let the binoculars fall so that they hung around her neck, bumping flatly against her chest. It was the first sign of life she'd seen all morning, and she wasn't all that sure it was any of her boys.

But it _could _be.

"This is the worst idea ever," Kate announced at last with a flourish of her hand and a brandished sigh as, slowly, carefully, she made her way down to walk the rest of the way across the bridge.

It didn't sound like whoever Kate had spotted had noticed her yet, so at least the binoculars had done their job. (She would be sure to thank Blackagar for getting her such a lovely gift when she got back to the Capitol.) But she kept both staves out and watched for any sign of movement.

Her feet sounded far too loud on the pavement. She could hear her own breathing. She was _tired _again, tired because she knew she hadn't had enough sleep last night, tired because this area was more open, and the sun was draining and hot, and the humidity washing over her from the river was calling her into its blanket of warmth.

She heard a scratching sound, like a shoe dragged across pavement, and she was alert again, whirling around in all directions. But she couldn't see anybody.

She had to get to higher ground.

Scrambling, she found her way to an old set of buildings. It looked like there was a fire escape along the side of one of them. She reached up and tested it, and although it gave a slight groan, it didn't collapse. It looked like it would maybe hold her weight. She swung one leg up.

_Crash_.

Kate only barely managed to spring out of the way as metal and wood and bricks came tumbling down, almost on top of her. As it was, the fire escape kicked up a whole cloud of dust, and, coughing, half-blinded, Kate could only rush away from the debris.

She didn't suppose that there was any use in hoping that no one heard that.

And then, just out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

She spun around, her staves raised, her breathing suddenly more shallow, her chest tighter. "Who's there?" she demanded of the streets that looked deceptively empty.

There was no answer.

She had to get to higher ground. She had to _see_.

Kate's hands ached for a bow, and she gripped her staves harder as she heard every single footstep echoing back to her. _You're walkin' too loud, Trickshot_, she could almost hear Logan teasing her. But she was running, and now wasn't the time for sneakiness. Now was the time for escaping.

She'd _known _this was a bad idea the minute she headed this way. Her boys were probably back across the bridge waiting for her, wondering why she hadn't come back yet. Worried that she had been killed during the night.

And now she was going to get herself killed on the other side of the bridge, and they'd never know it.

It would _kill _Kurt to see her face in the sky that night — she just knew it. Logan might even get worked up about it and go all vindictive, try to kill whoever had killed his little Trickshot. Not that it would do Kate any good _now_.

She found a place where one building had sort of fallen close to another, creating a natural incline of rocks and rubble that Kate could dance over as she pulled herself, hand over foot, toward higher ground.

She reached the ledge of the building and hauled herself over — but to her dismay, someone was already there.

He was smart, standing directly in the sunlight like that. She couldn't make out who he was. She made a grab for her staves, which she'd had to tuck away in order to climb, but even as she did, she couldn't help a desperate plea, almost a prayer: "Kurt?"

A pause, then: "Katie?"

Kate could actually feel all the adrenaline rush out of her body at once, and she could have cried right there as a familiar figure — bow and all — stepped slightly out of the sunlight so she could see him better.

"Clint," she breathed, moving to resume her climb … but then she noticed he hadn't lowered his bow.

She looked up to meet his gaze and felt her heart stop when she realized that he wasn't smiling. He had narrowed his eyes, like he was getting ready to fire. She could see him cycling his breathing and knew he would let go of the arrow at any minute.

Her heart stopped. Her breathing stopped. Everything stopped. "Clint?" she gasped out.

The next few seconds passed agonizingly slowly as she watched Clint breathe, watched all his muscles tense….

And then, at last, he lowered his bow.

Kate actually felt a few tears leak out of the side of one eye as suddenly, all her breath returned to her and her heart resumed its frantic beating. She pulled herself up the rest of the way onto the rooftop to join Clint, who had, of course, already claimed the high ground. Like any good hawk should.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He seemed to be taking her in with his gaze, frowning, like he couldn't believe she was there.

"I walked," she said, and somehow, she managed to pull out a smile for him, even when Clint was looking like _that_, like he had just been Reaped all over again. Like he didn't know quite what he was supposed to be doing.

The answer seemed to satisfy Clint, and he nodded. But he didn't say anything else. He looked changed, like someone had stolen the smiles out from underneath him.

Something must have happened to him. Something bad.

Kate skipped across the rooftop to his side, careful to keep her staves clearly tucked away so that she didn't look like a threat. "What about you?" she asked. "What's a nice hawk like you…?" But at the look on his face, she let the question die.

Instead, she tried: "Where are the other Careers hiding? Should I be worried?" She tried to sound casual, but that was, actually, a concern. She knew _Clint _was safe to be around, but the others? Definitely not.

But Kate must have said the wrong thing again, because Clint's entire mouth constricted until it was just a thin line. His eyes were pulled in at the edges as he said, in a whisper so soft he hardly moved his mouth, "They're not here."

"You're alone?"

His mouth got thinner. "Yeah."

Clint had settled down to sit on the rooftop, using an old duct as shade. He still looked unsure of himself. Lost.

_I've got to help him_. The thought surprised her with its ferocity, but then it settled down until it was only natural, familiar. Of course she'd help him.

Kate took a deep breath and pulled a smile out of her supply. She could find her boys later. They could fend for themselves as long as they stuck together. For today, her fellow Hawkeye needed some cheering up. It was the least she could do after he'd spared her life.

_Twice now._

"You've been missing out on all the fun," she said as she plopped down next to him. "I rounded up a posse of my own, and we've been rescuing people from giant spiders and singing campfire songs."

The beginnings of a smile were forming at the edges of his mouth.

"You think I'm kidding!" She grinned. "But have you seen the braid Kurt pulled off with my hair?" She pulled the hair in question around her shoulder and then frowned at it. "Well … it looked better yesterday, I promise."

At last, a real smile broke Clint's face, almost like he couldn't help it.

"We got separated, though," she said, and at last, her smile failed her. She tried not to let Clint know that she was suddenly, inexplicably, on the verge of tears as she tried to continue, "We were in this storm, and that kid from Ten was there—"

To her horror, she realized that she was crying. Which was strange. She hadn't given herself permission to cry.

Clint seemed just as horrified as Kate was, and for a moment, he just stared at her, like he wasn't sure what to do. After a few seconds, though, as Kate struggled to bring her emotions back into check, she felt his hand close around her upper arm. Just a slight touch. Just to let her know he was there.

"I'm so _stupid_," she managed to gasp out when she had control of herself again. "I shouldn't even be this upset. I just … I don't know if they're dead or not. They might be just fine. I'm just…" She hiccoughed. "I'm _tired_."

And she was. She was tired, and she was wet, but that wasn't why she was crying. She didn't even really _know _why, really. She just couldn't stop.

Clint frowned, and his hand tightened just the slightest bit around her arm. When she looked back up at him, his expression had softened, and there was something like the old Clint in his eyes as he said, so quietly it was practically a whisper, "I know."

The silence was awful as Kate gasped and sniffed her way back into calm, and the entire time, she could feel Clint's gaze on her.

"I'm sorry," Kate said, hoping her voice sounded louder and stronger now. "I almost _never _cry. I mean, I did once, but that was after—" She paused, wondering if she could tell him. If she _should _tell him. He was _safe _and _comfortable_, but also, there were cameras, and she'd never told anyone, not even Tommy or America. She didn't want to tell the whole of Marvel.

But it was _Clint_.

She opened her mouth to try to tell him. Then, she closed it again.

"This place gets to everybody eventually," Clint said at last, and the smile he had scraped together to give her when she cried failed him as he spoke. He shook his head, frowning, then stood up and offered her a hand as well. His gaze swept over her again, and then he asked, "You hungry?"

To be honest, Kate hadn't thought much about food since last night. She had been too worried to think about eating, and then she had been too focused on not getting killed to think about worrying. So she was surprised when she nodded eagerly and said, "You bet."

* * *

"Nice shot!"

Kate grinned as the pigeon she'd just shot off the top of the Brooklyn Public Library (if the crumbling sign was to be believed) hit the ground with a satisfying _thud_.

It felt so _good _to have a bow in her hands again. Even if she was only borrowing it.

Clint rushed to grab the pigeon and picked it up by the feet, holding it alongside the other two he'd shot when it was _his _turn. Her staves were in his other hand — she'd offered them as "insurance" against his bow, even though they both knew she'd give it back if he asked.

"Thank you, Hawkeye," she said, grinning at him.

"My pleasure, Hawkeye," Clint shot right back. He was smiling again, and that was a relief. It might not have reached his eyes all the way, but it was still there, and Kate could work with that.

The pigeons on top of the library had fluttered away at the death of their comrade, so Kate handed the bow back to Clint and took the dead birds (and her staves) for herself. They were taking turns, but Clint liked to keep the bow when they weren't "just skeet shooting."

"Just in case," he'd said. Like he trusted himself to take down anything (or anyone) that came their way more than he trusted Kate.

_Not so sure he's right on that point, _she thought, remembering the way she'd felt when they were gearing up to take on Cletus, wondering if she was, actually, more prepared to kill than he thought. Not quite the innocent kid everyone seemed to think she was _— _but then, she'd always been a bit rougher around the edges than people seemed to give her credit for.

_But maybe he's right not to trust me. Last group I was in didn't exactly turn out so well. Look how fast I ditched them the second we got in a _real _fight._

_Stop that_, she told herself sternly. _It wasn't your fault the boys got lost, and you know it. That storm wasn't natural — I'll bet the Gamemakers got tired of Team Awesome and threw that huge thing our way just to break us up. Just for spite._

She watched as Clint cleaned off the arrow she'd just shot into a bird so they could re-use it later.

_Or maybe they knew I'd find Clint if they pushed me this way. Give them the Hawkeyes rivalry they were hoping for_. She grinned. _Too bad for them we're not rivals._

"What do you think?" she asked, holding up the birds for Clint to inspect. "We got enough?"

Clint smiled and gave her a small sort of shrug. "It'll do for now," he said at last. "But I'm not eating pigeons every day for the rest of my li— for the rest of the Games."

She pretended not to have heard that last bit and tossed her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes theatrically. "I promise we'll try to find some coffee or something later," she said, then patted her binoculars. "I thought I saw a shopping centre further inland."

He grinned at her. "Coffee would be pretty great," he admitted.

She laughed and swung the birds around a bit as she did so.

They walked a little further before they found a good area to have a quick meal. It was too late to be lunch and too early to be dinner, but they'd both agreed that whatever time of day it was, it was time for eating. They'd grab a late dinner that evening if they got hungry again. Besides, Kate was eager to show off some of the tracking skills Logan showed her, to use them in a Hawkeye hunting team up, and Clint thought he'd seen a wooded area a ways off where they might find some game. Further inland.

Away from her boys.

Kate knew she shouldn't miss her boys. She should just be glad to still be alive — she should be glad that she managed to stumble her way into another alliance, and this time with the added benefit of having a bow to shoot, even if she had to borrow it.

But she couldn't help but miss the sound of Peter's laughter, the muffled conversation as Kurt and Logan chatted about … whatever it was they talked about that made Logan a tame Wolverine around them.

She couldn't think about that, though. She had Clint to take care of now, after all. And just the idea of having someone around was already doing wonders for Kate. Easier to play at being happy when there was someone to bounce jokes off of. No sense ruining that by dwelling on what _might _have happened to her boys.

Once they'd scouted their temporary camping ground, Kate scampered to the highest ground she could find, climbing up inside an old building until she reached the roof.

"See anything?" she heard Clint call up to her.

She grinned as she focused the binoculars in all directions, reminding herself for about the nineteenth time that day that she owed Blackagar a _huge _hug when these Games were over. "Looks clear!" she called back down. As she shimmied down the staircases, she added in an undertone that Clint couldn't hear, "Kinda creepy how quiet it is, actually."

She made her way out of the building to see that Clint had already started to gather wood for a fire from some of the nearby overgrowth. With her added help, they had a nice little fire pit, and for the first time since she and Clint had set out together, they sat down to relax.

Almost immediately, Kate could feel her body crying out for sleep. She was _exhausted_. But it was the middle of the day, and she didn't exactly want to take a cat nap and leave Clint to have to do all the work of their meal, so she grabbed the nearest bird and started to carve it up.

She was good at birds. Half her catches back home, in Twelve, were birds. Turkeys and that sort of thing. The other half were just whatever she found — raccoons and foxes even the occasional frog or turtle. Then there were catches from Nate's traps — squirrels and such — but she wasn't sure that counted, since they weren't _hers_.

"Next time, you can be the eyes, and I'll be the hawk," Kate said suddenly as Clint started rubbing sticks together to start the fire.

"Huh?"

Kate grinned and tapped her binoculars again. "Eyes," she said. Then, pointing to Clint's bow, she said, "Hawk." And then, laughing, she pointed at him, then at herself. "Hawkeyes."

Clint snorted. "That's a horrible pun."

"Think you could do better?" Kate asked, enjoying the look on his face when he looked back up at her.

"Oh," he said, a slow grin spreading over his face. "You _definitely _don't want to get me started."

Kate giggled.

But at just that moment, Clint gave a cry of dismay as one of the sticks he was rubbing broke, so Kate didn't get to find out what amazing bird puns he had in his repertoire.

"I'll be right back," Clint said. "Going to see if I can find anything _dry _around here." He looked disgustedly down at their pile of wood, which was, admittedly, a little wet, but after that storm, there was very little that wasn't at least damp.

"Try not to get lost," Kate teased him. She made a mental note to poke him into a pun battle later. That would be fun. Maybe she'd do it when she was more awake and could think of better puns than just a play on their shared Games nickname.

Kate finished carving up the first bird and then grabbed the second, making quick, easy work of it. It was a good thing she still had Kurt's knife with her.

_Should have given it to Peter. He didn't have anything at all to fight with_, said a voice in the back of her mind, but she pushed that aside. She didn't have time for "could haves" just then, and besides, if she thought about Peter and the fact that he was in danger from her own stupidity, she might cry again, and she'd already done enough of that for one day.

She finished carving up the second and then grabbed the third bird. About that time, Clint came bounding around the corner, his arms filled with twigs and leaves, which he added to the fire. He poked and prodded and coerced the fire into existence, and about the same time Kate had finished skinning and carving, Clint was ready to do the cooking.

Kate could feel the warmth drying out her clothes, taking out the last of the dampness, and she moved to sit on the side of the fire where Clint was, away from the smoke.

It smelled very good, like home, like when America would build a fire so they could feed their ragtag group of boys back in Twelve. _I think I collect little lost boys_, Kate thought with a smile as she leaned against some rubble.

Maybe she'd just close her eyes for a minute….

Kate opened her eyes. She was lying near the fire, her head propped up by Clint's hoodie. He had finished cooking the birds and had already eaten half of one — the smell must have been what woke her up.

She must have fallen asleep.

Kate raised both hands to cover her face and groaned. This was _embarrassing_.

Clint looked up at her and grinned when he saw that she was awake. "Feel better, Hawkeye?" he asked conversationally, like she hadn't just done something stupid _yet again _and fallen asleep in the middle of the day when she should have been watching his back while he made lunch-dinner.

"I fell asleep," she said woodenly.

"I'm glad," he said. "You were flying on empty for a while there. I half expected you to collapse back on that rooftop."

_Flying on empty? _Still groggy, Kate fixed Clint with her best, confused stare.

"Want one?" Clint asked, holding up one of the birds. "They're bir-de-licious."

Kate was finally awake enough to realize what was happening, and she groaned out loud. "The _puns_, Clint."

"Don't get your feathers all ruffled," Clint continued, clearly amused by the look on Kate's face. "I thought you didn't give a _hoot _for my pun skills."

"_Clint!_"

He laughed and held out the bird to her again, and she took it, trying very hard to look annoyed with him when all she wanted to do was bust out laughing.

It felt _so _good to laugh. But what's more, it felt good to see _Clint _laugh. Something had changed in him over the last few days in the arena, and Kate didn't have to ask to know it had been awful.

And if Kate could get him to forget that, even for a little while, then she'd done her job. Even if her job meant horrible bird puns.

She bit into the cooked pigeon, which really wasn't all that bad, and grinned over at Clint as he kept eating his. "Sorry for being such a—" Kate paused, trying to find the right word, and ended up just waving her hand at him.

"Naw," Clint said through a mouthful of meat. "I'd rather have a well-rested ally anyway."

Kate grinned at him and then took another bite of pigeon. "You know," she said, "you're a pretty decent cook."

"You say that now, but wait 'til you've had another meal or two," Clint said, deadpan, but his eyes were sparkling. Then, more seriously, he said, "I gave you the one I didn't burn too badly, anyway."

Kate laughed. They fell into silence as they both concentrated on filling their stomachs, and the air rang with the quietness of hunger being satiated.

"Gotta say, Clint," Kate said as she picked out a bone from her meal, "I'm kinda glad you ditched the Careers."

Clint looked surprised and raised his eyebrows, and Kate was sad to see that some of the light had left his eyes.

"I mean," she said quickly, wondering if she'd offended him somehow, "I'm just glad that you and I get to hang out again. That's all." She felt her whole face turn red with embarrassment, but her mouth just kept going. "I gotta say, I kind of missed your stupid face."_ He's going to get the wrong impression now, isn't he?_ "I mean … I missed playing dares."

_Kate, stop talking. You're an idiot._

He leaned back again and seemed to consider her for a long time before, at last, he sighed and took a bite, chewing over his words as well as the meat before he said, so casually that she almost missed the importance of it, "The Careers aren't…. The alliance sort of … fell apart."

"Really?"

Clint nodded slowly. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to explain himself and took another bite. She followed his lead but didn't take her eyes off of him as they ate.

Finally, he went on: "My district partner, Natasha…." He trailed off again, and Kate remembered the terrifying redhead. Kate hadn't liked her much, but she had seen the way Clint hung around her, the way he _looked _at her. The way he was the only one who could get her to smile for _real _and not for pretend. He'd _liked _her, and if this hadn't been the Games, she would have been glad for him. He deserved to be happy.

But this was the Games, so happiness wasn't exactly on the agenda. Kate frowned and nodded to show that she recognized who Natasha was, and to give him time to pause and gather his emotions.

Clint took another deep breath. "She's dead."

Two different instincts had a small but violent battle inside Kate. There was part of her that wanted to celebrate, to be glad not to have to deal with a Career that would have killed all of them if she'd had half the chance.

But the part of her that saw the _haunted _look on Clint's face won out. After that moment's hesitation, she sprang forward and pulled Clint to his feet so she could give him a proper hug.

He tensed for a moment, all battle-ready, like he thought she was attacking him. Maybe he thought she was going to try to kill him before he could kill her — Kate couldn't be sure, because, after all, he'd been hanging out with Careers this whole time, and they'd probably pull something like that. No _way _were they the hugging type.

But then, once he realized she was hugging him, he just…stopped.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his shoulder as she pulled her arms tighter around him.

He just kind of stood there, like he wasn't sure what to do with a hug. He did that awkward kind of pat that people do when they haven't been properly hugged before, and Kate took that as her cue to let go.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither able to find words.

Then, at last, Clint gave her a forced sort of smile and pointed to her binoculars. "Think I could borrow those? They look pretty amazing."

She felt a grin light up her face as she slipped the binoculars off and handed them to him. He gave a low whistle and flicked through the various knobs and dials, then smiled back up at her — a real, excited smile this time, and not whatever that last one had been.

"Let's find you a good perch. You get high enough, and you can see everything around here," Kate said.

Clint broke into a full grin.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**


	75. Chapter 74: Healing Factor

**(A/N) Hiya all, we're back with another update, this time featuring Bruce Banner, written as always by the wonderful Miran Anders. Updates might be a little slow this week – have an essay due Friday, so that'll be taking top priority, but I'll do my best. In any case, you guys have a great one here waiting for you right now.**

**A big thanks, as always, to RTfics, I-OfTheHawk and Idalove2read for their reviews. RTfics will be happy to note that we've just updated Phase Two: Betrayal, and that update finally took us over the 2,000,000 words uploaded mark. Here's to many, many more in the future.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Four – Healing Factor**

**Day Six**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"The mystery of human existence_

_lies not in just staying alive,_

_but in finding_

_something to live for."_

– Fyodor Dostoyevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_

* * *

Bruce watched as Logan's hands – complete with handmade claws – danced with surprising delicacy across Tony's battered and bloody chest, pulling off shreds of fabric as he felt for metal and broken ribs. A silvery shard that was poking out near his sternum was removed fairly easily; two others more superficially embedded in his left pectoral slid out with a lot of blood but little trouble as well. Then, the lumberjack stopped and looked up at Banner.

"Any idea how to get the deep stuff out without lettin' him bleed to death?"

"How much is there?"

"No tellin'. But from the look of this…" He gestured toward Tony's chest with a bloody hand. "Enough."

Bruce knelt at Tony's side. "Okay. Let's see what we have." He pulled out his bottle of boiled water and rinsed over the mess, and Logan poured some disinfectant from his kit over the wounds before standing up. The improved view wasn't very pleasant.

Brunhilde looked away, and Steve let out a low whistle. "That looks bad."

Parts of the young man's chest looked like nothing more than chopped meat, especially in the centre, where he took the brunt of the blast. Glimpses of rib showed where he had actually been carved to the bone. Beyond that, it wasn't as bad – although in this case, that meant no worse than the rest of them, who were all somewhat battered. Logan growled, his arms crossed over his chest.

"He's breathin' 'em in."

"What's that?" Steve turned to frown at the lumberjack. "What do you mean?"

"His breathing. The shrapnel's working its way deeper in every time his muscles move. Gonna cut into something important sooner or later. From the looks of it…sooner."

Bruce looked up from their patient and shook his head. "Worse than that."

"What do you mean?" Steve's voice was tinted with concern and a little disbelief. "Worse than cutting into his heart?"

"They don't have to go that far. The nerves around the heart, the major vessels. Could cause all kinds of problems. And if any of the small pieces cut in anywhere, they'd just slowly start leaking blood into the pericardium. Eventually, it'd harden up, probably infect, not to mention the pain. He'd be a dead man walking…"

Steve blinked at him. "You studying medicine, Banner?"

"No." Bruce blew out a deep breath, running a hand across his jaw as he considered their options. "But I read a lot of biology textbooks while I was helping Sloan study. It was relaxing."

Steve's blue eyes flashed from Logan to Brunhilde. Logan shook his head, and the Career woman raised her eyebrows. "Relaxing?"

"The human body. It's fascinating." Bruce said absently as he stared at Tony's chest. "The balances, the way everything clicks into place…the way a feeling, even a _thought_, can cause electro-chemical changes…just amazing. We're affected by everything."

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I actually started some research experiments on radiation and possible human mutations – you know, because of the radiation fields in the badlands. In fact, Cho and I were just–"

Suddenly, he sprang to his feet.

"What?" Logan's startled reaction sounded almost angry as he spun to look behind himself. "You see something?"

"No. But I think I know what I need to keep him alive." Bruce looked around almost frantically. "I need…wire. A magnet. Batteries! Damn. I need a super battery, there's the problem. I need – Hey!" he called out in sudden resolve.

He stepped a few feet away from where Stark lay and yelled up into the sky. "Cho! I need one of your batteries! I'm sure the Capitol has acquired – has improved on your ideas by now. I'm thinking the second model, the round flat, standard hookups, non-reactive baseplate…and copper wire. An iron core. Something to match the battery size. Cho, you know what I'm thinking, tell them! Just…"

Bruce took a breath as he realized that while Cho may want to help, it was only the Capitol sponsors that could actually make this happen. His heart pounded in his ears as he struggled to control his anger. When he spoke again, his voice went quiet, becoming a breathy whisper. "Just…please. Just give me a chance to make this work…"

For a full minute, he stood, staring up into the sky. The silence was deafening.

Steve finally spoke up. "Even if they send something…it won't happen right away."

"We may not have that long."

The tall blond let out a deep breath and spoke quietly. "Look, Bruce…is it worth waiting?"

Bruce looked at him, confused. "Worth what?"

Steve's tone was kind but practical. "He looks bad. You can see that. If all we do is keep him alive for a few hours –"

"No." Bruce tightened his jaw, trying to control his reaction. "No. I can't just let someone die. Not if there's a chance…" He rubbed his palms against his face, his eyes, speaking quietly into his hands. "I can't."

Logan glowered at the buildings nearby, squinting against the early morning sun. "Stayin' out in the open ain't gonna help our chances, or his. Let's find some shelter, get him inside."

Steve nodded. "Good point." He appeared to look at their group with new eyes, appraising their strengths before he spoke again. "Logan, how about you and –" He looked questioningly at the Career girl before going on. She exhaled in resignation.

"Call me Brunhilde."

"Okay, great. Logan, Brunhilde, you go and scout around for someplace that makes sense. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Banner while he keeps an eye on Stark."

Logan grunted approval, nodding as he checked the straps on his claws. "Good plan, Cap. C'mon, sweetheart."

She opened her mouth to protest but shook her head and shut it once more. Reluctantly, she headed down the street with Logan.

They had only been out of sight for a few minutes when Bruce squinted upwards from where he knelt at Tony's side. "Look!"

A small silver parachute slipped through the air, landing about a block from them. Bruce glanced at Steve, who nodded and quickly jogged toward it. He came back, tearing the package open as he drew closer.

"What did we get?"

Steve shook his head as he handed over the contents of the package. "Looks like some kind of medicine."

"It's a start." Bruce took the proffered containers and squinted at them. Then, he fumbled through his pockets, mumbling, before remembering his knapsack and digging through it. When he finally found his glasses, happily unbroken, he wiped them on his shirt and looked at the containers once more.

"What are they?"

"This looks like something to help his healing." He mumbled quietly in Latin as he read. "I'm guessing some kind of super steroid. Probably with an equally super antibiotic. And oh, look, it's experimental. Great."

Flipping the other container in his hand, he said, "This one is supposed help the wounds actually skin over, close up. And … hopefully take care of some of the pain."

He looked up. "Still need the other stuff, though, to keep out the shrapnel. Cho would know what I need. They should talk to him."

Steve shook his head and looked off into the distance. "You think they will?"

Bruce stared at the man still lying unconscious on the ground and started to open containers. "Frankly, I'm just hoping they think it's a great story."

* * *

Logan and Brunhilde moved down a side street with silent caution. Surprisingly, their actions were quite similar, enhanced by their matching rust and grey clothing.

They both looked around carefully as they walked, but they showed an economy of movement and a certain stealthy grace. Abruptly, a noise up ahead made them both freeze. Logan, who was in the lead, turned and held up a hand, pointing. Brunhilde looked around, picked up a rock, and hefted it experimentally before looking back with a nod.

The noise returned and, for a few beats, became more regular. A metallic sound, with a regularity that was almost like footsteps on rock. Metal footsteps. Their eyes met – the girl's wide with the memory of battle, while Logan's expression hardened with grim determination, his fists clenched. He stepped to the corner, flattened against the remains of a brick wall, and slowly edged forward.

His eyes barely cleared the corner, but he took in the street at a glance. Nothing. Frowning, he took his time studying the street again before he looked back to Brunhilde and shrugged. They carefully walked around the corner and saw just another deserted street.

"What the hell–"

An abrupt breeze swept Brunhilde's hair back, and the noise clanked again, causing them both to put their backs to the building, ready for a fight. This time, however, the sound came from above.

They both looked up and saw the remains of a hanging sign, one broken chain letting it swing into the building it hung from. While the paint had worn off long ago, the sign appeared to be shaped like a giant shoe. Brunhilde gave a frustrated growl and lifted the rock in her hand, ready to throw at the offending metal – but Logan stopped her.

"Leave it. It'll scare people off if this place is any good."

Logan opened the shop door by using the simple technique of kicking out the wood around the lock. They looked around, but it was dark, the windows having been boarded up long ago.

"Pretty dark in here."

"Dark's fine. No light'll get out, either." He walked back to the open door. "Let's get the rest." Brunhilde nodded wearily and tried to step past him, but he blocked her way. "First, I got a question or two."

She took a step back, frowning. "What?"

"We all know yer a Career, honey. You plannin' to let your little buddies know where we're holed up?"

Brunhilde looked at him darkly. "No."

"Why's that? Have a fallin' out with someone? You not one of them anymore?"

She seemed to bristle at the suggestion and answered with a scowl. "That's none of your business. Just know that you and the others helped me fight that metal creature, and I owe you a debt of honour."

Logan snorted what might have been a laugh. "Helped _you_? Whatever lets you sleep at night –"

"I won't tell anyone of this place. Know _that_, Howlett, and leave it alone." She took a deep breath and spoke in an angry, hissed whisper, daring him to take it farther. "You have my _word_."

They stared at each other for the space of several breaths. Then, Logan stepped closer to her, their faces only inches apart as his expression hardened. "Better not be lyin' to me, sweetheart. Got no mercy for liars." With a silent snarl, he turned and led the way back to where the others were waiting.

* * *

Bruce took a deep breath and held it before he began to spray the antibiotic steroid over Stark's chest. It settled in a thin layer of foam that melted against the teen's body heat quickly. Rereading the instructions, Bruce waited for what he assumed was about five minutes and repeated the application.

"Is that going to seal it off?" Steve was keeping his distance, as Bruce had warned.

"No, this should help the healing … but it needs … well, it needs a Band-Aid."

Steve shook his head. "That'd have to be a big Band-Aid."

"Yeah." The other container was a second cylinder half the size of his palm. Bruce turned it over and started to read. "It says to position this over the wound. How the –" He fumbled it open, frowning.

"What… oh." He read further, his eyebrows lifting. "Wow."

Turning the container upside down, four smaller cylinders fell out into his hand. Keeping one, he slipped the others back and closed the top. Then he carefully peeled the outer wrapper from the small cylinder and stared at it. "Hey, Steve. Can you put a little water on this? Just a little."

Rogers grabbed the water bottle and drizzled a few drops onto Bruce's hand. The cylinder immediately began to unroll, expanding on contact with the moisture into a long rectangle. Banner shifted his grasp to the long corners and gave it a shake.

It billowed out like silk chiffon, now a gossamer film half a meter square. Bruce laughed, and Steve stared. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"

"Evidently, it's a Band-Aid. A big one." With a grin, Bruce turned carefully and waited for the breeze to die down before positioning it gently on Tony's chest. It appeared to react with the healing spray and form a second skin, albeit a slightly transparent one. He gently smoothed the edges down, pulling off the extra bits that hadn't reacted with any spray easily. "This stuff is amazing. Let's hope it's enough." He was still smoothing when a voice spoke behind them.

"You get somethin'?"

Steve turned with a start, reaching for his shield. Logan and Brunhilde had rejoined them, moving so quietly that they didn't hear. Logan held up a hand.

"Hey. Settle down, Cap."

"Sorry. I didn't hear you coming."

Logan nodded towards Stark. "What's that about?"

Bruce looked up, his brown eyes shining happily for the first time all day. "It's a Band-Aid." Tony moved slightly, making a small sound, and the serious expression returned to Bruce's face. "I hope they send the parts soon." Shaking his head, he looked up at their returned colleagues. "Any luck on your end?"

Brunhilde remained silent, staring at Stark uneasily, while Logan nodded. "I think so." He looked up, gauging the time. It wasn't even noon. "Can we move 'im?"

Bruce looked back at Tony and tilted his head. "I don't see how it can make him worse. Let's go." He gathered the medicines and put them in his knapsack, shoving the silver parachute in as an afterthought. Standing, he said, "His tank top is shot, but we should keep the jacket wrapped around him…anyone have any ideas on how to transport–" and stopped, staring. Logan had scooped Tony up in his arms as if he were a child.

Their eyes met. Logan shrugged.

"It's not far."

* * *

The clanking of the sign startled Bruce and Steve as well, but they agreed the building looked pretty stable. The boarded-up windows and intact structure indicated to Bruce that this area had been abandoned early in the war. The owners probably thought that someday they would be able to come back.

Bruce sighed as he stood near the door, looking into the dark room. "I suppose we should get a fire going for light, anyway. Unless this works." He flicked the wall switch irritably and then gasped.

The lights went on.

"Whoa. You've got to be kidding."

Steve and Brunhilde looked startled, but Logan used the opportunity to lay Tony on a counter and look around the room. There were cabinets, the counter with an ancient cash register, and a lot of dust. Bruce pointed behind them. "Another door?"

Steve was closest and turned the knob as he pushed with his shoulder. It opened with a pained creak. He was squinting into the darkness when Logan reached past him and flicked on the light switch. Exasperated, Steve gave him a glare before stepping into the room.

"Looks like living quarters. There's a bed–" Bruce heard a squeaking of springs before Steve continued. "Kind of dusty, but seems solid enough. Should we bring him in here?"

"Sounds ideal."

They spent the next half hour getting settled in their new hideout.

Bruce made sure the bedding was shaken outside before they were ready to bring Tony into the back room. Steve put down one of the boxes he had been moving and stepped toward the counter where Tony lay. Logan stopped him.

"I got it."

"No, I can move him. You've done enough. It's not a problem."

"Look, Cap, I moved 'im this far, I can bring 'im to –"

"I'm just saying, I can do it."

"By the gods." Brunhilde had stepped in between them and scooped Tony up with surprising ease. "You two keep this little pissing contest going while I do it." As she picked Tony up, Logan and Steve shared a glance, and Logan let out a half-hearted chuckle.

"I guess the Valkyrie's got 'im," Logan said with a smirk.

She moved into the bedroom and set their patient down carefully, a scowl on her face. Logan and Steve watched her from the main room, arms crossed, with a certain amount of shared suspicion. Bruce turned from where he was unpacking his kit and caught their expressions with a frown. "Problem?"

Neither of the young men answered him directly. Logan moved toward the door with the hint of a smirk. "Gonna go hunt. "

Steve shook his head. "Alone? Bad idea." He was met with a snarl.

"Hey, Stark might need it, but I sure as hell don't need you to hold my hand or carry me–"

"Guys." Bruce stared at them and then glanced at the unconscious form on the bed. His voice was quiet but firm. "Keep it down. Go find some dinner. I'll make sure we have a fire to cook with. Brun'll help me." He glanced at Brunhilde as he spoke, and she nodded with vague resignation. The men looked at each other, all animosity apparently forgotten as they worried about leaving Bruce alone with a Career.

"You sure, Banner?" Steve was watching the Career girl carefully as she dismantled a broken showcase for firewood.

Bruce followed his glance, then looked back with a serious cast to his dark eyes. "It'll be fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just…be quick, I'm starving. I'm hoping that Tony will come around soon… And if I have something to make some broth with, that would be great." He stared at his patient thoughtfully, the concern clear on his face. "Keep your eyes open for any parachutes."

Steve took a step closer to him and spoke quietly. "You think he's going to make it?"

Bruce took off his glasses and turned them in his hands. "I don't know. If they don't send something…if he doesn't come around in the next couple hours…" He hurriedly put his glasses back on. "Find a parachute, okay?"

The two left, and Bruce exhaled. "Great." He set up a chair near the bed and put the medicines on a small table. "At least we'll eat tonight."

"What does that mean?" The Career woman stared at him curiously.

"It means," he said, checking Tony's pulse before he organized the medications, "that if anyone wants to kill something tonight, it's one of those guys."

The woman shook her head disparagingly. "If they can work together."

Bruce looked at her. "They can. I've seen it." She shrugged, and he dropped his head to one shoulder casually. "So…is that why you're not with the other Careers? They can't work together?"

Brunhilde gave him a frosty glare. "None of your business, Banner. My family…my _family_ belongs in that group, and I won't hear anything spoken against them."

"Fine, fine…but that doesn't change the fact that you're here. Something must have –"

"Enough!" she hissed. "All you need to know is that I have a debt of honour here." She stood and motioned at Tony, so still and pale on the bed. "Once Stark is…once his fate is decided…I'm leaving. But for this time, I will do nothing against you. I expect you'll return the honour." Bruce stared, and she looked away uncomfortably. "I'm going to find water. If the power is on in this area, perhaps there's water as well."

Bruce sat back in his chair. He was observing her as if she were a science experiment that he didn't have much confidence in. All he said, however, was "Okay."

For a few minutes after the woman left, it was silent. Bruce sat in the quiet, rereading the instructions on the skin replacement packaging and wondering how long it had been since he first put the film on Tony's chest. According to the package, it was supposed to be removed and replaced every eight hours. Not having a watch, he stood and walked over to the door, looking up at the sky.

It was past noon, and the city was as warm as it was going to get. Birds were singing in the urban jungle, and Bruce listened for a few minutes, breathing in the relatively fresh air and trying to clear his mind of the screaming pulse of blood and death that he imagined was waiting around every corner.

Then he looked again, gauging the height of the sun from the horizon, and estimated how long ago they had fought the killer robot. Nodding vaguely as he squinted at the sky, he guessed it had been at least eight hours. He sighed out a deep breath. _At least I have something constructive to focus on._

"All right. Let's see what's next."

He went back inside and walked into the back room. Leaning over, he rested his palm on Tony's forehead. _Still pretty warm. Still really pale. He needs water if he's going to make more blood._

According to the instructions, the bandage film was supposed to peel off wherever it hadn't healed yet. Bruce washed his hands as best he could, then began to peel the edges. It came off like a huge sheet of sunburned skin. "Nothing? Really?" He peered closely at the wound and blinked.

It hadn't healed over, but the flesh was already looking smoother. There were no bare spots of bone anymore, and while it still looked like fresh meat, there was no bleeding. Bruce took out the steroid antibiotic spray and misted the boy's chest lightly, waiting for it to soak in before applying a second coat. The skin took on a healthier hue even as he waited. _Damn. This stuff works fast. _Once the second layer dried, he dampened and shook out the second sheet of replacement skin. As he was laying it in place, Tony moaned softly.

"Easy, Tony."

The wounded boy's eyes fluttered open, squinting nearly shut again instantly. His voice was unintelligible as he mumbled.

There was a pause while Bruce counted to himself, gauging how poorly Tony was breathing. "God, you're a mess. Hang on." Bruce grabbed his water bottle and dribbled some of the liquid into Tony's mouth.

The boy managed to swallow, although he winced as a cough suddenly wracked his chest and cried out in pain. Within a minute, he had lapsed completely into unconsciousness once more.

_Damn it._

Bruce watched for a few minutes, two fingers resting on Tony's neck as he worried that some bit of shrapnel might have abruptly done the work of a driven tribute. When the boy's pulse appeared to be stable, Bruce rubbed his eyes and walked back to the outer door. He looked up at the sky.

"Come on, people. I really, really need those–" He stopped before he had a chance to finish the sentence. Something was moving out there.

The figures walking down a tree-shadowed side street turned into Logan and Steve. The lumberjack was carrying a couple rabbits, and Steve was carrying a box. As they got closer, Bruce broke into a grin and trotted out to meet them. The box was draped in a silver parachute.

"Mail call, Banner."

Bruce grinned. "It's about time. Did you open it?"

"I figured you would know better than me what to do with it. We found it on the way back, about two blocks away."

"Great." He looked over at Logan and the field-dressed rabbits he was holding. "Nice catch."

"Yeah, not bad. How's Stark?"

"Hard to tell." Bruce shook his head as they walked back to their hideout together. "Stable, I guess. I wish I knew if stable was a good thing."

Steve nodded at him and then looked up with a start. Brunhilde was walking toward them, two buckets in her hands.

"You found water?"

"I found water. And buckets." She set them down near the door. "Almost too easy."

They all exchanged uneasy looks. Finally, Bruce said, "Look, maybe us taking out that robot was just good television. Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth." A sudden breeze made the sign clank against the building, and they all stared at it.

Logan broke the silence. "I'll get these skinned." He walked away from their hideout and found a clear space to work. "Shouldn't take long. Make sure the fire's ready."

"What about ventilation?"

Logan held up one clawed fist. "I'll put some holes in the ceiling when I get in."

Steve chuckled softly. "How convenient."

The rest of them went inside, and Bruce put the box on the counter while he pulled out his pocketknife. He slit the seal with exceeding care, then smiled broadly. "Yes!"

Inside was more packing material, which opened to reveal a three-inch iron ring and a spool of copper wire. Wrapped _most_ carefully was one of Amadeus Cho's batteries, as big around as a hockey puck but half as thick. It was constructed of a pearlescent white material, slightly translucent. Bruce admired it briefly, then unfolded an electrical schematic and looked it over, smiling when he recognized the familiar scrawled handwriting.

_The bacteria work best with some light hitting the case. The translucence of the cover should keep them going._

Along one edge of the circuit diagram was a note that had nothing to do with electronics.

_Hang in there, Ruse. -AC_

He swallowed hard and flipped the paper over. On the back was simply a list of the battery specs.

"Everything you need?"

Bruce blinked several times at the note, flipping it to look at both sides again. He didn't expect the sudden emotional reaction and struggled to hold back his feelings. Amadeus Cho, he abruptly admitted to himself, was the closest thing he had to a family. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I, ah…I think I'll need this counter to work on.…"

For the next three hours, he carefully constructed his battery-powered electromagnet. First, he checked over the flat iron ring and began wrapping it with copper wire. He took his time, making sure the wrapping was tight and close. Steve watched over his shoulder.

"Anything we can do?"

"Yeah…" Bruce replied, still carefully wrapping. It was awkward to pull the spool through the ring and was getting progressively more awkward as the wrappings thickened. "Look around and see if there's any leather strips, some scraps. If this was a shoe repair shop, there might be some pieces I can use. And…" He paused as he snugged up a series of loops. "If there's any heavy duty thread, that would be great. Otherwise, I'll have to save some wire back."

Steve looked at him blankly but turned to look through the cabinets.

Logan came in with the two rabbit carcasses. "Who's cooking?"

Bruce looked up. "Well, I would, but–"

"Don't be ridiculous. I made the fire, I'll prepare them." Brunhilde took the meat from Logan brusquely. He frowned at her, ready to make a comment, but Bruce spoke up again.

"Logan, can you sit with Tony while I'm working? I really don't want to leave him alone…try to get a little water into him, okay?"

The lumberjack shrugged. "Got it."

The Career woman looked over at them. "Do you want anything in particular?"

Bruce stopped wrapping for a moment and looked thoughtful. "Do you know how to make bone broth? I've got a leather cauldron in my pack and probably a few very beaten up herbs…"

She frowned, but a surprisingly gentle look crossed her features. "I know how. And I saw some wild onion and I think a few lilies when I was getting water. I'll get the water boiling and go find them."

"Great. That's…great. Just remember that some of the lilies are actually poisonous, and the ones–"

She held up a hand, the usual annoyance returning to her face. "I had the training as well as you, Banner."

With a shrug, Bruce tuned out of the group and went back to wrapping the copper wire. There was a way to save a life now, and he was determined. He worked with methodical grace, only occasionally stopping to look around for a bit or piece from the shop to make something work. The die punch and grommet setter, for example, or the heavy leather shears and the leather hide that Steve quietly put on the counter.

The leather that Steve found couldn't have been from the original store. It was soft, supple, not at all dried out. Considering that it had been loose in a cabinet, Bruce knew that it must have been planted. He couldn't care less.

For a time, he left off working on the magnet and was cutting leather, punching holes and setting grommets. In a few places, he had to stitch with a leather awl, especially doing the whipped seam to enclose the battery and wrapped iron.

Using several strips of leather and a few more well-placed grommets, Bruce fashioned a harness to fit Tony's chest. It was made to cross over his shoulders, a round leather case holding the newly-fashioned electromagnet centred just above his sternum.

Bruce borrowed Steve to try it on for sizing. The blond stood with his arms out as Bruce carefully adjusted the placement of the straps.

"You think it'll work?"

"It should." For the first time in hours, Bruce looked worried. "I hope so, anyway." He slipped the battery and magnet out of its pouch, and they both stared at it. Even with the electric lights, it was beginning to get darker in the room, and Steve's eyes widened.

"What the hell? Is that … glowing?"

"Wow. This is fascinating…" Bruce held the battery and frowned. It was illuminated in a beautiful shade of electric blue. "It must be the bacteria. Cho's batteries run on bacteria … this never happened in his experiments…they must only be bioluminescent in a magnetic field! I wonder what the physical properties are…" Bruce shook his head. "God, I hope Cho knows."

Steve glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. "Probably does now."

Bruce looked at him, and a grin blossomed on his face as well. "Yeah, right. Hey, I'm going to punch a few holes in the leather – he said the bacteria works better with some light getting to the case."

He took the grommet punch and made regularly spaced holes in the circle. Slipping the battery back in, it glowed in a circular pattern. Bruce looked at it approvingly and gave Steve half a grin as he held it up. "I hope Tony doesn't mind glowing."

"Stark? Seriously?" The two laughed quietly, and Bruce went back to work.

A minute later, Logan walked out of the back room, looking concerned. Bruce caught his look and frowned.

"Is he okay?"

"Fevered. He had a little water. Mighta been delirious for a while there."

"Great. I'll have to change the bandage again. I'll fit this on him…and then, hopefully, we'll know if it's going to work…"

It took Bruce almost an hour to finish up the stitching on the leather straps. The others left him alone, although Steve did make him stop to eat some of the rabbit. He downed it quickly, thanked Brunhilde, and went back to work.

Finally, Bruce took the harness into the back room and sat down for a minute in the chair next to the bed. He hadn't realized how tired he was until that moment, when it came down to this project possibly working. It had actually felt so good to have something to focus on, he wasn't sure what he would do once it was finished. Taking a deep breath, he took off the old sheet of bandage and was relieved to see that a good part of it had fused into Tony's body. "Wow. This is amazing."

The skin was healing quickly now, and while the old blanket under Tony was damp with sweat, it seemed that his fever was breaking. Bruce carefully sprayed the medication twice more and laid on the new bandaging.

He was startled by a rasping voice.

"How bad is it?"

Bruce looked at Tony's face, startled. The boy's eyes had opened, halfway, and he actually sounded alive. "It's not good. But I think it's getting better. You in a lot of pain?"

There was half a shrug. "Thirsty."

Banner grabbed the water bottle and ran a little into Tony's mouth. He quickly put a hand behind the boy's neck when Tony tried to sit up.

"Don't strain. And drink carefully. Last thing I need is you coughing again."

Tony's dark eyes snapped up to Bruce's face. Still quiet, he growled, "Last thing _you_ need?"

"Someone's got to be responsible here."

"Right," Tony croaked, his eyes closing once more. A moment passed. "Are those actually electric lights on the wall, or am I seeing things?"

Bruce couldn't help but grin. "Let's assume for the moment that you're relatively sane. We're in some kind of shop, and evidently, we have power."

"Great." The dark eyes widened once more. "And the other guys? Howlett was in here before, right? Him and Steve…are they…that robot…"

Bruce put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "We're all okay. You got the worst of it. Steve and Logan are resting, and Brunhilde's been cooking while she glares at everyone."

Tony nodded very slightly. He turned his eyes toward Bruce. "So…she's still with us?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"No idea. But she says she's not going to kill anyone. At least for now."

"Well. That's…reassuring." Tony blinked once or twice at his fellow scientist. "So…you the big kahuna now?"

"The what?"

"The big kahuna. In charge. Fearless leader."

Bruce chuckled softly. "I don't know that we have a leader. I'm a medium-sized kahuna at best."

"If you say so."

"I do." Reaching for the harness on the table, Bruce gave him an appraising look. "You think you can sit up for a minute?"

"Maybe. What's in it for me?"

"This." Bruce held up the harness. Tony frowned.

"Bondage? Seriously? And what is that, radioactive?"

"No, it's an electromagnet. The battery has a glow. You've got shrapnel in your chest; we don't exactly have a surgical suite out here to remove it."

Tony's dark eyes stared off at the wall. "So I'm dead?"

"That's what I'm trying to avoid. The magnet should keep any pieces away from your heart. Until you can get it fixed right." Bruce helped get Tony into a sitting position and slipped the hoodie down his arms. Then he fastened the harness around his chest, tightening the straps to position the magnet exactly. He pulled the hoodie up to his shoulders and helped Tony carefully lie down once more. "Does that hurt?"

"It's not great. But it's not too bad." He glanced down at his chest and shook his head. "And so stylish. So blue."

"I hear it's the new orange."

Tony grinned and nearly laughed. "Right."

Bruce found himself feeling incredibly relieved. "Listen, we made some broth. You're going to try to eat."

"Am I?"

"Yeah." Bruce stood a bit unsteadily and headed for the door. "I'll go get it."

"Bruce."

Banner stopped, his hand on the doorframe. "What?"

"Thank you."

"Hey, anyone would–"

"First of all, no, anyone would not. Secondly, anyone would _not even know how._" Tony took a strained breath. "Thanks for not giving up on me." Their eyes met for a moment before Tony blinked and stared up at the ceiling. "I hope I can pay it back."

"Nothing to pay back, Tony–"

"Yes, there is." The angry words snapped out more quickly than either of them expected. "But this one, maybe I can repay."

It was quiet for bit before Bruce spoke softly.

"Just…just stay alive, okay? Make me and Cho look good."

Tony actually chuckled, his mood broken. "I'll do my best."

With a nod, Bruce headed out to the main room of the store. The rest of the group looked at him as he began to clean up his workspace. Steve finally asked, "How does it look?"

Bruce glanced up at them, almost as if he'd forgotten they were there. "I think it's going to work. I hope. He seems to be doing a lot better." Blinking hard, he looked over at Brunhilde. "I'm going to give him some broth –"

Steve stood up. "No, you're not. You're going to get some rest. I'll feed him."

Bruce tried to protest but realized how pointless it was. He was barely able to keep his eyes open. Nodding thanks to Steve, he put down the scraps he had been holding. "Okay. I'm just going to get a breath of air." He stepped out the front door and leaned against the storefront.

It was dusk now, and the city was glowing with a haunting, devastated beauty. A haze softened the broken buildings, and the setting sun washed the street with gold and red. Trees rustled in the breeze, whispering green secrets. The sky itself was edging toward purple, with surreal shades of fuchsia and orange in the clouds. Bruce took a deep breath, appreciating the moment.

He had spent the day trying to save a life. He really, really hoped that it meant something.

The soft noise he heard didn't really surprise him. Brunhilde was suddenly next to him, staring out into the street. He exhaled.

"What's up, Brun?"

"I'm leaving." She turned and looked at him briefly. "You are an honourable man, Bruce Banner. Goodbye."

"You sure?"

She turned back and frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "You're welcome to stay with us."

For a long moment, she stared at him. Then, she shook her head and walked away.

Bruce watched as she stepped away from the store, chose a direction, and melted into the twilight.

"Okay, then. Goodbye."

Logan stepped silently out of the doorway, watching where she had gone. "Think she'll keep quiet?"

Bruce looked thoughtful. "Yeah. I think she has to. For herself." Then he yawned. They walked back into the shop, and Bruce found a quiet spot behind the counter.

"Hey, Banner?"

He opened his barely-closing eyes and looked up at Logan. "What?"

"Did Stark seem okay when you talked to him?"

"Sorta fevered." Bruce yawned again. "Think he's gonna be okay. Don't know if he's got trauma or something. I'm not that kind of doctor." He curled onto his side, and his eyes closed. "Let me know if anyone needs…anything..."

The lumberjack watched him thoughtfully. "Sure."

Steve came out of the back room and shook his head. "Looks like Stark is doing okay. He actually drank all the soup." Then he looked over at where Bruce was curled on the floor. "Banner…is really pretty amazing."

Logan crossed his arms on his chest. "I got first watch. You get some sleep, eh?" As he spoke, he moved out the front door, closing it lightly behind him.

* * *

A few hours had passed when Logan came back in and tapped Steve, who was awake instantly. "Time?" Steve asked.

"Guessin' four by the moon. Sunup should be three hours."

Bruce's voice sounded sleepily from behind the counter. "Anything moving out there?"

Logan paused. "Not that I saw."

Steve stood up. "Right. Get some sleep. Both of you."

Logan stretched out and put one clawed forearm behind his head. "Already there."

Steve zipped his hoodie and stepped into the cool night air. Stretching a bit, he calculated the best route among the buildings and moved to check the perimeter.

* * *

In the shadows behind the counter, Bruce Banner shifted onto his back, pulling his knapsack under his head as a makeshift pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, where the dying embers of Brun's cooking fire reflected a soft, red light. If he concentrated hard, he could hear Logan's sturdy breathing – as solid in sleep as he was awake. And farther off, softer, was the quiet, blessedly even breathing of Tony Stark.

With nothing urgent to focus on, his mind fluttered through the situations of the last couple days. _The subway. Finding Tony. The robot. Finding…_a sigh escaped his lips. _Finding Sin._ He thought for a few minutes about his district partner, and his forehead furrowed. He had really admired her. The way she was able to channel her anger and not let it eat her up. _There's a lot I could have learned from her. I hope she's at peace… _

Taking a breath, he thought about how the project of Tony Stark had kept him going after Ultron had attacked them. _I couldn't save her, but figuring out how to keep Tony alive might actually have helped keep me alive, or at least sane for a while. I felt like I was doing something, like I was worth something, instead of just being another victim led to the slaughter in these Games…_

Somewhere, in the exhaustion of his mind, a spark of anger flared, building to a blaze without warning.

_Games. How is this a game? Why are we dying, killing, for their pleasure? How can this be happening?_

He tried to calm himself, but for a few moments, all he saw was the face of a young girl from his district. One with fiery red hair, a sharp tongue, and fierce determination.

Blinking in the dark, Bruce shook his head, wiped his eyes, and tried to sleep. His anger, however, remained kindled in the dark, disturbing his rest and settling deeply into his bones.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe**


	76. Chapter 75: Are We The Only Ones Left?

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with another update, though we may not have another one until this weekend – have an essay due on Friday, and have to submit my latest dissertation draft then too. However, we've got a nice little update for you here, as we move on from Bruce and go to Kurt, written as ever by the marvellous Ophelia. **

**A big thanks to GeekyComicBookGuy, I-OfTheHawk, sailorraven34 and VengefulVixens for their reviews. As always, we appreciate hearing from you, and we promise that we're taking it all on-board.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Five **_—_** Are We The Only Ones Left?**

**Day Six**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Claire**

* * *

"_Human spirit is the ability to face the uncertainty of the future with curiosity and optimism. It is the belief that problems can be solved, differences resolved. It is a type of confidence. And it is fragile. It can be blackened by fear and superstition."_

– Bernard Beckett

* * *

The morning brought clear skies, but the weather did nothing to lighten Kurt's mood. He could see his own exhaustion mirrored on Peter's face. The boy looked pale, and his features were drawn. Kurt realized the boy was probably more tired than he was, still recovering from being spider-napped.

Kurt glanced around, trying to find a spot that wasn't a puddle from the downpour. His eyes landed on a slab of concrete that had ended up in the middle of the road. The surface was dry from the bright morning sunlight. Kurt plopped down and let the backpack fall from his shoulders.

"Hey," he called hoarsely to Peter, who was poking around a pile of rubble on the other side of the road.

When Peter looked up, Kurt patted the slab. Peter came and dropped down next to him with a heavy sigh before flopping backwards to lay on the rough surface, his legs still hanging over the edge. Kurt shed his sweatshirt and tank top, laying them out on the rock to dry off. Peter did the same.

Kurt unzipped the backpack and dumped out the contents onto the warm concrete. The pack itself was soaked through, as were the boys and their clothes, but the contents of the backpack were relatively dry. The sleeping bag, it turned out, was fairly waterproof, or at least water resistant. Kurt was pleased to find Kate's half-full water bottle and a few cans of food that had never been unpacked at the bottom of the bag, and after some careful poking with his sword, the boys devoured the contents.

As they ate, Kurt glanced around at the street they occupied. It was totally unfamiliar.

* * *

_"How do you know which way they went?"_

_"…I don't." Kurt could barely see Peter standing five feet away from him. Unless Logan or Kate physically ran into them, they had next to no chance of finding them._

_"Come on!" Kurt yelled over the rushing water. "Let's get away from here." _

_He made sure Peter was following him, and they jogged off into the dark. They quickly lost all sense of direction in the deluge, and their search efforts were soon reduced to wandering blindly through the streets. _

_At one point, towards the morning hours, when the sky was beginning to lighten — just barely — they came up against a heavily forested area. They stopped, shared a look, and quickly chose a new direction, back towards the buildings._

* * *

"What now?" Peter asked after a long quiet period. Kurt decided to act on a nagging thought that had popped into his mind during the night.

"I think we should orient ourselves with the force field. I don't know how big the arena is, and it would honestly suck to go out because we ran into the field."

Peter nodded.

"I don't know where it is in the city, but I found it in one of the rivers on my first day," Kurt continued. He let out a short laugh. "I had the crazy notion of trying to cross the river, but the field shut that down pretty quickly."

"Any idea which way it is?" Peter asked.

Kurt tried to remember anything about the surrounding areas but came up short. "Not a clue."

"Well, I say we just start walking — a river shouldn't be too hard to find, even in this arena."

Kurt nodded, and they began gathering up their stuff. By now, the sun was higher, and their clothes were drying faster, a fact that both boys were grateful for. Once Kurt had slung the backpack over his shoulder, Peter looked up at the sun, shielding his eyes.

"I say we head west, at least for a few hours. Then the sun won't be in our eyes."

"Sounds good," Kurt agreed, and with that, the boys set off.

It did not take long for them to come to a river, and the pair trudged along the road that ran right alongside it. Several weathered, faded signs along the side of the road proclaimed, **"FDR Drive."**

"What's an FDR?" Kurt asked.

"I think it's like…it sounds familiar, but I'm not sure what it is. It might be a person." Peter spun in a slow circle, looking around the road. His gaze lit on a pedestal a quarter mile down the road, and he jogged towards it. Kurt followed him. Something had stood on the stone base at some point, but like so much of the city, whatever had rested on top was long gone. A plaque was still affixed to the pedestal, tarnished and dirtied with age. The boys bent down to read it. Much of the writing was obscured, but one of the large words at the top was still visible — **ROOSEVELT.**

"Oh!" said Peter, realization brightening his face. "FDR stands for Franklin…umm…Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He was a president in the pre-Marvel times, like over a hundred years ago. He helped restore the economy after a really rough time." The boys continued walking as Peter talked.

"That's so cool. That you know all this, you know? I mean, they taught some pre-Marvel history in school, but not a lot." Kurt skirted the edge of the road where a section of railing was missing. There was a several-meter drop down into the river, and while Kurt prided himself on his excellent balance, a swim in the river was not something he desired, and he wasn't taking any risks.

"Really?" Peter asked. "One of the reasons Flash used to pick on me is because I knew so much stuff. I was…um…kind of a nerd."

Kurt chuckled. "Well, now you're a nerd who's kicking butt in the Avenger Games, so you can rub that in Flash's face when you go home."

Kurt immediately wished he could reach out, grab the words, and shove them back down his throat. The jovial expression slid off Peter's face like water down a drain, and Kurt was unpleasantly reminded of the conversation he'd had with Kate when they'd first run into one another — she'd made the same joke, hadn't she? And now Kurt knew how she'd felt when he reacted the way he did.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "That was kind of a mood-killer, wasn't it?"

Pete gave short chuckle. "It's fine. At least you didn't say I was going to die."

Kurt was thankful that Peter hadn't taken it too seriously. The tension dissipating, the boys continued walking in amicable silence along the road. The sunlight glittered brightly on the water; the temperature was warm but not overly so, and had it not been for the general destruction and decay of their surroundings, it would have been just a pleasant stroll.

Of course, they were, in fact, smack-dab in the middle of the Avenger Games, and something was bound to happen sooner or later.

That something took the form of Peter freezing in the middle of the street, his eyes fixed on something far away. The road had curved away from the water, making room for a small patch of park space and a beach. Most of the grass was dead or covered in rubble, or both, but the beach had several large patches free of debris. Peter's gaze was fixed on one such patch, where Kurt could see a reddish-orange blob in the sand.

"Wh-what is that?" Kurt asked Peter, who, their little group had learned, had extraordinarily good eyesight.

"It's a tribute sweatshirt," replied Peter, plucking at the fabric of his own jacket. "S-same colour."

Kurt drew his sword. "Is someone, um, in the sweatshirt?"

Peter nodded.

"Well…either they're dead, and we should make sure that they are, or they aren't dead, and if it isn't Kate or Logan, then, um…we have to figure out what to do from there." Kurt was apprehensive about even saying that they would have to kill someone, and he was — well, not pleased, per se, but relieved at least — to see Peter looked like he felt the same way.

Kurt began a steady walk towards the beach. As he drew closer, he was able to distinguish the jacket from its owner's hair, which was almost the same colour.

"I think…it-it's Sin. The Six girl."

"Is she…you know…" Peter had stopped a few feet back.

Kurt crept closer, the wavering tip of his sword pointed at the girl's chest. Her clothes were soaked, and her ginger hair was damp and tangled across her face. Her head was twisted at an awkward angle, and her eyes were wide and unseeing.

"I think her neck is broken," said Kurt quietly. Peter came up behind him. Kurt knelt down by the girl's form and pressed two fingers to her neck. Her skin was cold under his touch. "Yeah. She's…she's gone, all right." Kurt clambered to his feet and brushed the sand from his jeans.

As he stepped back from Sin's body, there was a low humming sound from somewhere in the distance. It quickly grew louder and louder and, instinctively, Kurt and Peter retreated back across the road to the safety of an alleyway between two tall buildings. As they ducked into the gap, a shadow swept over them from above. Both boys looked up and watched a Capitol hovercraft glide over to stop above the beach. A long claw descended from the bottom of the craft and scooped up Sin's body, drawing the girl smoothly into the belly of the ship. The hovercraft shimmered and then vanished, and the hum faded as it flew away.

"Hey, Kurt?" Peter asked. His voice sounded dry and shaky.

"Yeah?"

"What if we're the only ones left? I mean, Sin's dead. We didn't hear any cannons this morning, so it must have happened during the night, and with the storm, we didn't hear her cannon, so what if something happened? Like, I mean, I'm gonna be honest, unless it was some freak accident, someone or something took out Sin, for crying out loud. What if there's some new breed of mutt running around, or crawling, or scuttling—"

"I got it, man," Kurt interrupted. He placed his hand on Peter's shoulder in a steadying action. Peter's voice was growing slightly shriller as he rambled.

"—and what if it took out everyone else? We could be the only ones still alive!"

"I know, I know. Let's not jump to conclusions, okay?" Privately, though, Kurt was beginning to feel the same way. If there had been something that could have gotten rid of Sin so easily, many of the others left didn't stand a chance. The Careers, maybe, and Logan, but Bruce, Ororo, Tony…

_Kate…_

What if Peter got too firmly stuck on them being the only ones? What if he decided to take Kurt out? Would he be able to do it?

And more importantly, would Kurt be able to defend himself against Peter? Not physically — the boy was wiry, but so was Kurt, and Kurt had a sword — but morally? Kurt didn't think he could kill one of the unfamiliar tributes, let alone someone he had rescued, bonded with, spent time with.

Would it be best to split up? Go their separate ways and let the Games run their course? Leave their fates to the Gamemakers? They'd probably get forced back together in the end for some kind of final showdown, or maybe they'd both be injured and the Gamemakers would just play a waiting game to see who died first.

Kurt shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts. "We should just keep moving," he said. "Are you doing okay?"

Peter nodded, then locked his hands behind him and stretched his arms upward. "Could use a nap, but otherwise, I'm good."

Kurt yawned as he nodded in agreement. "Same. What say you we go find a nice secluded building to crash in and catch up on sleep?"

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Never heard a better idea."

They found a street off the beaten path full of apartment buildings and picked one at random. They trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor and pushed on the doors until they found one that didn't fall off its hinges at the touch. Kurt wrestled the sleeping bag out of the pack and spread it on the dusty floor.

"I'll take first watch if you want to catch a few 'z's," he said, motioning to the bag.

"Thanks," said Peter, flopping down on the material, not even bothering to crawl inside. He closed his eyes, and Kurt could hear his breathing slow within a few minutes.

After a while, Kurt got up and began wandering around the apartment. He tried the faucets in the kitchen area and bathroom with absolutely no expectations and was not surprised to find only a few dirty drops plopping from the faucets. He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on little snarls.

"What I wouldn't give for that prep team now," he mumbled before actually smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. "It rained, Kurt. Great job."

Kurt was about to wander outside, then figured he should let Peter know where he was in case he awoke. He found a nice dusty patch on the floor not too far from Peter's face and wrote "Elf is outside" with his finger. Then, making sure his sword was securely in his belt, he crept outside.

Once he was back on the street, he began combing the surrounding alleys for something that would hold water. He found plenty of old dumpsters and containers filled with watery muck, but nothing drinkable.

As he wandered, a sudden, insistent voice sounded in the back of his mind.

_What if you just left? Just…walked away? You don't want to risk it…_

"Yes, I do!" he said out loud. "I'm not doing that to Peter. And he's not doing it to me."

_Are you suuuuure?_

_Yes! Positive!_ In frustration, Kurt drew his sword and, in one swift motion, hacked through a young sapling that had sprouted through a crack in a nearby wall. As the branches fell to the ground, Kurt took a step back, laughing slightly.

"I'm beating up a tree," he said to himself. "A tree." He sheathed his sword and leaned against a wall, bowing his head slightly.

"_Mein gott_, these Games are doing a number on you, Elf," he murmured. He whispered a small prayer before heading back into the building.

Peter was still asleep, so Kurt rubbed out the words in the dust and sat down against the wall. He turned his sword over in his hands, looking at the stripe of his reflection visible in the silver surface. The boy looking back at him surprised him. His hair stuck up in odd places, his eyes were ringed with pale lilac, and his face was slightly pinched and drawn all over. At least he wasn't too dirty anymore — the storm had taken care of that.

Kurt stayed in the room until Peter awoke an hour or so later and took his turn sleeping after that.

Surprisingly, he had no nightmares, but that strange dream with the shadowed woman came back for the first time in years. For the first time after waking, he didn't feel the sensation of loss that so often accompanied the dream. Perhaps it was because he was older, or maybe it just paled in comparison to his current situation.

Whatever the case, he didn't want to dwell on it now.

Peter was sitting against the wall, doodling in the dust that covered the floor. He had drawn a webbed pattern all around his spot, several feet in diameter. A dusty spider sat in one corner.

Kurt climbed to his feet and trotted over to sit next to Peter.

"Hey, can we talk?" he asked. Peter looked up.

"About what?" he replied, somewhat hesitantly.

Kurt took a small breath. "I was thinking, about what you said earlier, that we might be the only ones left. And I just want to put this out here now. If that does turn out to be the case, I don't…I can't…I don't want to have to kill you. Like, no matter what. I don't care what the Gamemakers throw at us; I just, I couldn't do that to you. Not after what we've all gone through together."

Peter visibly relaxed. "Thank god. I was thinking the same thing. Like, I didn't think I could do that, since you _saved_ my life, and also, you have a _really_ sharp sword that you're _really_ good at using."

Kurt snorted and giggled slightly. The giggles quickly turned into full-on laughter, and Peter joined in. Soon, the boys were on their sides, and the walls echoed with their laughter, fuelled partially by the comment, partially by the days of pent-up tension and fear.

As their mirth began to ebb, they returned to sitting positions, little giggles still escaping their mouths. Peter was hiccupping slightly.

"Okay, so, with that out of the way, what now?" Peter asked.

"I mean…keep moving, find food, water. Figure out what the situation is. We'll know tonight when the death recap plays. If we're the only ones left, then we go from there. But, if we were the only ones left, I feel like the Gamemakers would have…uh…let us know by now, don't you?"

"Yeah, probably. Plus, it's only been, what, six days?" Peter added. "There's no way they took out everyone after less than a week, right?"

"Yeah. I dunno what we were so worked up about earlier. Maybe it was just seeing Sin taken out like that that had us rattled."

"Mm-hm."

Kurt packed up the sleeping bag, and the boys began combing the other apartments for food and water.

They got lucky on the third floor and found a cabinet of preserved goods, a few of which they devoured, and put as much as would fit into the pack and their sweatshirt pockets.

They tried the faucets in all the rooms they visited, but the results were the same as the first one Kurt had tried, so they headed out into the afternoon sunlight.

After some walking, Peter spotted another fountain, filled with rainwater from the night before. He dug in the backpack and pulled out the water bottle, which they'd nearly drained at their meal that morning. Kurt took a sip, downing half of what was left, and offered the rest to Peter.

"Might as well not contaminate what we had. This stuff," he said, pointing at the fountain, "is pretty fresh from last night, so if we can get a fire going to boil it, we should be okay." He dipped the bottle in the water and filled it up, and they set off once more. They stuck close to buildings, ready to duck inside at the first sound of trouble, but ran into nothing.

They chose a building as the sun began to set and set up camp inside. Kurt scouted around, remembering his fire-starting technique from a few nights back, and came up with two chunks of metal that he managed to eke a couple sparks from. Soon, they had a small but hot blaze going, boiled the water, and dined on canned beans and fruit.

When the anthem began to play, both boys were on their feet and racing to the window like a horse from the gate. The sky lit up red, the Marvel seal blazed, and the first new face to glow in the sky belonged to Natasha Romanoff.

"No way," breathed Peter, and the words were barely past his lips when Thor's face joined the ranks.

"Wow," murmured Kurt. "Careers took a hit."

Sin followed soon after, her smirk magnified across the sky.

"Well, not everyone is—" Peter began. Kurt shushed him, his mouth dry. If Logan hadn't made it, his face would be next.

But there were no new faces, and when the sky at last went dark, Kurt and Peter let out identical whooshes of breath they'd been holding.

"They're still alive!" Peter said jubilantly, albeit quietly.

Kurt grinned. Logan and Kate were still okay. There was a chance they could find them. He felt like one of the many weights of the Games had been lifted from his shoulders. There were still a lot, but he was just a little lighter now. Taken hold of by a sudden burst of happiness, he took a few running steps, a skip, and bounced into a handspring and roundoff.

"Wow," said Peter in admiration. "Someone's happy."

"Incredibly," said Kurt. He grinned, then dusted his hands off on his knees. "You want first watch, or should I?"

"You go ahead and sleep," said Peter.

Kurt thanked him and stretched out on the sleeping bag. Filled with relief and elation, he drifted off within minutes.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe**.


	77. Chapter 76: Masters of Evil

**(A/N) Hey guys, as promised, we're back this weekend, with one essay down on my end as I approach the end of my final college year. Things are going to be pretty hectic on my end between now and April 1****st****, when my dissertation is due (sadly not an April Fool's joke), so don't worry if we miss an update – hopefully we won't, but no promises. However, we do have a chapter here right now, written by the wonderful Taila-tai, featuring everyone's favourite trickster – Loki!**

**A big thanks to sailorraven34 and our anonymous guest for their reviews.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Six – Masters of Evil**

**Morning, Day Seven**

**Loki Odinson of District Twelve**

**Written by Taila-tai**

* * *

_"I want you to back yourself into a corner. Give yourself no choice but to succeed. Let the consequences of failure become so dire and so unthinkable that you'll have no choice but to do whatever it takes to succeed."_

– Jordan Belfort

* * *

"_You were abandoned, suffering, left to die..."_

_The words rang in his head, bouncing from the walls of his skull sadistically. The man who spoke them looked as dead as he felt, eyes dull and hollow as he watched the younger male shift on both feet. Ebony hair was tugged and ripped at, green eyes falling to the floor._

_Loki wet his lips, beginning to miss the warmth of his brother. "District Twelve," he repeated dumbly, gathering enough courage to look back up into unfeeling eyes._

_Odin nodded._

"_I don't understand..." he spoke softly and slowly, trying to show only his confusion. If he let any other emotions out, he wouldn't be able to contain them once again._

_The older male let out a world weary sigh, hands flitting down to link together. "It was on the Victor's Tour," he admitted blandly, not seemingly invested in the conversation. "Frigga was wanting a child, and you were wanting a mother – finding you left me practically without choice."_

"_You didn't want me..?" Loki asked quietly, already closing down at the mention of his deceased mother. Her smile and bright eyes flashed through his mind, and it only took him a second to block it out. "How were you left without a choice? There is always a choice."_

_Odin made a noise, pushing to his feet. "Not when she saw you, there wasn't... Big green eyes, dark hair – she was smitten within seconds," he growled, finally showing emotion._

_Fury._

"_I didn't really have the heart to deny her, not when she was so intent on your dying form. When _they _allowed it to happen, I decided to as well," the older male continued. "Frigga was happy with you, and even my son appeared to adore you. You served your purpose."_

_Loki shook his head, feeling the strangely passive but biting words scream through his mind. "I am not Thor's brother?" he whispered._

"_No. You never were."_

_His lips began to tremble, the pale pink flesh gnawed on by sharp teeth. Wiser eyes watched him move back with stumbling steps, making no move to reach out to comfort or soothe the now frightened child. Loki only breathed harder, nostrils flaring as he pushed back through the door._

_The man had come to him in the middle of the night, pulled him from his bed to tell him that he wasn't who he thought he was. The blood bond he thought he shared with his brother didn't exist..._

_Loki squirmed back through the small crack in his brother's bedroom door, tears welling in his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was meant to be feeling, but he felt decidedly empty – his chest aching and mind thankfully blank. The news of his adoption wasn't wanted, but after the blow of his mother's death, it seemed like such a small thing..._

"_Brother," the lump on the bed grumbled sleepily. "What's the matter, why aren't you sleeping..?"_

_Loki swallowed thickly, lips wobbling as he moved closer to the bed. The form there shifted until it was sitting up, blonde hair mussed and sticking up on end. "Thor," he murmured back. "I'm fine brother, don't worry about me."_

_Thor offered a tired smile through the shadows. "Don't lie to me," he instructed, pointing a finger across the room. His hand came back and patted the deserted mattress beside him. "Something's bothering you, tell me what it is or I can't help."_

_Green eyes misted over and Loki didn't know what to say back. His brother usually was the only shoulder he needed to cry on, and he knew the boy would happily take his tears and sooth his doubts but..._

_Thor wasn't his _brother**.**

"_I'm fine," Loki dismissed easily, hoping to ease the worry in the teenager's voice. "Don't worry about it brot – Thor, go back to sleep."_

_The blonde smiled again and patted the bed again, gesturing for the boy to come back. Loki hesitantly came over and dropped himself in the spot he'd evacuated previously – warming his toes under the covers. "If you say so brother," Thor allowed. "I'll get it out of you eventually..."_

_Loki nodded and leant back, hoping to ease the muscles straining his neck. "I doubt it, brother," he whispered back, hearing the light snores echoing from beside him._

* * *

Flashes of light burned his irises as his eyelids fluttered, his mind struggling to control the action and keep them open. A groan found its way from his throat as he tried to force his body to comply with his orders, arms scrambling to prop up his chest and head.

"You really shouldn't be moving around."

At the sound of the unknown but decidedly feminine voice, green eyes finally shot open. His body was aching, lungs burning, but he forced a snarl on his lips as he locked eyes with the small dark skinned girl. "Ten?" he demanded.

The lithe girl sighed, a barely there smile ghosting across her lips. "Eleven," she responded, watching his fingers scramble for purchase. "I told you to stop moving."

"No," Loki corrected instantly. "You merely pointed out that my movement could have negative effects," he finished, curiously looking around the decrepit room he had just woken up in. "You didn't express a command – then again, even if you did, please know I would not listen to it."

Eleven stared at him for a few seconds, her one good eye flicking between emerald irises. "You're going to be difficult," she predicted.

"Ah, she's smarter than she looks," Loki muttered condescendingly, blinking back sleep.

His eyes were still heavy and muted, the area around him seemingly blurred under the stress of the previous few hours, and for a moment he had experienced the odd sensation of being both inside the room with the girl from Eleven and yet somehow outside at the one time. It took him a few seconds longer than it should have for him to realise he was staring out a broken window at a clear blue sky, a few wayward clouds dancing through the light colour that reminded him of prideful eyes.

_Thor..._

Looking back to the young female absently humming before him, he tilted his head. "I don't understand," he revealed in a small murmur.

Eleven looked back up, confusion clouding her features. "Huh?" she stated dumbly, brows furrowing in the centre and causing lines to mar her skin. "You don't understand what?"

Loki breathed through his nose in an attempt to calm his mind. "I fell..." he remembered, the roar of waters echoing through his mind. The sound was enough to make him flinch back and he struggled to hold up the weight of his shoulders and head. "Into the water, I fell..."

"I pulled you out..." Eleven stated slowly, trying to follow the impossible train of thought. She tried fruitlessly to catch green eyes but they bounced around the room, avoiding eye-contact. "You were practically washed up anyway; I only pulled you the rest of the way. Got us off the streets before anything could come prowling."

The sky was strangely interesting, and green eyes refused to move from it. He knew the younger female was watching him carefully, no doubt trying to examine him closer, but he didn't have the strength to hide the emotions dancing in his eyes. His face was another matter and was already set in stone, showing nothing more than annoyance but his eyes were harder to tame.

The emerald was always defying him, revealing more than he wanted at times he didn't want it too. There was nothing he could but avoid her gaze until the turmoil in his mind was under control.

"You had no reason to," he finally whispered, realising she was waiting for a response. He was capable of speaking louder but was content with the hushed tone for now. "I've done nothing for you."

Eleven opened her mouth, the words seeming to die on her tongue before she could voice them. After a few seconds of staying silent with a gaping maw, she cleared her throat. "You're Loki, right?" she asked, attempting a smile. "Thor's younger brother."

_Thor's younger brother._

"My name is Loki, yes," he allowed quietly. "I'm sorry but I am unaware as to what your title is," he voiced next, going through the usual polite conversation.

_She asked your name, and now you ask hers. Next she will no doubt enquire about your wellbeing, and you are to reply with a simple and emotionless response before repeating the question to her. Keep the conversation polite and away from the reasons you were in the water._

"Ororo." The girl smiled again, the same thin flick of her lips. "I would say it's nice to meet you, but I'd be lying – it's nothing against you but meeting other people in this place doesn't tend to equal great things for the smaller party."

Loki cracked a thin smile of his own. "And I take it you are often the smaller party?" he questioned gently, realising his arms were beginning to tremble. Hesitantly, he lowered himself back down to the ground, noting something soft was under his head.

Ororo reached up and fidgeted with the jacket under his dark head. "Yeah, yeah, I often am," she admitted. "How are you feeling?"

Green eyes blinked, dark lashes brushing against sharp cheeks. "I've been better, that I can assure you," he replied carefully, studying his responses before voicing them. "I am sore and tired, but that is to be expected, correct?"

"Correct," Ororo repeated, the corners of her lips quirking up.

Loki adjusted the way he laid, making a small noise when his side twinged in pain. "How are you?" he asked the female, blinking back the pain and instead clenching his teeth.

Ororo shrugged gracefully, thin shoulders lifting in a dismissive gesture. "I'm tired and sore," she informed him, twisting his words around. Her exhausted smile showed that she was speaking the truth, and absently he wondered if she could only ever smile.

_She seemed so much colder back in training..._

"But you seem happy," Loki asked carefully, studying the woman. It only took a few seconds for her smile to drop completely, lips falling into a flat line. "Ah, a mask I see...I admire your persistence if anything – but if you wish to gain my trust, don't bother with the stupid games."

Ororo made a noise of displeasure, shifting back and sitting on her haunches. "I wasn't trying to hide anything," she grunted. "I was only trying to lighten the mood, you need something to brighten and assure you when faced with a potential frightening and confusion situation."

Loki cocked a brow at the rather cold and calculating assessment. "Interesting," he murmured, swallowing once again. Occasionally it seemed his voice would waver, cracking on some notes and he looked around, hoping to find water.

Almost as though she knew what he was looking for, Ororo passed him a metal canister of water. "Drink up," she instructed. "And what's interesting?"

_She's too comfortable around you – make her nervous. You're a threat..._ Pain echoed his thoughts and he looked down to the water in his hands. Slowly, he took a sip. _No, you're not. Keep her on your side until you're in control of your body and not reliant on her. She may be small but she could still kill you._

"What are you thinking about?"

Loki took another slow sip, not willing to force too much water down his gullet in case it came back up. She was watching him with big eyes, both clouded in thought and he almost wanted to shrink back from the genuine emotion in them. "Whether or not I am strong enough to fight you off should you decide to attack me," he admitted.

Ororo licked her lips, once again seeming to chew over her words before speaking. "I would say I'm not interested in killing you, but I have a feeling you won't believe me."

"I won't," Loki promised. "But it would be a pleasant thing to hear nonetheless."

Nodding, she moved closer to his side, looking over the empty park before going back to emerald. "I'm not planning on killing you, and if you hadn't noticed; I've more or less been _helping_ you."

Loki studied her features, searching for the lie. "Hmmm, I don't mean to sound unappreciative but my bones still ache and my mind is still screaming," he muttered. "You've not been the best help to my person, it would seem."

"You would be dead right now," Ororo stated blandly, not bothering to sugar coat the words. "If it wasn't for me – you would've been a cannon fire more than a day ago."

Loki's head shot up; taking in the information about the length of time he was out for. _More than a day? I've been out of the game for so long... _He shook his head, hoping to eradicate the thoughts as he looked away from large, emotive eyes. Beside him, she remained quiet and allowed him a moment to sort through his mind, instead absently playing with the threads of material hanging from his shirt.

A minute or two later, however, she glanced up at him, looking concerned.

"Well, if you're not strong enough to fight me off, I hope you _are _strong enough to do some walking," Ororo informed him. "I'm guessing the rest of the Careers can't be too far away if you're here, and I'm going to go out on a limb and say that neither of us would be that happy to bump into them?"

Loki paused, before slowly inclining his head. "I would not…disagree with that statement."

"Can you walk?"

Loki paused again, reluctant to once more reveal his weakness to the girl. "I can try."

* * *

They made their way to the park in the hopes of finding a safer place to rest, leaving the ruined, dark buildings behind them, Loki propped up against the girl's shoulder to help him walk. His vision was still blurry – something that only got worse the further they travelled, until they finally arrived to the place Ororo had been thinking of when they set out.

Despite himself, Loki let out a sigh of relief when she told them that they had reached the spot, and she helped lower him down, telling him to rest his injured shoulder. The world around them gradually came back into focus, and the feeling of nausea that had been with him since he had woken up and had only gotten steadily worse now began to abate.

He glanced over at his newfound ally, before looked down to find her fingers knotting in the material at her waist. Raising his gaze, sharp words on his tongue, he went to speak – only to find himself shocked silent.

"Loki?" Ororo looked up, blinking back confusion as she noticed his sudden shock. "Loki, what's wrong?"

Green eyes remained glued to the item at her side, the emerald colour laced with pain, wondering how it'd taken him so long to notice, even with his impaired vision.

"Where did you get that?" he murmured weakly, gesturing to the weapon at her side.

Ororo picked up the heavyweight hammer. "It washed up with you," she explained, twirling it in her hands.

_She's lying. _

Her own eyes flicked up, studying the emotions racing across pale skin and brilliant irises as she juggled the weight in her hands. "I saw him with it – Thor."

Loki made a pained noise.

"He killed my friend with his damned hammer," she whispered, looking down at it in disgust. Her nose wrinkled, the caramel coloured skin darkening and forming grooves. "I don't even know why I grabbed it."

It took all of his strength to sit up, but he managed to force his body to comply; the weak limbs pushing up until he was straight. The hammer was being juggled between small hands and he reached for it, not taking it but stopping all movement.

"Did it wash up with me? Are you saying it was with me?" he demanded.

Ororo swallowed, throat moving carefully as twin eyes bore into her own. "I grabbed it," she admitted shortly, looking down to the hammer and frowning in disgust. Her grasp on it suddenly turned limp, like her fingers didn't want to be touching the silver metal. "Loki I – "

She faltered.

Green eyes widened in realisation. "What did you do..." he murmured, chest feeling awfully heavy and uncomfortable. He preferred the pain to this, this _agony. _"Where's my brother?"

"I did what I had to do Loki, you understand that don't you?" she asked quietly, dropping his gaze like it burnt her.

_Thor is dead._

Loki blinked. "I understand," he dismissed carelessly. "Can I have that please?"

Ororo nodded, allowing him to take the hammer. At first he didn't seem wanting, but after pushing it into his palms, he wrapped his hands around it with veiled hesitation.

Loki grunted at the sudden weight, realising how heavy the hammer was once he held it. "Impractical," he muttered acidly. "The idiot never thought about practicality or what would serve him best – he always went with what looked better or what _felt_ right."

"He went with his gut then?" Ororo asked gently.

He pushed to his feet next, only making a few sounds of pain as he used the hammer to assist with the action. It was a difficult process and he spent the next five minutes arguing with his healer, refusing her orders to drop back down. Once he was standing tall though, he immediately stumbled heavily towards the smaller body.

Catching him, Ororo grunted under the added weight. "I told you to stay on the ground," she hissed in reprimand. "Your shoulder still needs rest."

"And I told you that even if you were to command me, I would not listen," he reminded her, turning to raise a dark brow in her direction. "I simply wish to stretch my muscles, will you let me?"

Ororo's eyes, one milky and one strong in colour, shot down to the hammer knowingly. "Of course..." she allowed, smiling weakly. "Don't go too far out, I haven't really scoped out the area yet. I've been too busy stressing over you."

Loki only nodded, moving away from her grip and towards the centre of the park. He wasn't really looking for privacy – he wasn't needing it – but he wanted to be distanced from the female; even if it was only for a few minutes.

He wanted to think.

Well, it was more a _need_ than a _want_ – he wasn't keen to go over the information he'd gleaned but if he didn't, his mind would remain in shambles. He was really left with no other option.

His hand came out to rest against a nearby tree; eyes slipping close as thoughts ran through his mind. So the idiot was dead then and by the hands of a child, no less. The mighty brother of his, the one that none could down in a fight, had fallen at the feet of the dark skinned youth behind him.

Emerald eyes peeked over a burning shoulder, zeroing in on the lax form reclining on the grass. The girl wasn't lying, not when she'd been implicating what she had. His fingers tightened on the hammers handle.

Thor really was dead. His brother – the last line he had to his mother – was gone as well.

The green irises dropped to the ground, the silver metal hanging in the corner of his vision as they shined in pain and anguish. There was another option; one he'd purposefully avoided and that was that his brother had allowed it to happen. Thor, the loveable idiot that he was, had never been shy about his adoration for his younger brother but did he love him to the point of death?

_If Thor was the one gone – would you allow yourself to die?_

The question was met with silence and Loki bit back the gut reply. His brother was a bleeding idiot and if he was dead he probably deserved it. End of the tale.

"Loki?"

He turned and offered a weak smile, reminding himself to be as polite as possible. Ororo looked back, her own lips quirking up gently at the look on his features. "Yes?"

She gestured to a silver can in her hand. "Hungry?"

Feeling his stomach grumble, he held a hand to the flat skin. "Apparently so," he noted dryly, the smile turning genuine for a split second. He moved back towards his current companion, one of his hips groaning loudly with the movements. With a grunt he stopped, lowering his gaze to glare at his body in disappointment.

A shallow laugh from before him made him raise his eyes again. Ororo was giggling quietly, a hand covering her lips and eyes crinkling in the corners. "You look so betrayed," she told him, shaking her head.

Loki only shrugged and carefully lowered himself beside her, wincing slightly with every breath he took. "Are you sure you're willing to share?" he requested. "Most wouldn't be."

"I can spare some food," she smiled back, the lie shining in her words. "I hate creamed corn and beans anyway – so guess what you're eating?"

Nodding absently, he accepted the offered food, noting that she only ever used the one can. _Spare the food can you?_ He shovelled the food into his mouth greedily, not realising how hungry he was until the bland flavours danced on his tongue. It wasn't the rich food he was used too – but recently it seemed, he was growing use to the boring colours and dull tastes.

After a few minutes of silence, Loki carefully dropped the make-shift spoon he was holding, stomach gurgling happily. His companion was eating slower, her lips moving as she studied the surrounding area with a careful eye.

Picking at a scab on his arm, he spoke up. "You said...Thor killed your friend," he reminded her, blinking when bright eyes snapped to his. "The dark skinned one, correct?"

"Duh."

Loki looked down when his arm burnt for a split second. "It does not account for much, but I am use to saying this for my brother... I am sorry," he murmured, frowning at the bead of blood slowly dribbling down his fingers.

Ororo chewed slowly. "Thanks?" she replied unsurely, tilting her head.

"That was your last can of food," Loki stated quickly, changing the subject deftly. "And, judging by the position of the sun, it will be dark in less than two hours – you will require more sustenance." Above him, the sun was already setting, twinkling behind the dying trees.

She frowned, licking her lips and dropping her finished food. "I guess..." she allowed. "I could always just scout out for another few cans?"

Loki only stared back.

"Or I could do something completely different?" she muttered instead, brows climbing higher. "You were a lot more fun when you were unconscious," she revealed. "You never argued and you were warm."

Green eyes flickered. "I was warm..." he echoed dumbly, studying the female in doubt. "I do not wish to know how you learnt that. I'll go find some food, yes? And you can go find something to cook it with," he commanded, no bothering to acknowledge the annoyance as it flashed across her face. "It won't be hard to find firewood I'm sure; seeing as we're surrounded by trees and bushes."

Ororo snorted, folding her arms. "Excuse me for wanting to spend some time with Mother Nature," she defended sourly, eyes narrowing at the boy across from her as he shifted his weight about.

"You're not excused," Loki answered primly.

The dark skinned female tutted. "Weren't you going somewhere?" she reminded him. "Somewhere far away? From me." Her hands came out to swat in his direction irritably, brow furrowed when the youth only grinned sadistically. "If you haven't clicked on yet, I'm telling you to shove off."

Loki quirked up another smile and turned, beginning to stride from the small park with quick steps. He was thankful for the relief from company, but walking through the streets alone was no doubt going to be a trying experience. Especially with his injured shoulder – which was still aching, the blasted thing. All in all, he was currently, quite the easy target...

Shaking his head, he looked around, studying the greening buildings and the cracked concrete. There had to be food somewhere in the godforsaken buildings, it was all a matter of finding it.

_By the gods, this is dull already._

Loki huffed and stormed forward again; quickening his pace and solely focusing on every window he passed. _Empty. Shuttered. Undressed dolls. Tattered clothing. Shuttered. Mirrors._ _Empty._

Even the Career alliance had been more interesting than this; albeit deadlier and more trying. Those precious short days had included hunting and prying into multiple minds. All he'd been doing in the past hour was mope, hold back tears and grunt unintelligibly. Already he could feel his mind frying, cells dying.

_If I stay in Ororo's company, perhaps my brain shall devolve to idiocy,_ he contemplated, brow lifted. _If I spend a few days struggling mentally I can really say I put myself in my brother's shoes..._

Loki snorted. "Lose my rapier wit just so I can feel the touch of stupidity?" he muttered loudly, habitually stopping and looking into his own eyes through the reflection of a shop window. "I would never sink so low."

The words rung hollow and absently a thrum of pain echoed through his chest, tightening a hold around his heart. His brother really was gone, so sinking _so low_ was useless anyway, and something he shouldn't waste precious time on contemplating. It wasn't like he could actually lose genius by staying in someone's company for an extended amount of –

_Food._

Behind his reflection, silver cans gleamed in the light, hidden slightly by the mesh of the shutters. Rows upon rows of damaged, but also perhaps whole cans stared back at him, temptingly silent.

"Ah," he announced loudly, if only to hear something in the sudden silence. "Just what I was looking for."

Peeking around, and being sure to double check the small nooks a body could hide in, Loki stalked forward and carefully opened the door. It was but the work of a moment, as it was blocked by a half-closed shutter, but with considerable effort Loki managed to get the damned thing open. Inside, the shop was dark, and something made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

Was it just him, or was it suddenly far too quiet? Where were the birds that had been singing around him? The whistling of the breeze? The silence made his hackles rise and absently his mind connected the dots. Nature wasn't one to fall silent at a moment's notice without reason; not unless there was a predator about ready too –

Loki yelped when a body collided with his back, throwing his aching bones to the ground with the strength of a freight train. His hands scrambled for purchase on the dirtied ground, fingernails ripping and bleeding as a weight settled against his back. "Gah, get away from me!" he grunted into the mouldy carpet, panic rising inside.

The laugh that echoed made his struggles cease for all of three seconds. "How about no?"

"Cletus."

Loki felt twin hands rip him away from the floor, spinning him around before shoving him back against the ground. The rancid stench of something rotting hit him and his nose wrinkled as red hair gleamed. Gods, the creature before him looked _demonic._

"You know me, aye? Loki ol' boy," Cletus sneered down at him, leaning close and baring his teeth. The sharpened bone made him flinch back, but the murderer only grinned brighter. "I know _you-oo_," he sung.

Grunting as pressure slowly crushed his collar bone, Loki tried to smile back. "It's hard not to know you," he admitted. "You've made quite the name for yourself, you are aware? Insanity always shines in the Games," he finally muttered, managing to make the smile stay, his body tensing slightly against the floor, preparing to spring upward and make a break for the door.

Cletus cocked his head this way and that, like an animal, before he closed the distance and _sniffed_ Loki's neck. "Insanity?" he seemed to choke at the accusation. "I'm not _insane_, Loki Pokey. I'm the quite the opposite, I'll have you know. I'm the only _sane_ one here!"

"Of course you are," Loki murmured back – he'd have agreed with just about anything at this point, as long as it kept the other tribute amused.

"And," Cletus continued, wiggling happily above him. The movement made his hostage grunt in discomfort and he seemed pleased. "And I'm hungry, and, and, and, yes, I'm not finished!" he sung again, leaning closer and breathing heavily over his captive. "And you look _delicious!_"

Loki swallowed. "Looks can be deceiving," he got out, eyes widening when silver glinted. A knife. The bloody maniac had a knife. _And oh joy; it still has dried blood on it._

"A blade hmm," he noted calmly, despite how he felt inside. "How awfully dull. I expected _more_ from you, really."

The blade didn't falter as it came closer to his neck. "Normalcy can be welcomed," Cletus purred. "The audience, _my_ audience, can't expect me to forgo my hunger for an interesting kill. Of course, I am a little disappointed – when I first saw you I was thinking dismemberment. But slicing your throat will have to do. It is quite a pretty throat, wouldn't you agree? Pale and perfect."

Loki let out a hollow laugh. "Dismemberment? I must be pretty important..."

Cletus grunted in acknowledgment but seemed bored with the conversation, now pressing down on said _'__perfect and pale'_ neck. The blade began to cut, Loki could feel his skin splitting under its attention, and the next words came from his mouth before he could stop them.

"But not as important as Eleven, I suppose."

The knife froze.

Loki feigned interest. "Oh, _you_ didn't know? Your little...snack and I have been close recently. She helped me, I help her, it's quite the simple transaction," he smirked, cocking his head in a mockery of the man's actions before.

"Orororor?"

Loki slowly nodded. "Yes," he allowed. "Don't you want her?"

Cletus' cheek twitched ever so slightly and the knife pulled back, leaving nothing but a shallow gash in the lily white skin. He could read the thoughts flashing behind the mutilated eyes, but left him to his thoughts, struggling to keep up the calm facade he had going. "You'd give her to me?"

"You help me, I help you," Loki replied carefully, lifting his hands to clasp the one holding the knife and the one holding him down. "It's such a simple transaction. You let _me _go, and I bring _her _to you in exchange."

The desire darkening the insane youth's eyes was the only answer he needed. "You have twenty-four hours, Loki Pokey," he growled, lowering his head again. "You bring her here or I'll be eating you both. And this time I'll find the time to pick you apart, you hear me? _Slowly._"

Loki nodded. "I'll bring her here and lock her in. She'll be all yours. Let me go..."

Cletus backed up, straddling the boy beneath him with wary eyes. "Twenty-four hours," he instructed again, finally pushing to his feet. The knife made a dangerous sound as he carefully slid it back into its sheath. "I want her. And you better bring her."

Lifting a hand to his neck, Loki nodded as the boy disappeared through a door out the back. "She's all yours," he murmured to the silence, fingering the blood lazily dribbling down his skin. He pushed to his feet, wobbling somewhat before he made his way from the store, struggling again with the door.

He left the food behind. He left the murderer behind. And he left whatever morality he had left behind.

He wouldn't need it from here on out.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe**.


	78. Chapter 77: On Raven's Wings

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a brand new update for you all, as we return to Brunhilde, this time written by a small collection of our writers - Robbie, Canuckle and Miran. Before I forget – Happy St Patrick's Day! Advice from an Irish person – it's St Paddy's Day if you really must abbreviate it, never St Patty's Day (over here, that's only ever used as the shortened version of Patricia, not Patrick. Think of Marge's sister in The Simpsons). In any case, have a nice day, while I defy stereotypes and stay in all day working on my college dissertation. Next update will come at the weekend, in between working on said dissertation and watching Daredevil Season 2.**

**A big thanks to Idalove2read, I-OfTheHawk and sailorraven34 for reviewing!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Seven — On Ravens' Wings**

**Day Seven**

**Brunhilde of District Four**

**Written by robbiepoo2341, Canucklehead Cowgirl &amp; Miran Anders**

* * *

"_Haste me to know it, that I with wings as swift _

_As meditation or the thoughts of love _

_May sweep to my revenge" _

– William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

"_Two heads cut off and thrown high into the tree have only the winds with which to scheme." _

_– Norse Proverb_

* * *

The piercing smell of damp concrete cleared her head as she walked through the city. The rain had finally stopped, but there was enough runoff from a nearby roof to rinse away the worst of the mud — which did nothing to clean the filth that still filled her mind, the remembrance of battles won and lost, the heavy imaginings of battles from which she had been absent.

Brunhilde winced slightly as the water poured over her hands. Her knuckles were still cracked and bleeding from the pounding they had taken from that accursed robot, that creation of wires and artificially twisted personality that screamed the anthem of Capitol arrogance.

If she'd had her sword, or even her spear, she might not have been forced to resort to such a primitive method of fighting the Ultron abomination. Roger's shield had helped, and if she had taken it, kept it and wielded it herself, perhaps she might have been able to end the fight before Stark was so badly injured. It might have spared the assembled tributes the struggle of trying to save a life in so hostile an environment.

And it was, she was sure, a meaningless struggle. Brunhilde had watched the faces appear in the sky the evening previous, and she knew she had failed in the singular mission she set for herself, that which she had pledged to Sif.

Thor was dead.

Brunhilde knew deep in her heart what hand had killed her cousin. She and Thor had suspected treachery, as Thor told her of the whispers he'd overheard between his brother and the murderous wretch. But perhaps they were the ones that had been fools; perhaps they had played right into the hands of their enemies.

* * *

"_What is our course?"_

_Brunhilde studied her cousin, careful to keep her body angled so that she could still see Elektra and Loki from her position. They had paused in their pursuit of Barton and Romanoff, needing a few minutes' rest to fill their lungs and their stomachs, and it had been then that Thor pulled her aside and told her of the conversation he overheard._

_She pursed her lips. Thor seemed unsteady, and if she did not know better, she would have said he was wringing his hands — if such an activity could be ascribed to one of their noble line. She knew what needed to be done to ensure their survival, but she knew equally well that her cousin would never suggest it._

"_We must strike first," she said, her tone both flat and grim._

_Thor's eyes widened, but thankfully, he did not argue._

"_We cannot wait for them to pierce us in our sleep, Thor," she said, hoping that his silence meant he saw the sense in her words and not that he had retreated from her at the suggestion. "You know as well as I that they are not to be trusted."_

"_That is the case with most whom we have allied with," Thor muttered. "And yet we did not seek their death and risk losing our alliance too early in the Games."_

"_Ours is not an act of betrayal if we are responding to a betrayal in kind," Brunhilde murmured, her hands tightening around the hilt of her sword. "It is straight vengeance, and vengeance is our right."_

_For a moment, Thor closed his eyes, and Brunhilde feared he would tell her to let it be, to allow the would-be traitors to slither through their midst. But then he sighed. "Aye," he said heavily. "Tell me, then. What would you have us do?"_

"_Separate them," she said at once. "I will behead the snake in our midst."_

"_And I," Thor said, his gaze somewhere far away, "will try to speak sense to my brother."_

_Brunhilde pursed her lips but did not speak her whole mind. She thought it dangerous to correct him. Dangerous to suggest that _she_ would have taken the fight to Loki, rather than risking that Thor's affection might weaken his resolve — but it would be more dangerous still to stand between Thor and his brother if he truly were determined to confront the silver-tongued snake._

"_He shall disappoint you, Thor," she said quietly._

"_That is not possible," Thor replied, his voice rumbling deep in his throat. "But he may surprise you."_

_Brunhilde laughed mirthlessly. "We shall see," she said._

* * *

Brunhilde dried her hands and then drank deeply from the small stream of water. When her throat no longer felt like the sands of the beaches she would never see again, she continued on her way.

Thoughts of Thor brought nothing but grief to her mind. He had been a treasured friend, despite the squabbles that so often plagued cousins close in age. Stolen treasures and pulled braids seemed like precious memories, shining moments now so dim compared to the light that had been extinguished.

It had been the sole reason for her entry into the Games, her final mission. She had known that she would die in pursuit of this last promise — for it had been a warrior's promise she gave Sif — but at least her shield sister would remember her word of honour as forever unbroken.

Yet she _had_ broken it. She had failed, and miserably so. She had failed Thor, she had failed Sif, and above all, she had failed herself. She felt the shame of that failure echoing painfully in the cracks of her hands, in the bruises in her side, in the gasp that reverberated through the concrete wilderness as she bent to adjust her boot. _May they forgive me_, she thought.

_May the gods forgive me!_ …But she knew she could never forgive herself.

How easy, how _comforting_ it would be to say that Elektra had been her undoing that day — but in truth, Brunhilde knew that it had been her own caprice. She had underestimated the slight woman with dark eyes and darker hair, and could easily see that Thor had fallen into the same complacent pit. If only they had seen beyond their hubris and had moved against the conspirators as soon as they suspected the danger… but now, now it was too late.

It was a lesson she had so often taught the men of her home: a warrior is not defined by size and strength alone. She had taught so many of them never to underestimate her again.

How humiliating to have that same lesson handed back to her, as if she were no more than a stripling holding a sword for the first time. _A lesson learned_, she mused bitterly. _But far too late. Thor is dead._ Her eyes searched the sky as if she would see his face there again, and she exhaled a painful breath.

* * *

_The sound of metal on metal echoed around the two women as their blades met. The twin sai were no match for Brunhilde's long blade, but in close quarters, the sleekly vicious brunette had the advantage._

_Elektra pushed hard to one side, twisting her hand to disarm the Valkyrie warrior as her other hand swung up with the triple-pronged twin._

_Brunhilde only just dodged the blow before she moved to tumble across the hard ground toward where her fallen weapon lay. As she dove into her roll, a booted foot met her ribs with a dull thwack. The air in her chest rushed out with the impact. She tried not to flinch at the pulling sensation in her side as she raised her blade._

_One, perhaps two ribs were cracked at the very least, and to her cursed luck, they lay on the same side that bore the mark from Danvers' attack._

_The brunette smirked, readjusting her grip on her weapons as her long black hair streamed in the wind behind her. Brunhilde steeled herself as she readied her blade, prepared to defend her honour in battle, though she cursed the loss of her spear. At least if she'd still held that, she could have kept her distance from the traitor._

_With a warrior's cry, she leapt forward, and the vile girl rushed to meet her. Their steel sang in metallic pain time and time again as the battle maidens manoeuvred closer to the murky depths of the river. The ancient guardrail trembled under deflected blows as they danced toward fate._

"_Wretch!" Brunhilde cried out as her shoulder trembled. The effort of forcing the girl back was causing her hand to shake, and her grip began to slip from the hilt of her gleaming blade. _

_The red-capped devil saw her weakness and shifted her position; the sai wrapped around the blade from either side, locking it between the treble prongs. Brunhilde's muscles strained as she tried to free the sword, but it would not budge._

_In a swift and merciless motion, Elektra rushed toward Brunhilde and again twisted her sai, this time using them against each other, the sword's shining steel locked between them, and with an angry cry, the long blade that had been Brunhilde's defence was wrenched from her failing grip and tossed aside, lost to the waters below._

* * *

Brunhilde had escaped that battle with her pride more wounded than her body. Never had she been forced to run from conflict before. The sting of that fresh humiliation was sharper than her day-old wounds as Brunhilde impatiently searched the cityscape.

After she was convinced that Stark was at least stable, after she had seen to it that the ones who had fought honourably by her side — who neither turned on her _nor_ trusted her — after she saw that they were settled once more, she had returned to the very place she and Thor parted ways. The last time she saw his face. The last time he was _alive_. The scene before her had shocked her.

Some violent flood had passed by, with destruction in its wake. Much of the area had been washed away with the flood, and where a noble bridge once stood, only the scant evidence of a railing remained.

The rain had swept clean any tracks on the soft ground, but looking at the swirling waters of the swollen river, Brunhilde suspected that any who fell in its depths would not return. Perhaps this was where Thor met his end, crashing heavily down with the bridge, pierced by Loki's…

_No. _She would know soon enough how her cousin met his end when she tore the truth from his serpent tongue. She would hear his confession, force the exact words from him, no matter how it hurt to hear them… and then make him pay the price.

It had never before mattered to Brunhilde that Loki was adopted. Certainly the love of his kith and kin had been enough to ignore any difference of his blood. The All-father Odin had accepted him in honour, and in honour he would stay... but that difference mattered now, for she knew that no true son of District Four would so tarnish his honour in this way. Before her lay the plain truth of the old adage — that blood truly was thicker than water. The foolish boy had betrayed the very hand that had pulled him from many a fight he had been unprepared to finish, no matter what his silver-tongued protestations were after the fact. The blood of Brunhilde's noble ancestors clearly did not run in Loki's veins, and that mattered, for it helped give Brunhilde some reason as to why he would so willingly throw honour to the wind, to engage in such underhanded trickery. It would help to explain to her wounded heart the casual cruelty of a knife in the back of one's own brother.

It was beneath the family name he wore, and Brunhilde would convince him of that truth when next she saw him. She would swear to him that even if he could possibly evade her vengeance, he would have no place in their home, no honour in the eyes of those he once held dear. He was solely of the outer districts now, of the smallest, dirtiest of places, and his heart was as black as the coal of his true home.

She would tell him these things, make sure he understood each word, each implication, each _truth_ — and _then _she would kill him.

For a moment, she stopped in the street, her hand bracing her battered physique against a building. She inhaled a shaky breath, willing her muscles to support her long enough to finish her mission. The hopeful pain in her heart told her that if she could only find Loki and avenge Thor, her honour would not be so blackened that she could never hope to regain it.

Steeling herself, Brunhilde pressed on. Not knowing where Loki was, any direction was good enough. She found herself moving carefully over roads and through alleys, her keen gaze searching always for a hint of movement in the shadows, for shadows were Loki's domain. Twice a quick flash of eyes caught hers — but it was the wrong kind of rat that she saw.

Perhaps she could go back to the camp. There might yet have been weapons to be salvaged from Romanoff's ashes. Her thoughts drifted back to the desolation, and she was startled to feel the same despair that she felt then. _How could she do it? There is no honour in betrayal!_

Thinking of the first traitor in their group brought a frown to Brunhilde's face. She had been surprised, although gratified, to see Romanoff's face in the sky before she saw her cousin's.

It had been an empty betrayal, for the woman had gained nothing by it and had lost everything. The archer who had stood at her side remained alive, and Brunhilde would eventually repay that debt as well. For now, it was enough to know that one traitor had met her due, and another was soon to join her. _But how?_ Her strength wasn't what it had been, and fighting bare-handed would demand more than she currently could offer. She needed weapons.

Cursing under her breath, she set out to arm herself, knowing that she needed to be ready should she cross paths with her quarry or anyone else that lurked in the alleys and streets.

Her sharp eyes sought out any crude device that she could put to good use — not even considering making the long trek back to the Tesseract in her current state.

She tossed aside or ignored the various crumbling and half-rotten wooden staves that likely had been broom handles or some other such nonsense and held out hope for something sturdier.

Fighting the fog in her mind, Brunhilde trudged onward — for _trudged _was quickly becoming the appropriate term. She could feel the aching shoulder wound from the fight with Carol pulling her. The injury to her ribs strained with each breath, and truly, her entire side groaned for rest. When the groaning reached her lips and became sound, _that_ was when Brunhilde would stop and rest; but while she could, she maintained her steadily slowing advance.

An hour passed with still no sign of her treacherous false kin, and yet Brunhilde carried on. She would search the entire arena if she had to, though there was much to search, and she knew the devious betrayer could easily slip past her in the vast landscape. In her heart, she knew the size of the arena, the futility of a blind march.

Searching the sky once more, she cried out in anger, "You want battle? Death? Bring me to him, then!" For long minutes, she stared upwards, the blazing blue reminding her of nothing more than her lost cousin's eyes, the twinkling laughter that always sparkled in them when he watched some hapless friend challenge her to combat. Water blurred her vision, then, and she dropped her head wearily.

The only reply she heard was the grumbling of her stomach, which had had no sustenance save the bitter taste of a vengeful spirit, with no sauce but grief.

She paused at the threshold of a small building, once an eatery, the faded blue letters of its window sign lost to time in all but fragments of colour. She thought she heard a sound.

There was nothing moving inside except a frayed and tattered tablecloth, flapping randomly in the corner. She sighed, shaking her head. "There is nothing here," she said loudly, and then listened for any other movement, fearing the betrayal of even her ears. An abrupt, sweeping sound made her turn her head too quickly for comfort.

In the battered rafters, two black birds shifted stealthily as they stared at her. Her eyes widened, unable to look away as their beady eyes glittered and glared.

"Ravens?"

Just as abruptly, they dove from the rafters, barely skirting her ducked head as they flew for the still open door. She cried out involuntarily and dashed out into the sunlight once more. Her breathing was ragged, and while the birds hadn't hurt her, they filled her with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

She paused once more outside the door, leaning against the storefront and catching her breath. _Odin had ravens._ _That's all this roiling in my heart must be. I fear I have failed him. _She tried to ignore the strange fear that now tangled through her grief. Surely Odin knew of her failure by now, knew that his beloved son was dead. Her mouth opened, but the words of grief and consolation for her uncle would not come. _I am not worthy._ Moving on, she tried to focus outward, tried to ignore the emotional tangles that wound like barbed wire around her chest.

As she turned the corner of the next block, a sound drew her deeply down an alleyway. The cry of scraping metal — not unlike that of the sign at the shoe shop — echoed between the brick and mortar walls. Cautiously, she walked the old broken pavement, when she found something that held promise in her quest to defend herself.

A battered old lid, and a twisted length of rusted metal. She weighed them in her hands and deemed them good enough — the lid would suffice as a shield, for she had not forgotten the usefulness that a barrier could provide. And the length of metal — yes, this would take the place of a staff.

As she walked the streets, a flutter of feathers once again caught her attention from above. She glanced up, and to her sudden, strange comfort, the two ravens sat perched on a balcony, five stories up.

"You have led me here. I shall take this as a sign from the gods that I am on the right path," she informed them, and almost as if they were answering, the pair of ebony birds ruffled their wings with a soft caw and took flight, quickly circling high into the air and disappearing from her sight. She stared after them, her heart lifting as quickly as they did.

Even with her makeshift arms, time passed in a slow crawl as the sun beat its caress into her cheeks, colouring them slightly as she walked. When she turned her face full to the sun and closed her eyes, she could almost hear, for a moment, the rush of waves that had been the constant backdrop to her life as long as she could remember.

It was too quiet in this arena. Too quiet in the Capitol. How could they stand to live without the steady heartbeat of the sea, the rush of water lapping at the shores as faithfully as the blood in her veins?

She heard the clatter of footsteps in the street and a muffled curse, and abruptly the blush of the sun gave way to the full flush of adrenaline. Brunhilde recognized the voice echoing in the alley, and she put on a burst of speed to meet the dark-haired vixen before she could find cover.

The wound in her shoulder screamed as Brunhilde threw her strength into her blow, but she was rewarded with a satisfying _thud_ as Elektra skidded over the ground.

"You are not the opponent I hoped to find," she said through gritted teeth. "But I would finish our business now that the arena has brought you to me. Traitor. Deceiver!"

She held her shield in defence, her body angled slightly away as she invited the traitorous devil from District One to meet her fate. The weight of the rusted metal in her hand felt solid, reassuring. She was sure she could at the very least best the girl in a fair battle.

"I don't know what you mean. You've had it out for me ever since I freed Wade, but I have never betrayed you or our alliance," Elektra countered as she twirled her weapons in her hands.

"You should not have killed him. It was not your place. But it's your deception with Loki that calls for my wrath. The murder the two of you plotted in whispers while you thought no one could hear. The assassination of Thor."

For an instant, Elektra looked truly confused. But Brunhilde would not be fooled by false sentiments or lies from anyone in league with Loki. Wide-eyed for a moment, Elektra shook her head.

"I had nothing to do with Thor's death."

"_Liar_," Brunhilde hissed in response. Elektra narrowed her eyes. There was no way the two of them could speak civilly, let alone be allies with Thor no longer there to ease the tension between them.

Brunhilde saw the blow coming and pulled back, allowing the sai to pass her by. As she moved, she swung the metal lid, remembering the damage she had been able to do when she wielded Rogers' shield.

The breath left Elektra's body in a satisfying whoosh, and the girl stumbled back. Undeterred, Elektra laughed boldly and returned to a more aggressive stance before rushing the Four tribute again.

Metal clanged as the sai came into contact with the makeshift shield, though once she pushed her back again, Brunhilde moved to the offensive. The rusted metal staff sang as she swung it through the air.

She wished she had more time with it, to weigh it out and find its centre point, because try as she might now in the heat of battle, it did not dance in her hand as she was used to staves reacting in her years of training. She cursed her blindness, that she did not see how poorly balanced her chosen weapon was, cursed her hurry that had driven her to that blindness.

Still, the attack was not ill-placed, and it did advance the battle in her favour somewhat. As the rusty metal made contact with Elektra's sai, the end of the crooked staff glanced off Elektra's shoulder with just enough force to cause her to drop one of her treble points. She shook her arm out as she backed away, and Brunhilde smiled in satisfaction. The battle was not so weighted against her as she had thought.

The next swing was aimed just as well, but the murderer was furious and waiting for it. She dodged to the side as the bar whisked past her nose, and when it made contact with the ground, Elektra stomped down on it hard, jarring it from Brunhilde's hand. Now both found themselves with one hand empty, each without a second tool for dealing damage.

She swung toward Brunhilde with her remaining sai, and in a foolish act of bravado, Brunhilde gritted her teeth and raised the shield — only to have the sai punch through the old metal almost effortlessly and then continue directly through her arm.

The girl cried out in pain as her hand automatically released the counterfeit defensive disc, a poor copy of a shield to take into battle — as she should have known. _Hubris. Again._

Brunhilde staggered away from her, shaking her head as she bled freely on the dirty street, unarmed. She glanced up to see that Elektra had retrieved her second sai, and Brunhilde knew her only hope was to retrieve the pitiful, rusted staff. She had to try.

She made a false start toward the twisted metal lying to her right only to find Elektra waiting, eyes filled with a predatory glare. She recognized that look; it was the same as the hungry wolves that roamed the forests on the borders of her homeland. The ones that would snatch up wandering children foolish enough to stray from the safety of their homes and kin.

She dodged left, trying to feint, but the murderess knew there was only one way this would end. And it was not in Brunhilde's favour.

She gathered up her nerves and chose to try for the warrior's fate — as the berserkers of legend were wont to do. She cried out in all the rage she could muster and rushed toward the cold-hearted girl before her. Her strike was a solid hit, but she bought her scant victory at a high cost.

She'd blocked one of Elektra's sai, but the other nestled home between two ribs. The dark-haired assassin twisted her wrist, breaking bone and deepening the wound before yanking it back with a squelching noise.

White hot pain screamed from Brunhilde's side, but before she could release herself from Elektra's grasp, the villain struck again. With all the strength left in her, Brunhilde shoved her back with a roar and tried to gain her bearings.

_No. Not like this._ She was not yet done.

The sensation of warmth ran down her side and soaked into her clothes, but she dared not look at the gore that she knew was there. Her chest ached on her left side, where she guessed a lung had been rendered useless, but she would try to end her opponent as long as there was any breath still in her breast.

Her chest heaved as she tried to keep her wits about her. Again she made a rush toward the raven-haired girl.

And again, she could only block one sai, though when she brought her head toward Elektra's and bashed her between the eyes, she did wrench loose one of the cursed weapons.

In anger, Elektra moved faster than Brunhilde had anticipated or could counter. Striking like a viper, the girl hit her more times than Brunhilde could keep count of, the demon blade sinking in deeper with each strike. She felt pain through her whole body, but the worst was through her stomach, where she could still feel Elektra's hand where the sai was buried to its depth.

For a moment, Brunhilde looked up into the dark eyes of her former ally. The other girl held her gaze for only seconds before she pulled her weapon loose and stepped backward. As Brunhilde collapsed, Elektra retreated into the shadows without bothering to look back at her dying victim, the soft sound of her footfalls echoing in Brunhilde's ears.

_My strength is spent_, she thought, the cold touch of stone at her back.

The shame of her defeat washed over her, and she closed her eyes against the accusing glare of the sun. She could feel its warmth on her cheeks once more, calling to remembrance the embrace of the ocean, and she sighed. She could hear them, although the rhythmic wash in her ears was slowing — the waves strangely lazy and calm.

Once, she had played there, a wooden sword in her hand as she dared her cousin to take her in battle, her young voice nearly drowned by the crashing waves.

She had bested him that day and thrown him into the ocean, but he had been delighted, applauding her strength and valour. It had been at his side that she learned the meaning of honour, even in defeat.

There was less honour to be had here, in the ruined streets of a once-proud city. She had been bested three times over — for by Loki's trickery, she had lost Thor, and twice she had been undone by Elektra's flashing sai. These strange, hard streets held only defeat in their grasp, for they had long since passed from the realm of living into the mists of memory.

_I go to join the ranks of the fallen, _she thought. _And may those I leave behind forgive me — I could not manage the task I set myself. It was too heavy for my arms._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	79. Chapter 78: The Mechanic

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a new update for In the End, You Always Kneel. We're on a slightly slower update schedule than usual, you may have noticed, doing about two updates a week rather than our usual three – unfortunately, my dissertation is due in eleven days, so that's been where my focus and time has had to go, I'm afraid. However, once that date passes, everything should go back to normal, and we'll fly through chapters! After all, we're almost through half our tributes – who do you think will be next?**

**As always, just wanted to thank our reviewers – TheHazardsOfLove13, sailorraven34 and Bookcrazysongbird. It's great to hear feedback, and for you to let us know what you like (and dislike, of course) about what we're doing!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Eight – The Mechanic**

**Day Seven**

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by Taila-Tai**

* * *

_"Dear God. What's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."_

– Sherlock Holmes, _Sherlock_

* * *

At least the bed was comfortable.

That counted as an upside to the whole situation, right?

He had to admit that six days of sleeping in the sewers and using his jacket as a pillow had not done many wonders for his neck – tension headaches were a _bitch_ – and the soft and downy pillow was a miracle. A bittersweet miracle, but it was a miracle nonetheless, and he was planning on taking it with a spoonful of sugar.

Even if the sugar _just so happened _to taste like shrapnel.

"Ever entertained the thought of homicide?"

His question was greeted with the proper mix of muted horror and amusement from the other boy in the room. "Poor word choice," Bruce muttered back, his brown eyes studying the man on the bed.

Tony only frowned. "I thought it was pretty decent..." he murmured defensively, resisting the urge to cross his arms against his still tender chest. He'd learnt from the first time.

And the second time…

Although it might have been the fourth time that really sunk the message in.

"No, I have not entertained the thought," Bruce replied with a brisk roll of his eyes. His hands were currently occupied, awkwardly holding a bowl of leftover broth like a precious jewel, and he fiddled with the spoon nervously as he spoke. "It doesn't seem like something I should be thinking about...Why?"

Tony snorted at the obvious lie but sighed, licking his lips. "I was thinking about going on a murderous rampage," he admitted. "Thought you deserved a warning."

Bruce's fingers stopped their constant movement. "How?" he demanded suddenly, his voice not sharp but commanding. He gently pushed the bowl to the side and instead reached into his pack and pulled out a bright red apple. "I don't think crawling is going to give you much of a battlefield advantage..."

Chocolate eyes flashed down to the fruit, flaring in curiosity. "Do you like your ankles?" Tony questioned, seemingly ignoring the boy's previous question.

"Well, I suppose they're pretty decent for –"

"I'll bite clean through 'em," Tony threatened, shifting his hips uncomfortably. The blankets thankfully weren't the scratchy type, but still, the occasional thread tickled at his bare sides. "Please don't make me do it, Brucie – you wouldn't even see it coming."

Bruce chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're kinda hard to miss," he tried explaining to the other boy, gesturing once to the leather entrapment on his chest. "I mean, even if it weren't for all your injuries; I think the _bright blue light_ emitted from your chest would give away your position."

Looking down at himself, Tony frowned at the battery and magnet in his chest. "I know you're losing the argument and all, but don't bring my third nipple into this, mate."

"Your – what?"

Tapping a single finger against the magnet made a snigger bubble forth from his lips. "Come on," Tony droned in amusement, rolling his eyes. "It was a good one, and you know it."

When he noticed Bruce's eyes flicker down to the object in his chest, his own brown irises moved down habitually. The staring contest between chocolate and blue didn't last long, and it took all of three seconds before he was forced to look away in hopes of easing the curling nausea in his gut.

He didn't _like it._

Tony was thankful to the people who had sent him the supplies, and even more so to the man beside him who had made him the damned thing – but he was anything but grateful. Yes, the eerily silent hunk of glowing metal and leather was keeping him alive, but he hated it with a passion he thought was long-since burnt out of him. It wasn't anything about the vanity of the situation – some woman loved scars, and his chest was now an abundance of them – but instead about his now apparent lack of control.

Instead of controlling the items that were keeping him alive, both magnet and battery now controlled _him._

Shaking away the depressing thoughts, and the itch to act that came with it, he smiled carefully. "Of course, if you didn't like that one, I have a growing list in my head," he promised, winking once with bright eyes.

His companion only rolled his eyes, ignoring the fingers nervously tapping and pulling at the leather. "Tony, I understand that this _thing_ is technically in your chest, but if you start listing names better suited to the opposite sex – know that I will unplug it."

Tony pressed a hand to his heart in feigned hurt. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Bruce?" he demanded, letting out a shocked sound.

The boy cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "What do you think I'm saying?"

"That I would name this thing after my all-time favourite attribute of the female race," Tony explained slyly, lips moving in a quiet snigger. "I promise you that there are no such names on the list..."

He received a hard look.

"Well, no such names on ninety-nine percent of the list," he grumbled next, whining low in his throat like a child scolded. "Come on, man, what else am I meant to call it? If this thing doesn't look like a _hooter _or a _fun-bag,_ than I don't know what does!"

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly to show his disapproval. "You're not naming Cho's battery after boobs, Tony, end of story."

"Oh my god – _headlight_ is perfect!"

Bruce started, eyes slipping closed before he held out his hand in annoyance. The red apple that sat in his calloused palm sang to the currently sniggering teenager, and he stopped, blinking at the spectacled boy curiously. Bruce only waved his hand again, gesturing for his companion to take the produce.

"Eat it," he commanded. "You're avoiding the broth; I know you are."

"Tastes funny," Tony grumbled, reaching out with a wince to take the offered food. His hands moved awkwardly – almost as though they were rusted from disuse. "Did you watch Blondie make it? I don't trust her..."

Bruce sighed, smiling tightly. "Brunhilde is gone," he revealed shortly. "And no, I was busy making your beloved headlight."

Rubbing the shining surface of the red fruit against the blanket, Tony admired it as its skin shone just a little brighter. "What's with the bossing me around anyway?" he asked in mock irritation, sensing the raw subject he'd breached and retreating. "I'm bedridden, not invalid."

"I'm only looking out for you, Tony," the other boy defended himself. "And I dropped it before – I don't wanna eat it."

Tony laughed loudly, instantly regretting the boisterous noise when pain bloomed in his chest. "Oh crap apples and shit cakes..." he grunted, much to the amusement of his companion. "Don't question the curse; just accept it and move on."

Lifting both hands in surrender, Bruce pushed to his feet. "I heard worse when you woke up," he admitted, yawning into his hands. "I'm going to go look around a bit more – maybe clean up before my guard shift."

Tony nodded, happily chewing as the other boy wandered further away and eventually out of his sight. Once the curly mop disappeared completely, his demeanour changed all but instantly – the hand holding the apple falling to his lap and his over-exaggerated chews falling still. The apple was a strange and unwelcomed flavour in his mouth, and he barely resisted the urge to lean to the side and spit out the mouthful.

His stomach was rolling in displeasure as he swallowed, one hand lifting to wipe at his mouth. A sound of disgust left his mouth, and the red fruit rolled from his hands, coming to a stop on his lap.

He wasn't stupid – he knew he had to eat and recover the fluids he'd lost, and swallowing water was no problem. A few mouthfuls of water was the only reason he could currently talk without coughing up blood, and the sips he was feasting on during the day were the reason he was using his restored voice to speak instead of scream…

Yes, he could accept the pushes and hints for him to drink more – but the next person who tried to make him eat any more of that damned broth was going to have shrapnel digging into where the sun don't shine.

Unless that person was a claw-wielding, badger-like cowboy.

Tony shuddered slightly, nibbling on his lower lip as his gaze flickered to the door nervously. He wasn't sure who had fed him when he was trying to wake up, but he'd been desperate then – his body demanded anything that would sustain him for even a few more seconds – so he hadn't put up much of a fight, and he already regretted it. The taste was still lingering in the back of his throat.

"Tony...?"

His brown eyes had focused on a blonde head. "Oh hey," he greeted Steve brightly, one hand hurriedly picking up the apple again.

Steve wiggled through the door, closing it gently behind him, though he missed the quick movement of the genius's hand. "How are you feeling?" he asked, moving to sit down next to the bed. His blue eyes were flooded with concern, and the boy on the bed shifted in discomfort – unused to being on the receiving end of such a look.

"Chipper," Tony replied shortly, swallowing. "You know me, I'll bounce back eventually."

Steve adopted a hushed demeanour, tongue peeking out to dampen his lips. "I don't, actually," he chuckled without mirth, brow furrowing. "Know you," he elaborated.

"I guess you don't," Tony noted carefully. "Maybe by the end of my sentence you'll know me a little better?"

The blonde chuckled again. "I wish I had more time, actually," he confessed, frowning again. "I thought you were selfish and vain when I first met you, _and_ when I was watching your interview..."

"Sounds like you've changed your opinion," Tony spoke through a mouthful of fruit, forcing himself to chew and swallow despite the displeasure behind the action. "Should I be happy about your new assessment?"

Steve smiled, blinking down at his hands and apparently going into full depression mode. "In the Games, you don't have the time or the strength to keep up all the personas you've been allocated – or the ones you've made yourself," he started, looking up before offering another smile. "In the past few hours, I guess I've seen _you,_ not the guy the stylists put in front of me."

Tony stopped chewing. "Uh, you are aware that I was unconscious for most of our ... _bonding_, right?"

The blonde made a noise of annoyance. "Tony," he said in warning, sounding every bit like a frustrated parent. His blue eyes were tinged with slight mirth but were otherwise a rolling storm in both colour and emotion, glued to his form and eliciting a response within seconds.

"Sarcasm is my only defence."

_Cue disappointed look two…_

Tony sighed and fiddled with the half-eaten core in his hands. "I'm touched, big guy, really, but there's nothing I can say to you that isn't a lie or morbid as hell."

Steve sighed. "Tony –"

"You're not going to get more time," Tony announced flatly, his gaze falling. "You might survive this, but hoping for a future and memories with your newfound _friends_ is sheer stupidity. These hours you're gushing about are not nearly enough, and I hate to break it to you, star-shine, but they're all you're getting."

His blunt words only brought forth silence, and he looked to his hands, avoiding the emotive baby blues staring him down. "But if it counts for anything – you're alright yourself; wish more people like you lived back home."

Steve perked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Silence fell again, and both boys seemed comfortable with the lack of conversation – each leaning back and making small noises of contentment. While the genius didn't want to talk, he wasn't keen on being alone at the current moment, either, and if the blonde was able to give him silent company, he'd happily keep his door open.

"Tony?"

He was shutting the door. Now. _Abort mission, abort, abort –_

"Do you want something to do? I mean, you must be bored just sitting there..." Steve murmured, smiling again when brown eyes shot to his person.

Tony swallowed back another sarcastic comment and instead tried to duplicate the soft smile he was receiving. His lips twisted into something more like a grimace, but the blonde next to him didn't seem to care about the half-hearted attempt.

"This is the part where you tell me what you want to alleviate the boredom..."

Brown eyes widened. "Oh," Tony stammered, racking his mind. Wires and sparks came to mind, and he smiled, sitting up a little straighter at the idea. "Uh – seen any old tech lying about? Bruce said we were in an old retail shop, right? Seen an alarm anywhere?" he offered hesitantly.

Steve bit his lip in thought, slumping against the uncomfortable back of his chair. "I think I did, but it wasn't exactly attached to the wall..." he admitted nervously. "And an alarm system would be scattered about the place. I don't think you're meant to be standing and walking around yet, so you can't work on it."

Tony grumbled, lips tugging into a pout. "Alright, don't rub my bed arrest in..." he murmured, eyes narrowing as thoughts ran through his mind. "Bring it to me anyway; tear it from the wall or something, I really don't care. And any scraps and tools – I want them too."

"Tools? Where am I supposed to find any that work or are in good condition?"

"My pack," Tony threw back quickly. "I had some in there; you guys did bring it with you, right?"

Steve nodded. "There was a metal works down the road, but there's still barely any scraps there... I'll bring what I can; maybe see what else I can find in there anyway..."

Tony nodded and leant back, deciding to finish his apple as he waited for the blonde to return.

* * *

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again; you _really_ don't wanna know."

The blonde boy shifted on his feet awkwardly, mouth opening and closing without sound. He didn't seem to know what to say back to the currently tinkering teenager on the bed and instead studied the mess of wires and metal surrounding the weak form.

He'd left for twenty minutes.

"You're staring again," Tony pointed out, pausing to shove a piece of wire in his mouth.

Steve absently nodded in agreement, watching the genius twist the copper colour, lips pulled back and teeth holding tightly onto the gleaming wire. His fingers worked nimbly and with a grace the body they belonged to lacked, throwing together chunks of metal until his smile turned satisfied. Tugging the wire from his mouth, brown eyes spared the blonde a few seconds.

"Steve, man, you're freaking me out."

Blue eyes blinked in confusion. "I'm just…I left you alone for twenty minutes..." he stammered, gesturing to the pile of twisted silver. "I don't even want to know how you managed to– "

"Did you find the screen and CPU I wanted?"

Steve sighed but rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, mouth once again moving silently. All it took was a pointed look from dark eyes and he was spilling the secrets hiding on his tongue. "Bruce said you weren't allowed to over-exert yourself."

"Screw 'im and bring me the tech," Tony demanded. "I'm doing this for his own benefit anyway – so the big guy can suck it up."

Steve hesitated but moved from the room, coming back in with arms straining. "Here," he grunted, dropping the heavy load on the chair next to the bed. He shook out his arms before moving the chair closer so the other boy could reach it with ease. "He's going to have my head for this..."

"I'll put it on a spike and wave it around in your honour," Tony promised, smiling gently as his nose curled up. "Carry you into battle..."

A smile lit up the blonde's face. "Thanks," Steve muttered wryly, shaking his head. "But tell Bruce that you forced me to do it okay? It was against my will and all that," he finished with another wave of his hand. When Tony nodded, he edged closer to the bed. "What are you doing..?"

Tony licked his lips, attaching the copper wire to the back of the screen before his face split in a grin. "This," he announced, pressing a single uncovered key on an adapted circuit board.

As soon as his warm skin came into contact with the board, the screen lit up into fuzzy pictures and rolling waves of black and white. There was a distinct lack of colour gracing the cracked screen, but both boys grinned as though they'd won the lottery – although admittedly, the blonde's smile was slightly confused.

"That still doesn't answer my question..."

With a brisk roll of his eyes, Tony fiddled a little more with the board, frowning when the image didn't clear up immediately. "Wait a minute..."

After a few more seconds, his frown smoothed out, and the screen branched off into four separate boxes. The images revealed themselves more, and he smiled as he watched his companion realise exactly what he was watching so carefully – his own bent over form.

Steve almost fell backwards, his gaze shooting around the room until it landed on the white cylinder hanging from the wall by a bare wire. "You hacked the security system," he realised in an amazed whisper.

Tony grinned to himself again, already nodding. "Damn straight I did," he announced proudly.

The circuit board in his hand fizzled, his finger tingling under the assault, and he frowned in annoyance. He could hear the blonde move back to his side as he continued with his fiddling, teeth worrying his lower lip as he poked and corrected a few wires he realised weren't in the right place.

_Where the hell did that screw even come from?_

He reached to the side, picking up a compact screwdriver as Steve finally spoke up. "What else can you see..?" the blonde murmured, brow furrowing. "There's this room, and that must be the back room...Is that – wait, is that Logan?"

Tony looked up curiously, studying the image for a few seconds. "Looks like it, yeah; must be one of the cameras from the main store."

"We need the ones surrounding the building..."

Already, the genius was nodding. "I know, don't worry," he promised, licking his lips again and hoping to moisten them. "If I can just get this to...There, that should...Nope, I take it back."

Steve laughed gently, straightening up and cracking his back. "I should probably go – I need to start a fire and all that and get the next guard round ready," he explained, clearing his throat. "Are you going to be okay on your own?"

"Yes, Dad; no, Dad; go away, Dad."

Tony didn't really notice when the blonde left the room and instead focused on making sure that he had access to the cameras he wanted. A small grunt left his throat when another shock travelled up the metal screwdriver, only to infect his hand.

"Shit," he cursed, wincing slightly before getting straight back into it. His hand came away from the board for a few seconds before he forced it back, making sure to stay away from the apparent wild card section. "And if I put this there..."

Tony's brown eyes lit up, turning into a molten chocolate when the view of the darkening street was revealed to him. This was just what the others needed – something to allow them to relax and hopefully stay together at all times. He understood the need to have someone guarding the outside of the store, but he didn't approve of the separation all the shifts caused.

Tony watched the screens for a few seconds longer, blinking in curiosity when a small, painted square appeared in one of the corners. "What the hell..." he noted, his gaze flickering to the screen.

Bruce was pacing.

"Movement..." Tony realised, fighting back another building smile. "Movement means they start to record, but if I change it so movement means they set off a silent alarm...We have jenga."

He set to work with a furrowed brow, beads of sweat already building and dripping down the bridge of his nose. The hollow of his neck was dusted in the sheen of water, and he knew that he was losing more liquid then he was taking in – but this was important, damn it.

They saved his life, and now he had the chance to save theirs. He wasn't losing anyone else to these stupid Games.

_If the alarm's too loud – anyone approaching will hear it, and if they didn't know we were here, they would then...I need something that will always be apparent...something that would make sure we knew…_

His gaze flickered to the small transmitter he'd discarded at the end of his bed, and his eyes widened in thought.

_Maybe it could work…_

With a small grunt, he pushed the screen to the side, moving his hips so the bulky device would fit beside him. The black box was touching his ankles, harmlessly sitting where his bedridden form couldn't reach it.

"Damn it," he seethed, pushing himself further up the bed.

"Need some help, bub?"

Tony stilled at the familiar voice, his fingers halting as he glared at the door that now stood proudly open. He didn't care much for the way he must have appeared and instead snorted loudly, wondering why each of his companions was taking the time to visit him.

_Betcha it's Bruce's fault – little shit probably spewed some nonsense about company helping me recover quickly_

Tony breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Yes, and I thought I warned you against calling me that stupid name?"

Logan grunted, walking further into the room and heading to the end of the bed. His hands hovered above certain items, and whenever the genius would shake his head, he'd move on to the next device. "I also warned you against callin' me 'badger', but that didn't sink in, did it...bub?"

"That – no, the transmitter!" Tony rolled his eyes when the wanted item was finally pressed into his hands. "Thanks," he muttered. "And I have never called you badger."

Logan only cocked a brow. "Not when you thought I could hear ya."

Tony didn't bother to deny it, instead shrugging as he began to pull apart the device in his hands. He felt the curious gaze and wondered if he'd have to explain everything _again_. Without a word, he pointed to the screens before carrying on with his work.

Logan bent down to study the images, eyes showing his approval. "Nice work, kid," he allowed.

At least he didn't have to explain everything again – small miracles.

Tony once again made a noise in response, happily fiddling with the cables and circuits within his latest treasure. Snapping the two plastic halves together, he looked it over. "Come 'ere," he muttered, one hand reaching out for the boy beside him.

"What, you miss me?" Logan teased. He didn't come easily, but when the weak strength behind the boy's arm didn't prove useful, he allowed himself to be moved. "What is it? Tell me you didn't ask me over here just to hold my hand, Stark."

Tony hummed, looking around his bed for any scattered leather. A darkened and aged piece caught his attention, and he kept his grip on the dark-haired boy as he picked it up, using it to make a small bracelet for the transmitter. Logan watched it all with an air of uncertainty, allowing the genius to slip the leather over his hand and claws before settling it on his wrist with surprising gentleness.

"What the hell does it do?" Logan asked.

Tony was already looking back to the cameras, waiting for Bruce's pacing pattern to carry him back in view, and ignored the question.

"Stark?"

_Three...Two…_

"What the blue blazes is this damn thing?"

_One...And silent alarm._

Tony's eyes snapped back to the teenager beside him, studying the hulking form. It happened in a split second; blue eyes widened in confusion and handsome features twisted in pain. "Dammit!" Logan yelped, shaking out the stinging hand. "What the flamin' hell was that?"

Tony grinned. "Electric shock – I tripped a wire is all, so every time there's movement on one of these exterior cameras, instead of recording like the system is hardwired to do, it'll shock you. And voila, you're now alerted to anyone in the immediate area!"

Logan seemed to get it and paused before looking down at his still-tingling hand. "And you expect me to let you shock the hell outta me every time someone moves?"

"No, I expect you to no longer wander outside. No more guarding is where I was going with this. Now you can keep me company – although I'm not sure about the strength of the shock. Stay still; I wanna upgrade it."

"Upgrade it to what?" Logan growled. But it took the short, stocky tribute less than a second to decide he wanted out of the conversation. Logan reached out to scoop up the screen and the wires attached to it. The transmitter was still wrapped around his wrist, and the occasional curse proved that it was still shocking him as a figure flitted across the cameras.

"The next time you try and use me as a lab rat for your little... toys without a fair warning, I'll shove that glowin' target up your ass," Logan warned, leaving the room.

Tony watched him go in amusement, both brows high on his head. "That's a rude thing to say, _Badger!"_ he shouted through the small crack in the door. His voice bounced from the walls and no doubt echoed as the door was slammed shut behind the massive boy.

With a smile, the genius leant back, shifting a few frayed pieces of wires aside and brushing some screws from his pillow. He'd done something for the others, and he only hoped it helped them _without_ backfiring and blowing up in his face.

Admittedly, he still wasn't overly sure about what happened between him and his now-deceased best friend, but he knew he had done something stupid and unforgivable – and he was hoping to clear his name in the next few days, and with his previous actions. Maybe if he saved a few lives and helped people, his chest wouldn't burn in guilt whenever he woke…

Absently, one hand floated down to rub the small of his back. Humanity wasn't meant to lie on soft beds at all hours of the day – that much was evident from the pain coursing through his back.

"Damn, feel like I'm PMS'ing..." he grumbled, beginning to wiggle around under the covers. "Next I'll be wanting peanut butter ice cream and pickle-flavoured gummy bears."

Ignoring the subtle blue light emitted by his chest, Tony continued to shift himself around on the bed with great discomfort. His lower back was groaning in agony, muscles tugging and aching with every breath he took.

"It's not my chest that hurts – no, it's _my back,"_ Tony grumbled in annoyance, biting his lower lip as he wiggled and fidgeted his hips.

The leather wrapped around his chest was not helping matters, and with every shift of his hips, it tugged and pulled at the tender skin around his chest. One hand lifted to slip between the skin and leather, giving some more leeway so he could wiggle further up the bed in hopes of relieving the pain and stiffness in his limbs.

Shifting the leather on his sides, he snorted. "There, you stupid thing," he grunted, settling the stubborn material on his skin again. "Now, sit down and shut up."

As if on cue, the shining leather creaked.

"Oh, talking back now, are we?" Tony demanded, lowering his chin so he could glare heatedly down at the entrapment. Sadly, the leather and metal didn't wither or collapse under his warm gaze, but it satisfied his annoyed mood, and he relaxed back against the pillows again.

The damned battery was going to be the death of him eventually – it wasn't large or even heavy, but it wasn't exactly super-glued to his skin. It may have been the imperfectly perfect answer to the gaping hole in his chest and metal coursing through his body, but it was bad news for any future cardio.

One hand floated down to absently tap out a beat against the battery, lips moving in an awkward mumble. _I could always…_

His brown eyes looked around the room in curiosity, landing on the devices and items before dismissing them easily. He was over-reacting; the battery was state of the art and smaller than other models – and Bruce had done a brilliant job with the leather casing.

There was a low chance of the battery slipping from its halter, and in the process, killing him...But a low chance was still a chance.

"A chest piece..." he murmured, nodding as he hesitantly straightened. The action brought a decent amount of pain with it, but he continued his absent wiggling. "A chest piece would hold the magnet in place without damaging anything – heck, it'll protect me from future damage and spare me the risk of someone ripping it out..."

His eyes were taking on a sheen of excitement, and he sat up completely, his back ram-rod straight. Instantly, his fingers were moving to grab at the scraps of metal lining his bed. The leather still pulled and tugged, but he left it alone as he moved quickly; studying the – he checked the metal type, looking towards the imprints on the sheets – titanium alloy in his hands.

_It's easily modified with a metal cutter, and then melded with more of the alloy – damn, this is going to be a walk in the park! Brucie-boy will let me; it's not going to tug on my injuries, and it'll protect his magnificent work of art here…_

Tony found a long sheet of metal, imagining the metallic torso he could create.

_I can totally do this..._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios**.


	80. Chapter 79: Might of the Chitauri

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with another update for In the End, You Always Kneel. Unfortunately, we might not have another update until next weekend, as my dissertation is due on Friday, and that's gotta be the priority, I'm afraid. However, we do have a nice update here to keep you tied over, and we've just had a new update for Before You Kneel go up yesterday, so check that out if you haven't already!**

**A big thanks to TheHazardsOfLove13, sailorraven34 and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Nine **–** Might of the Chitauri**

**Day Eight**

**Clint Barton of District Two**

**Written by DeadWoman**

* * *

"_Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven." _– Tyron Edwards

* * *

When Clint woke up, Kate was already sitting by a small fire, looking out to the distance. He knew who she was looking for. Her boys.

She was humming. It took him a while to guess the song, but he realised it was an ancient song by some old singer called Taylor Swift. "Morning, little chick," she said cheerfully when she saw that he was awake. She was holding his bow.

"Hands off," he reminded her. It wasn't her 'turn,' not when they weren't hunting. She rolled her eyes and dropped it on the floor mockingly, but they both winced when it hit a rock with a thud. _It better not be scratched,_ he thought. "You sound chirpy this morning."

"I've been counting my eggs, and all in all, we've got a pretty good chance of winning the Games," she said, and then her face fell. "You've got a…I have a…I mean…"

Clint knew why she was suddenly stammering, face red. Only one of them could win. And he was damn sure it would be her. It _had_ to be her.

"Anyway, I was thinking we could hunt today? Our food's running low again," she said, then grinned at him. "I've got my knife and staves. And the binoculars."

"Enough with the damn binoculars." Clint laughed. She threw something at him, and he rolled away, wiping mud off of himself. "Hunting, huh? Food or tributes?"

"You're not a Career now, Clint," she reminded him quietly.

"Okay, we'll go hunting then," he said, slightly embarrassed.

"For food, right?" she asked, half-joking, half-serious. As if she thought he'd want to murder some other kids to make him feel better about killing _Her._ It would help, but he wasn't like that. He didn't kill for no reason.

_Liar. _

_I'm not a psychopath,_ he argued with himself.

Kate studied him for a moment before, finally, she said, "Get up, and we can go, then." She moved away to grab her weapons, and he sat up, resting his head in his hands.

He could still feel the mud caking his leg like a plaster cast, the rain spitting out at him, cold and terrible, as if the storm had only just happened. He could still see the girl in white in his dream (it had to have been a dream, because he'd never get into Heaven), and the girl of his dreams: Natasha. Both beautiful enigmas, wonderful puzzles, but he only wanted to decipher one of them. He couldn't now, of course.

There were multiple Natashas. There was the Red Room assassin with the scowls and the training. There was the gushing and excited girl the rest of the country saw. There was the tribute with the bloodthirsty nature. Then, there was Natasha Romanoff, beautiful, brave and strong. Kate had only seen the happy girl and the tribute. She hadn't seen _Natasha_. No-one had.

It was so clichéd. That he would fall in love with her, only for her to die. Last chapter of her story: Clint falls in love with her. It was the last chapter of her tragedy, and the first of his.

Natasha had cracked, crumbled, under his fingers, turned into ashes, but unlike the phoenix, she wouldn't return, triumphant and fiery. She was human, and that meant being buried in the dirt and forgotten about in the grand scheme of things. One insignificant soul dying ... and Clint felt like he was dead too. He could sympathise with every broken-hearted 'Romeo' in every poem or book he'd ever read. He understood their despair, their need for vengeance, their impatient wait for death to close its jaws around them and let them see their love again.

"Clint?" Kate's voice broke through his deep thoughts, and he looked up, squinting in the sudden bright light of the cloudless sky. "C'mon, slow poke."

He got up, grabbed his bow off the ground, and looked round their makeshift camp. It didn't have anything left to show that they had been there. It was void of anything personal, anything homey. Clint frowned. It seemed wrong to leave it like this, to leave the fire as it slowly died out for another tribute to re-kindle. He got an arrow out from his quiver and pushed it into the ground so it was lodged there. He stood back up, satisfied, then looked at Kate.

She didn't look impressed. "You're such a drama queen," she said and walked off.

He followed, smiling to himself slightly, and ignoring the bad feeling in his mind.

* * *

About two hours into their mildly successful hunt, Clint felt the need to speak up. "Any sign of—" He didn't want to say their names. She seemed to understand anyway, just shrugging as they both stepped over some bricks.

"Not really. I haven't seen anyone yet. But the arena's huge, and I'm keeping my eyes peeled. They'll be out there somewhere, probably trying to find me," Kate said.

"They'll be out there somewhere," he reassured her. Kate nodded. He knew that she knew the chances they were still alive were slimmer with every passing minute, but she was keeping a brave face.

She was better at hiding emotions than he was. Sure, he was still smiling, making Kate laugh, still living, but every so often, he caught her looking at him strangely, and he knew he had let the mask drop again. Grief was stronger than anything else he could feel right now, stronger even than the stiff soreness of his injuries. He'd seen Natasha's face up in the sky – the picture showed her smiling, looking happy, proud, fake – and he'd even heard the cannon and seen her body being carried into the sky by a huge hovercraft, but he couldn't quite process it.

He hadn't told Kate yet how he had killed her, why he had killed her – just that she was gone. Maybe she knew how he felt about Natasha, maybe she didn't, but she hadn't brought it up that much.

"You want me to tell you a story?" he said suddenly.

She beamed at him, her eyes bright at the prospect. "Sure."

"Once upon a time, there was a guy, and this guy knew a girl. She wasn't a princess; she was an assassin, deadly and dangerous, and that made her better. Then, tragedy struck, and the guy and the girl were thrown into a twisted game of killing and surviving. They were good at killing, and they were good at surviving, when they were on their own. But they had to be together, and so they couldn't survive, because he needed her to live, and she cared about him, deep down. Like...very deep down."

Kate smirked, though her bright smile had wavered.

"Then, one day, the guy found out that the girl had betrayed him. She hurt him and then left him. It was to be expected – the girl had a history of lying. But it still hurt, because the guy was too stupid to realise that love has no place in these Games, in his life. So he got mad, and he went after her, murder on his mind. And instead of killing her, he stopped and he told her how he felt. How he loved her more than he loved archery, which was quite a lot."

Kate's smile was all but gone, though she did laugh at that last part.

"Then she might have been about to say it back. She might have told him that she loved him, too, and then he could have gone back to protecting her. But something happened, accidentally or deliberately, and that girl was dying. She was being crushed. The guy didn't want her to die, of course, and he begged her to hold on. But she was begging even more, begging for him to kill her, for him to send an…an arrow through her brain."

Clint paused and tried to become detached from his story. To not feel the emotions that came with it. "He had to kill her. He had to kill her, because she wanted him to, and he loved her so much that he had to do whatever she wanted. And, the funny thing is, that's the end. There's no resurrection or him finding a new girl, because she was it. That was it. There's nothing else after that. Nothing but survival, and the guy…he's fed up with surviving. He's done it all his life, and maybe, just maybe, he wants to give up."

He finished his story, and there was a long pause as Kate stared at him.

"Well," she said at last, "you tell that guy that he has to keep surviving, because he might not love another girl, but if he does give up and just doesn't damn well try anymore, an angry archer might kick him in the balls and _make_ him try."

Clint laughed, and Kate flashed him a smile.

But as the sound of Clint's short laugh left the arena, they realized something else: a complete silence had fallen over the streets.

"Kate," Clint said, and she nodded at him, understanding his wariness. Complete silence was rare. There wasn't even any wind. He stepped forward, bow poised, expecting a tribute to leap out. Maybe Loki. He seemed the type to make the whole arena silent in his presence.

Then, the creatures attacked.

"Clint!" Kate yelled, springing into action, sending her knife through one of the creature's hearts. She ran over to it and pulled the blade out before another reached her. She punched that one, and it momentarily paused before trying to attack her.

Clint took a little longer to respond. He just stood there, shell-shocked. His brain wasn't processing the danger properly. He just kept staring at these…apes? They looked like aliens. They had come out of nowhere, screaming and murderous.

Then someone was grabbing his hand and pulling him along, and Clint felt his side groan in protest as his feet finally remembered to run. They ran for about a minute and reached a large field, empty apart from a few odd sculptures. They ducked behind a sculpture, the stone corroded by age, and hid. Clint didn't like it, but it was the best course of action.

"I always thought I was out of this world, but aliens?" Clint said once he'd caught his breath, and then he chuckled at his own joke.

"You know that it's bad taste to laugh at your own jokes?" she replied, glaring at him.

"Sorry." He looked her up and down. "Any injuries?"

Kate shook her head. "Few scrapes, but nothing major. You?"

"I'm fine." It was a lie, of course. He could feel his body screaming its protest. Kate had been good about patching him up that morning after he'd killed _Her_, but that didn't mean he was any less sore…or any less tired.

He sighed. "They'll find us sometime, Kate. They've probably got tracking skills or something. The Gamemakers wouldn't have put them in if they couldn't hunt and kill us." Clint hesitated. "Maybe I should run out and distract them, and you can—"

Kate looked affronted. "I can what? Get to safety? Don't be so stupid and so damn annoying, Clint. You know that I can hold my own in fights just as well as you can. Maybe better." She shook her head. "I'm not leaving you behind."

"Right, sorry," he said. He looked round the edge of the sculpture, but there was nothing there. No sign of a miniature army of aliens trying to kill them. "What were they?"

"Monkeys, I think. Genetically modified, maybe? Trained by the Gamemakers, like everything else in this place."

Clint didn't know whether she meant the tributes as well.

"Well, whatever they are, we can't just stay here for the rest of the Games, Katie. As much I'd like to, I'm sure we'll get hunted down one way or another." Clint sighed. "Might as well fight while we have the advantage."

"Let's go, then." Kate stood up and held her hand out to help him up. He accepted with a small smile and got up, readying his bow with an arrow. He had never bothered to look at the detail on them before, but the heads were engraved with some kind of markings. They looked like birds and maybe spiders, with an H behind wings. It was beautiful and strange.

"Hey, stop being a drama queen again. Admiring your arrows. Seriously?"

Clint glared at her, and she laughed. He watched her take out her staves and flip them over in both hands, and they nodded at each other, sprinting together toward the streets.

And then, suddenly, about fifteen, maybe twenty apes poured out of buildings and alleys to face them, flashing their teeth at them, growling from the depths of their stomach. "Oh crap," Clint muttered. "Go!"

They ran again, back to the open area, feet pounding on the grass as the violent creatures followed them, yelling and screeching. Rocks and dirt sprayed up from underneath their feet as they escaped. But the apes were only metres away. They were gaining. Fast.

Kate leant down and grabbed a rock, then threw it wildly behind her. The ape's screech was the signal that it had hit its target. But that was one ape, and the rest were still just as bloodthirsty.

Clint released the arrow over his shoulder, letting it fly into one of the apes. "Good shot!" Kate yelled over the sound of pounding feet, and despite himself, despite the dire situation, he smiled. Then he felt something heavy on his arm, and red hot pain blasted through his body as one of them latched onto him, pulling so hard he thought his arm might come off.

Kate was yelling again, but it was more urgent this time, panic clearly written all over her face as she hit the mutt hanging onto him over the head so hard it stumbled backwards and let go of Clint. He held his shoulder with a groan of pain and carried on running.

"I'm okay," he lied. But as he tried to run ahead, he lost his balance, and he was falling, slipping on a large rock, and Kate was screaming his name again. He hit the ground and cursed under his breath as his hearing aid fell out. Instantly, the screaming stopped.

He could just see feet appearing in front of him, and he grabbed Kate's ankle, using it to pull himself up. She was saying something, but he couldn't hear her, so he just kept shaking his head. "I'll find you after! Just go!" he told her.

After a hesitation that felt like a million years of worrying, Kate left, turning her back to him as she ran across a grassy slope into a small building. He tried to go after her, but he was too slow, and something hit him. He collapsed back onto the ground just as the door to the building slammed shut behind her.

Then, the rest of the apes reached him, feet stomping on his back until they all stopped in unison, realising their conquest. Their conquest, who was currently lying on the ground in the foetal position, curled up and beginning to understand what his fate was going to be. Unless a miracle happened right now, he was going to die. And this time, he wouldn't get back up and keep fighting.

This time, it would be nothing more than death.

The apes gathered around him like a cult gathering around a sacrifice. It reminded Clint of the books he had read about ancient times, where sacrifices were commonplace outside temples. Something to appease the gods. Maybe that's what they all amounted to, in the end, sacrifices. Just as that thought passed through his brain, he felt something heavy, and then his leg snapped, bringing with it shocking pain, which almost made him black out.

In the hour that followed, he wished it had. The apes tore at him, nails and teeth sinking into his flesh. He closed his eyes after a while, thinking, stupidly, that that would make it all better, not to see his attackers. It didn't work. It made him feel helpless, like he was trapped in a dark room with all the walls closing in, but he didn't have the energy to open them back up. The copper scent and taste of his blood, the fear, and the salty tears, all clung to him like a thick blanket. It made him feel pathetic. He hadn't even bothered to fight that hard. It was almost like he wanted to die. Almost like he wanted to feel blank and empty again.

As he was killed – the apes were somehow restraining themselves from tearing him apart immediately, creating a better show for the audience he almost forgot was watching – more stories came to him. The stories he had read about past cultures. The idea of reincarnation – his soul travelling to another body for a new life after death – seemed appealing. He had once read about a girl who believed she had been reincarnated and she had found the boy she had once been married to in a previous life – and they got married in their new life. The story was a simple one, of love and something about the girl's faith and perseverance. Things Clint seemingly didn't have anymore. He guessed he'd just have to find a new belief.

At least he knew that all that shit about a bright white light was in fact that, shit. To him, anyway, but he had never been particularly religious. He wondered what it was about death that made him instantly go to religion.

Finally, the apes stopped. He was losing blood, too much of it, but at least now he could give up and die in peace.

Clint opened his eyes and blinked in the harsh sunlight. Wasn't it meant to be raining when someone died? Wasn't it meant to be like in the movies when rain poured down and washed away the blood and someone – normally a woman with perfectly smudged make-up – would cry over the dying man? Wasn't it supposed to be symbolic? Not just another death in the arena full of dying children.

This would be his death site. Not even a great one. A field of sculptures in the middle of a dead city. People would visit here, of course. But not the people he would want to visit his grave. The people he would want to visit his grave…well two of them were dead, and one, he hoped, would never return to an arena again in her whole life. Her whole long life.

Clint tried to speak, but he couldn't, not through the cracked and swollen lips. Then he saw something. A shadow. _An ape come back for round two_, he thought and closed his eyes again. He didn't want to witness this presumably short end to his life. Then, there was a hand on his cheek, someone stroking back his hair. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the redhead and her beautiful smile.

"It's going to be okay," Natasha said. He always loved her voice, and if she was still alive, somehow, she could still win, she could still... _Her voice._ He saw his hearing aid glint in the sun, beside his arm. He could hear her. She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't there. How could she be? He'd killed her. He'd killed her.

_I killed her. _

"Hey, don't beat yourself up about it. I wanted you to kill me, Barton, and you've always been too scared not to do what I want." That little smirk made him smile. If this wasn't real, maybe he could speak as well as hear. His last words could be to a dead girl.

"I…Natasha…" He tried, but his throat kept closing up, denying his need to talk to his district partner this one last time.

"It's not Natasha, Clint, it's not me. The girl, Kate. It's her. She ran out to see you, hear your dying wishes." Natasha smiled. "I've got to go now, Clint."

_No_, he tried. _Please stay._

"See you soon, Barton."

Then, she had gone and Kate was holding him, tears falling down her cheeks as she looked on, inconsolable.

Maybe Clint would get the movie star death, just not with the right girl. He still wanted to say his last words. Get something out, if it was his last time to talk in this life, this world. When was the last time he had spoken? To say Natasha? _Natasha._ One innocent name filled with such darkness, such love, such everything.

That couldn't be his last word. All his life, he had fought hard, survived by himself, refused to give up, and now look at him. Here he was, giving up, dying. His whole life couldn't boil down to this: a murderer in an arena full of ghosts.

He couldn't just be this. He refused. He didn't want to. "I'm…I'm," and there, on the tip of his tongue was a name that he had always been embarrassed to use because he wasn't a hero, he really wasn't, but… "I'm Hawkeye and I am–"

* * *

_"Maybe we should go home now, Barney," Clint said. Barney looked at him and then looked at the sky._

_"We've still got a while left until night falls, Clint," he said. "Maybe we could just stay for a bit longer. Please stay."_

_Clint did, because he couldn't leave his best friend alone on a roof in the middle of District Two. "Just for a bit longer," he promised._

* * *

_Red roses in hand, Clint climbed up the small hill to his mother's grave. It had been a quiet funeral, a year ago today. It hadn't satisfied Clint's want to celebrate his mother's life as loudly and as raucously as possible. When someone died, their death shouldn't be grieved; their life should be celebrated. When he died… Clint paused. He couldn't think about that now. It wasn't the time. Not when he was standing in a graveyard._

* * *

_"Natasha Romanoff, fight Clinton Barton."_

_"Just Clint," he corrected the instructor. A poisonous glare was sent his way, and he held his hands up in mock surrender, smirking all the while. Natasha readied her body in a classic fighting stance, but Clint just stood there and waited for her to make the first move. She did _–_ a punch to the gut that turned out to be a feint as she slapped him so hard he saw stars. As he was still focusing his eyes, she punched and head-butted him, and he went down._

_"Arrogance," she said with a scowl, "will be the death of you."_

_"Oh, honey, I think you'll be the death of me," he replied._

* * *

Clint smiled and let out a deep, final breath.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri**.


	81. Chapter 80: The Prison Inside

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back after our week's delay, and I'm glad to say that my dissertation has been handed in and I don't have to worry about it any more! And fittingly, we're back with an Elektra chapter, after I finally got the chance to finish Daredevil Season Two. Having held you up, I'm not gonna keep you any longer, just want to shout out to the amazing JGrayzz who wrote this chapter, and to thank all of you for your patience.**

**A big thanks to TheHazardsOfLove13, Idalove2read, I-OfTheHawk, sailorraven34 and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews! Thanks for bearing with me while I had my dissertation to finish, things should run a lot smoother now!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty **– **The Prison Inside**

**Day Eight**

**Elektra Natchios of District One**

**Written by JGrayzz**

* * *

_"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"_

—William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

* * *

_Run._

The wind rushed past Elektra's body like waves of a torrential sea as she ran through the war-torn streets.

Her breaths were laboured — her lungs gasping for a sliver of air. There was a powerful burning sensation in her core — like her entire stomach had been lashed by a hundred whips and set on fire. The pain was like nothing she'd ever experienced. But she couldn't stop. She had to keep moving. She had to keep running, no matter how much it hurt.

Elektra didn't have the slightest idea where she was going. The buildings looked the same. The streets went on for miles. There seemed to be no end. For all she knew, she could have been running in circles.

But at this point, it didn't matter.

At the moment, Elektra didn't have a clear objective. Everything was a blur. All she knew was that she couldn't stop, even for a second.

But Elektra knew that at the pace she was going, her body was going to give out sooner or later. She was running on fumes.

Elektra rounded another corner – nearly tripping as she hopped over a downed lightpost. She stumbled, her ankle twisting in an awkward way. But she sped on, nonetheless, unheeded in her panic.

She would run until she couldn't take it anymore. She would run until she was as far away from the city as possible. She kept telling herself these things, silently. As if the words themselves were safety nets she could grasp onto.

But she knew that there was no end to this maze. The city would go on for as long as the Gamemakers pleased. Realistically, Elektra would have to stop sooner or later. At some point, there would be a barrier she could not pass.

But if there was one, she couldn't see it. So she kept on.

Elektra had _killed_ Brunhilde.

She must have. She _heard _the cannon ring across the sky, after she'd left Brunhilde in the street.

Her ears were still ringing with the memory of the cannon…or maybe that had been a _new _cannon she'd heard as she was running through the streets in the morning mists. It was hard to separate the memory from the present.

And as Elektra ran through the streets, she tried to make sense of the events that had transpired the day before. But it seemed, every single time she tried, there was a lapse. A fuzziness. _Something _in her head couldn't — wouldn't let her remember.

Maybe she had to stop. Maybe if she stopped, and _really _thought about it, she could remember what happened.

_No._

Elektra bit down on her tongue, shoving those thoughts aside.

No, she had to keep moving. Running. Or They would find her. They would catch her.

She didn't know what _They _were, really. But They were there. Lurking on the edges of her vision. Little shadows that moved when they weren't supposed to. When she turned, They turned with her. When she ran, They ran with her. She could never see them. But she felt Them.

Their presence is what prompted Elektra to leave her hiding spot in the morning. Ever since then, she had been on the run.

Elektra was limping now. Her foot had begun throbbing not long ago. She must have twisted her ankle when she hopped over the post.

_Shit_.

She slowed to a jog, gasping with pain and fatigue. She was breathing so hard that anyone within a mile's radius could probably hear her. This made her more paranoid, so she kept moving.

She was a mess. A matted, bleeding mess. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how true that sentiment seemed. Elektra felt like she had become a wild thing. One of the vile creatures created by the Gamemakers to prowl the city wasteland.

She was alone — just like she wanted. From the very beginning, Elektra had fantasized about how wonderful it would be to finally break away from the alliance and go off on her own. She would hunt in the night and survive longer than anyone because she'd know where to hide. She'd hide and out-last everyone. And if anyone found her, she'd just outrun them with her speed and agility.

Getting to that point, however, was a different matter entirely. She'd been stuck with an alliance, and so during the first week of the Games, she had been forced not to act but to replay different possible scenarios for action in her head instead. It became a game she played to keep her sanity intact.

Some of these scenarios had made sense, and Elektra had known if things ever got out of control, she could just pull one of them out of her sleeve, and it would _work. _Scenarios that involved Natasha and Clint — Wade even. As a matter of fact, before Wade died, she considered using him as a means of distraction so she could slip away. It probably wouldn't have worked. But Wade still would have listened to her. Wade would have helped her.

As the days went on, Elektra's scenarios became significantly more outlandish. They were never meant to be serious. Elektra used to sit and smile at the thought of them. One particular example involved Elektra manipulating Thor into believing Clint was secretly giving their supplies to another alliance or tribute, maybe his little archer friend. The distrust would have spread easily enough, sparking a feud that might very well have broken the alliance apart early. In the wake of the chaos, Elektra could have run away.

It was a fantasy Elektra played out many times in her head. Realistically, Thor would never have been that stupid. At least, not with Brunhilde looming over his shoulder.

The ironic thing was: Elektra didn't have to do any of that. She never considered how easy it would be to just sit back and watch the dissension within the Careers play out on its own. It was always bound to end, one way or another. And it would have ended whether Elektra killed Wade Wilson or not. With the way Natasha was going, it was remarkable the Careers lasted so long.

She'd never needed a plan to destroy the Careers. Only patience and sacrifice.

And all it took was a few ribs, a pierced stomach, a pint of blood, a twisted ankle, and her sanity.

Her ribs were likely bruised, damaged from when Brunhilde had knocked her down when they first fought. Brunhilde had no weapon then, but the force of her desperation to escape before Elektra could finish the fight had thrown Elektra back far enough to do some real damage. The second fight had only left her with more damage, as Brunhilde's last, berserk charge had forced the edge of her sai through Elektra's stomach, though Elektra doubted Brunhilde had noticed, because she had already been dying by then.

As Elektra jogged through the streets, clutching her stomach with one hand and grasping her blood-stained sai in the other, the streets began to rumble. The skies had suddenly gone from clear azure to a sickly green.

The rumbling hardly sounded normal — resembling the muffled wailing of some tortured creature or creatures. If the Gamemakers were intending to strike fear in the hearts of the surviving tributes, it worked.

Elektra grew paranoid at the sound and increased her running pace. In spite of her injuries, a motley collection from two fights with Brunhilde and her own exhausted stumbling through the streets, she was confident she could pull through for another half mile.

Her mouth was dry — when was the last time she had a drink? Or ate? Or stopped to truly catch her breath?

She was suddenly overcome with extreme vertigo. The streets swirled beneath her like liquid concrete, the buildings on either side swirling into the sky like plumes of smoke. Everything felt _wrong._

And before she knew it, her face met the wet pavement in a crash.

_No…_

_No!_

Elektra tried to rise, but her body ached with the pain of a burning inferno, cutting at her skin like a thousand daggers. Her fingers clawed at the cracks in the concrete, trying to reach for a car, or a lamppost, or anything to latch onto. But there was nothing but the rain.

She cried out in pain as fresh blood leaked from her stomach; the healing skin re-opened with her hard fall, snagging on the jagged edge of torn pavement to open her wound even more. Blood spilled onto the street and saturated into the dust-filled water, forming puddles of red-orange dye. Elektra glanced at her blood for a second, then shifted herself onto her back and stared blankly at the murky green sky, rain drops pattering against her skin.

For just a second, the idea of death tickled her thoughts as she lay bleeding in the street.

At this point, it was sensible. Inviting, even. She could end it right here by jabbing the sai in her own throat, ending her pain. She was a broken, pitiful thing. As crippled and horrible as the spider mutts her allies had killed only days earlier.

And what was she, if not a mutt herself? In the last week, she'd taken the lives of two of her allies. No, not just allies. Two _human beings._

She tried to rationalize her actions for the first life she claimed. Her District partner, Wade Wilson, was due to die anyway. The infection that spread through his veins like liquid fire would cause him more suffering than if she were to do him in with one quick strike. And she could fuzzily remember the final breath that escaped his lips, how it reminded her of the feeling when a bird took off in flight, leaving its nest forever.

And every night, she'd see his face in her dreams. The dreams were always the same in nature. Wade would be there, sitting cross-legged across from her in a black void. They would be talking about something, and then he'd stop suddenly. He would remove his mask, and she sat there frozen while he did. And she'd see his face — his horrible, scarred face, and he'd stare at her not with the familiar grin she'd grown so accustomed to hearing in his voice behind the mask but with a palpable look of hatred.

Accusation.

He had no mouth, so he couldn't scream, but she knew he would have, if he could. And then he'd leap towards her and choke her with all his might. She'd scream, but no sound would come through. All she could do was lie there, staring up into the pitch-black, predatory eyes of Wade Wilson as he choked the life out of her.

But then she'd remember Wade had brown eyes, and she'd always wake up.

They always distrusted her after that. Even when she thought she'd repaired her relationship with Thor, after she'd earned his trust by saving his life — Brunhilde's influence on her cousin was like an iron vice-grip. That girl never trusted her. Never.

Why couldn't they see? Why were they so blind? Elektra covered her wet face with her bloodied hands as she wondered, her thoughts turning to the last few days now that she had stopped running.

Were they blind to his suffering? She didn't know. She thought she'd done the right thing. All she could think about were Wade's cries of pain. It was so unlike him to cry. He was a fool in many ways, but that was what made him…_him._

So they kept an eye on her. Stripped her of her weapons and made sure she was always in sight. She managed to sway Thor's opinion after saving his life. She wanted her sai back, and she got them.

They later tracked Carol Danvers and her allies through the darkness. The Careers ambushed them in a parking lot, and they managed to kill a wounded and distracted Carol. Everything had gone to plan.

So what went wrong?

She tried to remember, pounding her fists against her forehead as if it could rekindle some forgotten memory.

The fire.

She could remember it clearly even now. The smoke, the panic. One second, they were asleep, and then their packs were set ablaze. Natasha had betrayed them. She had betrayed them all and tried to kill Clint.

The conniving bitch was planning it all along, right underneath their noses. Elektra had always suspected Natasha would do something. If anything, she was surprised Natasha hadn't just killed them all in their sleep, or poisoned their rations. She was calculating in her escape. She caused a distraction, and then weakened them. Natasha had probably expected Clint to die, but he was resilient.

And then…the morning after, Clint just left. He never said anything. Not one thing. Clint must have made up his mind that he wasn't going to say anything. Maybe he was going to find Natasha, or maybe he was going to try to kill her alone.

And that's when everything started to get foggy.

Elektra attempted once more to sit up in the storm, scooting backward until her back hit a piece of cement wall. The rain lessened to a light drizzle, but the mist still pervaded the streets like a thick soup.

She craned her aching neck down to observe her injuries and nearly gasped when she saw the extent of the damage. At first glance, it wasn't looking so good.

_Blood. Lots of blood. Definitely not good._

Elektra had never been injured or in serious pain her entire life. She was always the one hurting people. She inflicted pain, but she never felt it like this.

And yet, in some weird way, she'd become so numb to the concept of pain and suffering, from her life in the streets, to her life in the cell, that things like this? They didn't faze her the same way it might have fazed other people.

Where some would see blood and misery, she saw a hindrance.

She instinctively groaned in pain at the deep wound in her core. It hurt. It hurt more than anything she'd ever felt before. But she had to ignore it.

She was not going to be backed into a corner like some wounded animal. She wasn't going to let those bastards in the Capitol smite her down as they laughed from up above.

She propped herself to her knees by pure will, teeth grit in some primal urge to survive. Anybody else would have accepted their fate. Anybody else would have curled up into a ball at the sight of that much blood.

That's what made her different. That's what made her a _predator_.

She stabbed her sai into the ground, using them to leverage herself up to her feet. She was wobbly, knees shaking. Her body was begging her to stop. All systems were failing. Blood seeped through her fingers, and her head was pounding to the beat of her frantic heart like a war drum.

She pounded her fist against her chest, forcing herself to withstand the pain that shivered through her body. She was a predator. She'd always be a predator. She wasn't supposed to feel pain.

She limped through the streets. Elektra feared that if she tried to run, she'd probably die. She had pushed the limits of what was humanly possible in the last several hours, and it was taking a toll.

Elektra needed to go somewhere — anywhere. Just not in the street. The more she limped, the more the blackness at the edges of her vision began to close in like a menacing fog.

It was almost too convenient in a way that as soon as she hobbled around the first corner, They appeared. The shadowy, wispy forms of her moral tormentors. She knew they weren't really there.

But…did she _really?_

The thoughts didn't console her. She looked behind her and beside her. She didn't see anything. She never did. But that was their trick. It was only when she averted her eyes that They appeared — moving towards her like hungry dogs.

She stumbled again but stopped her fall with one of her sai. With a growl, she heaved back up from her crouch and punched her stomach. She would not make the same mistake again. She would not be weak.

_I'm the predator. I'm the wolf. I'm everything they fear._

"I'm the predator, aren't I?" she whispered to herself between laboured breaths. She weaved through rubble in the streets like she'd done it a million times.

There was a particular billboard hanging off a building that caught her eye. It read, in tattered white letters — the first word missing: "**SQUARE GARDEN**." Odd, because she didn't see a 'garden' anywhere. What did it mean?

Something large and fierce whipped past her like a bullet. She knew what it was. They were getting closer.

She sped through the streets as fast as one leg could carry her and as fast as her failing body would cooperate with her. She could feel them surging closer — the dark shapes. She began to panic. Why was she so scared? They weren't _real._

Something smashed into a large trash bin from behind her, which startled her into running, despite the fatigue wearing her down. As she ran, more and more objects around her began to smash about — like something large was ramming their body into them.

She could see the _dents. _They were real. They had to be real. And they were coming for her.

The blackness nearly blinded her vision. She felt numb. Her hands were glued onto her sai in self-preservation. Her feet carried her out of pure willpower. If she stopped, she was going to pass out. She needed to find somewhere to go. Somewhere to sleep.

Suddenly, a yellow car _smashed _into one of the buildings across the street, colliding with concrete and flipping upside-down just a few feet away from her. Alarms blared from some of the parked vehicles nearby.

She screamed, shielding her head, fully expecting the car to crash into her. When she finally looked, there was only a cloud of dust.

_What the hell is happening?!_

She didn't want to stay to find out. As the ground began to wobble beneath her again, more and more of the debris around her began to crash into the ground at extreme speeds. Windows from the skyscrapers crashed and rained down on her as rocks were thrown into them by her unseen tormentors.

She avoided what she could in her half-conscious state. Some small rocks pelted into her, leaving new cuts. All she heard was the blaring of her heart and the furious howling of the wind.

Anxiously, she saw what looked to be some stone steps leading up to a maroon door. As more alarms blared, and pieces of car debris pelted past her head, she climbed up the steps with bloody fingers, leaving stains on the untouched stone. She placed one of the sai between her teeth, while she used both hands to push on the door.

For the first time in her life, Elektra _prayed _for the door to be unlocked. She turned the golden knob and, with all that remained of her strength, _threw _herself into the dark, dusty hallway of the building, only conscious enough to ram the door shut and lock it behind her, just before a shadowy figure would have grabbed her.

She didn't know where she was. Didn't have enough time to even see the numbers at the top of the door. Her breaths were the only sound that filled the dark hallway. She placed her ear against the door but could hear nothing outside. Not the alarms. Not the crashing.

It was a nice change, but she couldn't relax yet. Not in a place like this.

She used the coat rack by the door and gripped onto it firmly, pulling herself to one foot and using the rack as an improvised crutch. She could see little and hear little.

There was a doorway to the left, which led into a small room. In the darkness, her fingers slid across the wall for a light switch. She found nothing. She stumbled around for a bit, feeling through the room until her hand met something soft and comfortable. A futon of some sort.

She didn't bother to check the other rooms. She didn't even bother to check for a light. As soon as she found the couch, she collapsed. She was only conscious a few seconds — just enough to smile bitterly.

"_Yes. Yes I am," _she said, before falling into a dreamless sleep, sai still clutched in her hand as if it were moulded to her skin by the very blood that dripped from it.

* * *

"_Alright, time to wake up! Come on, kid, let's go." The door burst open with a _clang_, and her nightmare ended prematurely._

_Slender rays of sunlight escaped into the cell from the small ventilation shaft high above, blinding her irises. She rubbed her clammy face and sat up from her thin mattress, watching the prison guard closely as he undid the chains around her wrists. The stocky man hesitated as he went to unclasp the chain around her right ankle._

_A few days ago, a guard got a little too friendly with her, so she head-butted him. They placed her further down the block in solitary. The 'part where the sun don't shine,' they told her. She didn't like it there. It was too dark. Too cold._

"_When am I going back?" she asked._

_He flinched when she spoke. "E—Excuse me?" His face was cold, but his eyes were terrified. She was getting good at reading people's eyes and measuring their fear. After what she did to the other guy, word must have gotten around._

"_Am I going to go back soon?" Elektra gestured down the cell block. "Back down there?"_

_The guard tossed her chains to the side and placed his hands on his hips, thinking for a moment. "Possibly. If you behave yourself."_

_He motioned for her to walk, grabbing her by the collar and leading her down the wide cell block, taking a detour through a series of maze-like hallways._

"_Where are we going, Officer?"_

_The guard didn't respond for a bit. They all did that. They made sure to treat her like a prisoner. They weren't going to be her friend. One of the men told her that on the first day. She was fine with that._

"_You're going outside to the yard," he said, a twinge of bitterness in his voice that he didn't mask well. "Think of it like a... like a _recess_. Do you remember that from school?"_

_She nodded. "Sort of."_

_It was strange how he talked to her. He acted like she was a child, even after what she did to wind up here. She wasn't some stupid_kid _anymore._

_They came upon a reinforced door with guards everywhere. They checked her thoroughly again and then opened the door to the outside. The hot sun blinded her._

_The guard turned to her, less scared this time. "Remember what I said earlier. You cause trouble, and you're staying in the _dark place_, understand?"_

_She nodded._

"_You've got two hours out there; make the most of them," he said._

_She stepped outside for the first time in almost three weeks. It was… it was just as beautiful as she remembered. She almost smiled._

_It was so weird to her, how much she appreciated the sun now. Sometimes, the sun would peek into her cell, but it wasn't the same. She missed being outside. She kind of missed being a kid._

_Three weeks ago, she was laughing with her friends, on top of the world in her gang. And then she hurt someone, and now she was here for the rest of her life._

_The rec-yard wasn't huge, but there was lots of grass. Enough space to move around and keep to herself. A steel-reinforced fence lined the entire yard, with twisting spikes along the top, and towers with sirens and long guns poking out of the windows. _

So much for recess.

_She noticed a basketball court off to the east. Large, scary men were laughing and playing roughly. She didn't want to mess with them._

_There weren't as many people as she expected, but there were still enough to make her nervous. There were few people who were alone. Many were in clusters._

_Groups of burly, tattooed men leaned against a wall, staring at her with curious eyes. Like she was some sort of strange creature. This made her angry, but she couldn't do anything about it._

_Elektra ambled off to the side of the yard, ignoring the hard stares and remarks. She had to get used to this. She was going to be in here for a long time. These people scared her, but she had to find a way to fit in._

_She wandered off to the very west of the yard, plopping down in front of the fence._

_She noticed a slender, red-haired boy with tattoos all over his arms, smoking and watching her from across the yard with a big smirk on his face. He looked like trouble. He wouldn't stop looking at her. She seethed silently, punching the ground with the side of her fist, imagining it to be his stupid face._

_The minutes ticked by. Elektra remained still, sitting on the ground, scowling as she pulled at blades of grass. Oh, how she longed to run and jump through the yard like a little girl. To feel what it was to be innocent and free._

_For the first time, it finally occurred to her that she might have made a big mistake killing that man. Her life truly was over, wasn't it?_

_She noticed something peculiar on the southern region of the yard. Two peculiar things. One was a short, scrawny boy with shaggy hair, kicking the air. The other, an old man with shades and some sort of cane in his wretched hands, watching the boy with a stoic expression._

_She sat up and observed the two with intense fascination. How did they allow something like this? She stopped herself and asked a much better question: Who was that man?_

_As far as she knew, Elektra was the only girl in her entire district who knew how to kick like that. Bullseye was decent, but she always knew she could be _better_. She used to do martial arts when she was younger, and she had gotten pretty good before everything changed. She used to be able to kick above her head — no problem. Now? She didn't really know. She had been in chains for the past two weeks. But maybe she was still flexible._

_She brought her knee up and continued watching with a funny expression she didn't realize she was making._

_At one point, the old man stopped the boy in the middle of a kick with a whistle and corrected his posture with the cane. She realized he was_teaching_ the boy how to _fight.

_A fire burned in Elektra's heart at the sight of this. Her dream was to become the best martial artist in Marvel. The best martial artist _ever._ She had once been obsessed with this dream for a long time. She couldn't think of anything else but that._

_The fire she felt filled her hollowness. This strange feeling of lightning surged through her at the thought of kicking and punching. Of learning more. Her blasé curiosity turned into bitter envy._

She_ wanted to do that. _She_ wanted to learn._

_She looked around nervously, propping herself on her knees excitedly. The boy staring at her from before had moved. Good. Nobody was looking at her anymore. To them, she was just some stupid little girl._

Well,_ she smirked in thought, _That's going to change now.

_She waited for the shaggy-haired boy to leave before she made her move, prowling over to the old man like a feline about to pounce on her kill._

_He was much older than she thought. He had so many wrinkles, he almost looked inhuman. Wispy grey hair flowed in the wind behind him, and he looked dangerously underfed._

_She walked over to him confidently. "Hey, mister," she said, a small, excited smirk playing on her face._

_He didn't say anything. He didn't even flinch at the sound of her voice, like the guards did. _Weird.

Maybe if I stood in front of him_, she thought. She shuffled over, directly in his line of sight._

"Hey_, right here." She waved._

_The old man looked right past her. Didn't even acknowledge her. What was wrong with this man?_

"_Hey, are you deaf?" she asked, annoyed._

Wait, that didn't make any sense,_ she thought._

_She blushed and stormed away, standing right next to him by the fence with her arms crossed. "I can do that too." She tried to mock him, but it only made her look stupid. He didn't even care._

_A basketball came flying over to them out of nowhere with a _whoosh_. She barely heard it coming and jumped out of the way. The old man reacted even before her, blocking the ball with his cane, catching it, and throwing it back across the field with ease. All without even turning his head._

_The men thanked him from across the court, and he smiled and nodded in return._

_She stared at him incredulously. Well, if he was deaf, then how did he know to stop that ball from hitting him in the head? How did he know to nod when those guys thanked him?_

He certainly isn't deaf.

"_Why aren't you talking to me?" She walked back over in front of him again, staring directly into his black shades. "Is it because I'm a girl?"_

_She thought _that _would get him to talk, but he didn't care about that either! So if it wasn't because she was a girl, then what was it?_

_He was ignoring her. The old man was_ ignoring_ her. But why? This infuriated her._

_She kicked up dirt in the grass angrily. She wanted to kick the old man in the nose, but she remembered what the guard told her. If she caused any trouble, she was staying in the dark place._

_She would lose this battle. She knew time was running out. Pretty soon, the guards would take her away, and who knows how long she'd have to wait to get this chance again._

"_I can kick better than anyone," she mumbled to herself. "Better than you."_

_She was losing control. She could never handle rejection very well. Maybe it was conditioned into her head from her years in the Hand or something, but she wasn't always like this. She used to be a calm kid before everything happened._

_She began to kick the air for the first time in weeks. She forgot how good it felt. Her joints cracked as she did — a reminder of the amount of time it had been since she'd thrown a good kick._

_She wasn't trying to prove anything, she told herself. She was trying to release her anger productively. If it wasn't this, she'd be doing something worse._

_She kicked over and over at anything that moved. She even kicked the fence for good measure. She swore loudly when she messed up a pivot._

"Stop it._ Just stop."_

_Elektra heard a groan from the old man and froze immediately, her breaths laboured. _"_Was my form off?" she asked._

_The old man paused and then spat on the ground. She couldn't see his eyes through his black shades, which really bothered her. He didn't even look at her. His head was looking past her shoulder._

"_What's your problem, kid?"_

_She tilted her head, confused._

My problem? What about _his_ problem?

"_What?" She smacked a strand of sweat-drenched hair from her face. "Why were you ignoring me?"_

_The old man spat again. "I ask the questions here, _kid_. You're throwin' your leg around like it's caught on fire or something. You're makin' me look stupid, you know that?"_

_She approached him without hesitation, gritting her teeth. She was mere inches from his face. "Then how about you teach me?"_

_He cackled softly to himself, slapping his leg like he had just heard a good joke. His breath was rancid, and his age showed in the wrinkles around his nose. He was a washed-up mess._

"_I haven't laughed like that in years," he mused. "Now answer me or quit wasting my time. _What is your problem?"

"_Teach me," she repeated._

"_Teach you what? How to dance?" His smile turned to stern indifference quickly. "I don't teach brats, children who don't know how to respect their elders. And I definitely don't teach people who _aren't worth my time."

"_I'm not a _kid_," she hissed. Her fists were balled up in her hands now. She'd do the same thing she did to Bullseye. She didn't care about what the guards said anymore. This old man had it coming._

"_Whatever you say… _kid._" The old man smiled again, resting his palms calmly on the butt of his cane. "_Ah_, that's right. You think you're an adult now because you killed someone, right?"_

How did he know? He wasn't there! Stupid old coot.

"_I have news for you, girl. That doesn't make you an adult — but it does make _you_ look real _ugly_."_

_She'd heard enough._

_She nodded, turned her head to peek at the guards, and without hesitation hurled her fist straight for the old man's crooked nose._

_Except her fist met thin air before colliding into the chain link fence. That wasn't right._

_Quickly, she turned and evaded the right kick that came flying her way and decided to send one of her own._

We'll see who the kid is around here. I'll show him by breaking his stupid nose!

_With a pivot, her foot flew with all the power she could muster, and she fully expected to hear a crack._

_The old man caught her foot in his withered hand, and without even exerting effort, he toppled her over onto her back. She saw stars as her head hit the grass, breaths coming in ragged. She couldn't even make a hate-filled retort._

_The old man leaned over her, pulling off his shades to reveal his strange milky-white eyes. He looked almost concerned and, much to her ire, satisfied. "You kids just get worse and worse." He sighed. "I can't teach someone like you. You're too angry, too emotional — filled with hate."_

_He threw his glasses down at her. "Keep the shades." He stepped over her and shook his head. "Maybe come back to me when you really want to learn something, kid."_

_Elektra sat up, defeated, clutching the back of her neck._

I'm not angry. I'm not emotional. He's wrong. I'll show him. I'll show everyone. I'll be the greatest martial artist who ever lived.

_She picked up and glanced at the old man's pair of glasses. Inscribed on the inside of the frame were the words: "__**Property of Stick**__." She stared at her reflection for a moment before crushing the shades between her fingers._

* * *

Elektra woke up with a start.

She immediately felt a dull throbbing in her head. The pain had receded. She wondered how long she'd been out.

The room was still dark. Thankfully, the Gamemakers hadn't given her a rude awakening. That must have meant there was enough action elsewhere in the arena.

Elektra sat up slowly, grabbing on to the back of the sofa with recovered strength. Her breathing was laboured somewhat. Her chest felt like it was burning. Her ankle felt weird. Her ribs ached, and the deep cuts in her stomach felt worse now than before. But the blood seemed to have dried up and was no longer flowing freely, so that was something.

"I'm alive," she breathed, almost sounding surprised. She rubbed her eyes and laughed softly. She punched her chest and focused her breathing.

_In...and out._

"I'm alive," she repeated.

Elektra spent the next several minutes trying to find a light source. She eventually came upon a wall lamp with a crude switch and sat back down on the couch. She examined her wounds more closely. They didn't look as bad as they felt. The damage must have been primarily internal.

With no bandages or medicine, Elektra would just have to tough it out for the next few days until either a sponsor sent her something or she got lucky and found a backpack.

She rubbed her temples and sighed.

_What a mess._

Everything bad that had happened with the Careers revolved around Elektra. She knew from the beginning that being in the alliance would only slow her down. That she was better off fleeing in the bloodbath when they were all distracted. Hell, she could have taken _Wade _with her. He wouldn't have gotten infected. She wouldn't have killed him.

She was stupid to think there wouldn't be problems with her _allies. _For once, she was trying to be idealistic, and look where it got her.

Back in One, when she was growing up in the Hand, loyalty was an expectation. She was naturally independent, but she learned how to get along with people. Or at least fake getting along. She thought being in the Careers would be the same way. She'd bite her tongue and try not to get involved.

She needed to figure out what went wrong. It bothered her. Maybe her ego prevented her from completely blaming _herself. _She knew it wasn't all her fault.

It was easy for people with an outsider's perspective, like Brunhilde, to think she was _purposely _trying to sabotage the Careers. If she was really aiming to do that, she would have gone about it in a much subtler way.

She wouldn't have killed Wade; she would have gotten someone else to do it.

She wouldn't have killed Brunhilde; she would have gotten someone else to do that as well.

And as she lay on the couch, resting her foot on the table in the centre of the room, groggily listening to the ticking of the mantle clock, she recalled something.

_"So...you plan to leave?"_

_Loki shrugged. "Well, not now, of course. But… if something… drastic were to happen within the alliance — and I have every reason to believe it will — then yes, suffice to say, I most likely will have left by then."_

Elektra leaned her head forward, the headache no longer the focus of her thoughts. "That son of a bitch," she whispered.

Her cheeks flushed in anger, rage, and a spike of adrenaline bubbling through the recesses of her broken body as she remembered.

It was funny how so inconsequential something — or someone — could seem in the midst of a puzzle. And then you look back and analyse, as Elektra often did, and there was always an answer.

In the fallout of the alliance's disbandment, she didn't stop to think that maybe she was being played. Maybe it _was_ never her fault to begin with.

Loki was always there, the little snake in the shadows, tempting her with his silver tongue.

When she looked back on all the conversations she's had with that boy, she was always left with the feeling that she gained nothing from them, while Loki gained everything. He was the tactician. He was the master manipulator.

She thought he had good intentions. She thought he was too cowardly to try anything in the open. But he never needed to. She underestimated him.

Who better to organize the fall of the Career alliance than Thor's black-sheep brother?

Elektra wanted to stay put. She'd found shelter. But after everything she'd gone through, someone needed to answer for her blood. Someone needed to pay for her suffering.

Loki ruined everything. He ruined _her._

_But he offered to help you, too. Remember?_

"Shut up," she hissed.

_The only person you can run to now is Loki. Everyone else thinks you're a monster._

"Shut up!" Elektra brought her fist down on the table, despite knowing it to be true.

But then again…

Elektra had come into this with no intentions to harm anyone. This was her quest for _redemption_.

She tried so hard to run from what she was. She shed so many tears.

But Stick was right. Johnny Storm was right. She was _ugly._

But what would...What would _Papa_ think?

_Papa._

She missed him.

Elektra punched her chest.

"Forget about him," she said to herself.

Her mind was blank as she sharpened her blades, but the doubts tried to seep in through the cracks.

_You still have hope._

"I really don't." She stabbed the table, and it punctured the wood cleanly through the other side. Satisfied, she slipped the blades through her makeshift sheathes.

_You don't have to do this._

"I do." She shook her head. "I have to do this."

_You can— You can just stay here! Where it's safe!_

"I'll _die _if I stay!" She shouted, the wooden chair flying from her hands and splintering into the wall before she even realized she'd grabbed it.

The furniture began to vibrate again. The floors and walls wobbled slightly. The ringing in her ears returned.

She punched her chest again, and it all went away.

She took out the souvenir from home that she'd almost forgotten about. The wool-knitted hat. Once a dark pink, with white floral designs, now it was covered in scarlet, as red as the blood that unknowingly began to trickle down her nose. She thought it looked better that way.

She placed the winter hat on her head. It fit nicely and contrasted with her raven-coloured hair.

She kicked aside the table with ease as she moved to the wall, where she began to carve her initials into the wood with her sai. She didn't know why she was doing it. She felt it was something she needed to do.

Now whoever found this place would know she'd return.

Even if anyone didn't see it, they'd smell the stink of blood and death.

Despite her slight limp, the pain had become manageable. The headache was still there, as was the occasional feeling of vertigo. Elektra still hadn't noticed her bloody nose.

The lights were left on in the empty apartment as Elektra yanked the chain off the door and pulled it open, the afternoon sun bathing her in a glow of orange and pink.

The carnage from earlier — the thrown cars and rocks… were gone. Even the sky was clear. The only thing Elektra could see were her bloody handprints from earlier, leading up the stairs, where a peculiar ashen stain, resembling black dust, left an imprint on the red door.

She didn't know what to think.

Elektra eyed the empty streets suspiciously. When the buildings began to wobble, she punched her chest, and it all went away. She went left, and the birds chirping in the trees fell silent as she passed.

Elektra limped down the street with one mission: Find Loki Odinson.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**


	82. Chapter 81: Cold Blood

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our Tuesday update for In the End, You Always Kneel, as we resume our normal update schedule. This time we return to the amazing InDeepDarkWood and her character, Ororo Munroe a.k.a. Halle Berry. I mean Alexandra Shipp. I mean Storm… Brain not working properly, so gonna leave to read our latest chapter.**

**A big thanks, as always, to sailorraven34 and Idalove2read for their reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-One – Cold Blood**

**Evening, Day Eight**

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

"_There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." _– Washington Irving

"_Et tu, Brute?" _– William Shakespeare, _Julius __Caesar_

* * *

It had taken approximately one hour for Ororo to realise that she preferred her companion unconscious and playing a 'non-speaking' role in their union. He was a queer one, which she had known from the Capitol, very much capable of trodding on the heads of others in order to climb his way to the top. The top was a rank that seemed to befit the great Loki Odinson far better than the skinny runt from Twelve with questionable parentage. _Likes to keep his secrets close,_ she mused, lying on the grass with her body stretched out as far as humanly possible. The grass poked through her top, tickling her skin and providing a mild distraction to the pain that extended from between her shoulder blades all the way down to the tip of her toes.

She was propped up on her elbows, hands cupping her chin as she kept watch for her companion. Loki had grumbled rather loudly when she had suggested he go search for water; Ororo gave a small smile as she recalled the loud of disbelief on the boy's face at the idea of doing _something_ productive, despite the fact that only _a few hours previous_, he'd been on death's door. "Maybe I should've played knock-knock," she said aloud, her voice drowned out by the vastness of the Arena.

It had been a dangerous idea, dragging Loki from the side of the river. Sam, she knew, would be angry at her. He was probably standing at a monitor, muttering profanities at the stupidity of his remaining tribute. Ororo was almost sorry to be causing him such hardship, but she guessed he was used to tributes doing stupid things over the years. "You _told _me to get an ally," she reminded him, just in case the camera was facing her. Just in case he was listening. "And what better ally to get, than one I don't think I'd mind killing?" Her voice caught at the last word, and the smile faded from her face. She let her head dropped onto the grass, forehead squelching into the soil, and groaned into the mud.

Of _course_ she'd mind killing someone.

Her head banged against the ground again.

Why had she even said that?

Her heart leaped into a higher gear, and she felt it thump against her rib cage like a brick. Slowly, she pulled herself back up so her chin resumed its position on her hands, struggling to breathe correctly and get her heart back down to normal. Counting the knots on her bedroom ceiling seemed so long ago now, and she had no wooden knolls to look at here. She started counting the blades of grass instead, each one in time with her heartbeat until she felt it begin to slow. She kept her eyes open, trying not to blink too much, because she knew she was tired, and if she blinked for too long, she might forget to open her eyes. _And Loki could stab me in the back._

He hadn't complained when she said she'd take the night's watch. She had told him it was because he was weak from the river, but it wasn't quite that. Ororo, though she considered herself to be mildly generous, had never offered Steve a whole night's sleep. That wasn't the point of an ally, to be fearful to sleep in their midst – although, to be fair, Ororo was fairly certain she could take Loki down in her sleep if he tried anything. _Maybe tonight,_ she thought, still counting the grass in a section of her head. The girl didn't really want to close her eyes though; Thor's glassy pair stared back at her every time she did.

"It's not my fault," she said in a growly voice to the grass.

Ororo knew going into the Arena that she would probably have to kill someone. She had already had a heart-to-heart with her conscience, and the two of them had been perfectly alright with it. Thor was going to kill her, so she had killed him. _Eric _killed people in his Games. Her brother had probably sat in the same room as T'Challa, and had a deep and meaningful conversation with himself, and had come to the same conclusion Ororo had; just because they didn't like it, didn't mean that they wouldn't get the job done. It wasn't like she pulled a McCoy on it and unleashed the beast. It wasn't as though she had suddenly _changed._ People said that the Games changed tributes.

"It's not my fault, Forge," she said again, in a quieter voice. "I'm still me." She was still Ororo, just with the addition of a giant hammer. In Eleven, they'd watch the Games. It was something that was done, even if people didn't like it. Every year, there would be moments where the dying didn't seem real, and she would shout for her favourite tribute. The victor would come to Eleven, and she would stand with Forge and her family – mandatory attendance, if not mandatory age sections. They would say something about the dead Elevens, and something about Thanos, and something about the Games, and Forge would point at them and whisper in her ear, "_They've changed. They all change."_

If she won, would he say the same thing to her? He had told her to come back. Her hand absentmindedly rubbed the cheek he had slapped, legs swinging up and down in the air like she was just out for a mid-day bask. That was before though, before she had left T'Challa behind to die, and left Carol behind to die, and killed Thor, and abandoned a friend. If she won, would he hug her as fiercely as before she left? Or would he think that she'd killed Old Ororo, and New Ororo just wasn't the same to him.

"I am the same," she whispered to the sky. "I am the same. I am –"

"Must you talk to yourself like some muttering lunatic?" The girl jerked at the voice, the movement sending a spasm of pain down her back, and she groaned, flopping back down onto the grass. "You're not very good at observing, are you? Back with the Careers, you couldn't get within a hundred feet before someone noticed." Ororo rolled her eyes, and picked herself into a seated position, facing Loki cross-legged in a semi-comfortable position for her back.

"Loki, the Careers left you for dead. Can you _please_ stop bringing them up like they're the greatest thing in Marvel?" she asked, her eyes darting up to the sky where the fallen tributes were displayed each night. Half the pack were up there by now, including Loki's sibling. _Some Careers they were,_ she thought with a small snort, bringing her eyes back to her sort-of ally. It was pretty unacceptable on their part that the scrawny boy was still very much alive, despite their best efforts.

"I'm just giving you some friendly advice, dear ally," he replied. Ororo made a sceptical face as he released a huff from his breath.

"Did you get the water?" she asked, instead of commenting. She had had the privilege of sitting three places down from Loki on many occasions in the Capitol; friendly advice was not in his repertoire, nor was the thought of being trustworthy. She had dragged him from the river because Chord's words rang out to get an ally. There was also the fact that she didn't think killing – directly or indirectly – two of Odin's family members in the one night was a wise move if she came out of the Games alive. The 'All-Father', as District Four swooned to call him, was a very powerful man, who no doubt held some very powerful grudges like the rest of the victors. _Maybe that was what Forge saw in their eyes,_ she thought, watching Loki struggle with his pockets in a deliberately slow fashion. _Never forgive, never forget._

"Loki, did you get the water?" she asked again, her voice a little brusque.

"By the Gods', woman, calm yourself," he said, removing the canister from his pocket finally. _Seems to have perked up,_ she thought, as Loki continued to mutter about ungrateful people. He looked ghastly last night when he returned from a fruitless food search. Ororo thought she asked too much of him, and his body wasn't recovered, or he had been suffering from the double blow of seeing both Thor _and_ Brunhilde's faces in the sky. A full night sleep seemed to do him the world of good though. The girl still wasn't sure if she preferred pale, grumpy Loki, to paler, weak Loki. _Unconscious Loki. _She picked the unavailable third option, and gave a small sigh, reaching a hand out as the boy tossed her the canister. She took a small sip, savouring the liquid, then closed the lid and rattled it a little.

"Loki, you've already drank _half_ of this," she complained.

"I'll have you know it was quite the trek there and back, Ororo," he said in a bored tone. "I was not going to die of thirst in favour of bringing you drinking water."

"We're supposed to be a team," she pointed out. "We're supposed to be working together."

"Until this convenient relationship becomes an inconvenience, yes, I know." Ororo threw herself back down onto the ground, facing upwards this time and staring at the sky through the trees. Loki's footsteps came closer and the boy took the canister away from her, pocketing it once more. _I miss Steve, _she thought, looking up at the Gamemakers' clouds, and thinking one looked suspiciously like the guard dogs from the orchards. _Well,_ she told herself, _he probably doesn't miss you, you ungrateful friend._ Sam was probably echoing her thoughts, she mused ruefully. She'd ruined a perfectly good set up, and all so she could avoid the unlikely possibility that she would be required to kill her friend.

He was attractive as well. Ororo sighed, glancing over at Loki, who was slouched in the shade of a tree like some vampiric creature. Capitolites loved attractive people. They were probably sending Steve parachutes by the dozen, full of food, and weapons, and more food. She heaved a sigh again, resigning herself to the cloud-dog and Loki.

"Sorry I got mad," she offered.

"Quite right to apologise," Loki huffed, giving no indication that he would be returning the favour. He wasn't so bad, she supposed, tilting her head towards him. It was almost like having a shorter version of Misty around. She could live with that, she supposed.

"Loki?" When he didn't respond to her, she decided to talk anyway. "Did you like Kate?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"Well, I mean, she's not _here_, so you can be honest," she continued. "You always seem so sullen; Grumpy Loki, Solemn Loki...what was it that...eh, eh, Stark called you? Chuckles?" She said the last word while raising her hands into inverted commas.

"I am familiar with these names," he said in monotone.

"Well, you always seemed to act like you didn't like Kate, but the thing is, I was watchin' you guys, and I think you tried just a little too hard. Which I get; it's hard to dislike _your_ district partner – you really shoulda talked to Sam before we came in, you would have _loads _to talk about." Ororo fell silent, turning back to the cloud-dog, who was beginning to dissipate in the mild wind. "I think a lot of what you do is an act, Loki."

"You think I jest when I dislike the second Hawkeye?" In the corner of her eye, she watched him cross his arms, looking even more sullen than before.

"...Yup." She nodded ever so slightly.

"You think everything is an act, that I am some sort of master puppeteer, and excelling in my role?"

"Loki, you are putting words in my mouth that are helping to fuel your ego," she said with a frown.

"Do you think my thinly veiled dislike for you is an act?"

Ororo gave a laugh at the words, rolling over to face the pale boy, propping herself up on her good shoulder. "What? No, don't be ridiculous." She gave him a small smile. "You're good, but you're not _that_ good." Loki was aware that she killed Thor. Despite his understanding for it, there was no love lost between them. She thought she caught him smiling back at her, and rolled away, resuming her gazing at the sky. They would have to leave soon, she knew, but they were both tired and injured, and resting would help. The little park she had led them to once he'd been strong enough to stand was big enough to hide them, but small enough to not hide anything else. Loki had told her about the spiders; she shuddered at the thought.

The cloud-dog had broken apart while they'd conversed, so she moved on to other shapes, tracing them in her mind, all the while keeping an eye on the sun as it crawled its way up from the depths of the horizon and into the centre of the sky. It was easy to forget where she was, just looking at the clouds, and not thinking about Thor's eyes, or the lightning storm from two night's previous, or leaving Steve behind on the couch. It wasn't quite the same as looking at the stars at night, when she could pretend she was at home, and lying out making shapes with the stars.

Steve told her that the stars were different in the Arena, and she should remember that it wasn't home. She missed Steve. She even missed Carol, even though Carol was dead, permanently, so it wasn't as though she could run into her in the Games again. She didn't plan on running into Steve either. Or Kate. Or Logan. It made her heart ache a little; in any other situation, she would never have known them. If they had been in Eleven, even if their skin had been dark, she wouldn't have crossed paths with Kate, who had 'great wealth', in Loki's words.

Chord would have made sure Logan didn't step ten feet near the Lost Children. Nanny's first – and most precious – orphan was Peter, who wouldn't have let Logan live long enough to get twenty paces. Ororo was glad Peter wasn't with Nanny anymore; she would see him, sometimes, in the orchards. He gave her chills. No, in the imaginary situation, Logan against Chord had a far better outcome for the two; but it still meant they would never be acquaintances.

"What are you looking at?" Ororo jerked out of her daze as Loki gracefully reclined down next to her, his eyes squinting heavily at the sky.

"You might burn," she said, his pallor reminding her of the stories Erik used to tell at night, of pale nightwalkers that sucked out souls and blood.

"I simply want to know what foolish endeavour you are undertaking," he responded. "Then I will return to my tree."

"Making shapes from the clouds," she informed, gesturing towards the one vaguely resembling a bird.

"Oh." Loki fell silent, squinting up at the sky for a few moments, before pointing at a different cloud. "A trident, from Four." Ororo gave a small nod, having no idea what a trident was, but thinking the cloud looked like a wonky fork from a table. "I've played this game before, you know. Years ago."

"Stop trying to sound older than you are," she growled.

"There's more important things to do than watching clouds go by, Ororo." She tilted her head towards him, viewing the solemn expression on his face.

"You need to appreciate the littler things in life, Loki. We're only here once you know. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you might miss it." His lips tugged upwards.

"Stop trying to sound older than you are, ally." Ororo tilted her head, sightless eye staring at the boy, and after a moment, broke out into a smile of her own. She knew it was a bad idea, staying here, ignoring the way the sun crept and crawled over the sky; Steve would have shepherded her on with the flat of his shield long ago. _Keep moving,_ she thought to herself. But moving around continued to seem like a lesser thought as she watched the clouds with Loki, occasionally pointing out a shape one made. She was surprised he stayed out in the sun, but he seemed to bask in the heat that chased away the chills and the dampness of the storm and the river. _Basking like a snake,_ she tried to remind herself of, but as Loki pointed out a cloud-fish, snake eyes and stone hearts slipped away from her.

It was the grumble that came from the depths of her stomach that eventually caused her to reluctantly sit up from her position, instinctively reaching to clutch her torso to quell the noise. She was almost certain she would have to set another trap and lure something in to catch as prey. Though it didn't exactly appeal to her, her eyes drifted to the hammer that she was intimately aware could deal irreparable damage to an animal. There was no Steve with a spear to finish anything off, and Loki had about as much desire to slaughter an animal as Ororo had with letting him win the Games.

"We should go," Ororo said, picking herself up to her feet and swaying slightly at the sudden head rush. _She_ had to be both Steve _and_ Ororo in this new relationship. "I'm starving, and we want to put a good distance between here and wherever we stay tonight." Loki raised an eyebrow in her direction.

"The Careers only moved when they were out hunting," he pointed out. The girl suppressed the urge to hit him with the hammer and be done with it.

"And that worked out wonderfully for them, didn't it?" she asked, her voice biting. She regretted it immediately as Loki's face grew sorrowful. "Sorry." She didn't trust many of the boy's expressions, the warning voices of her mentor and other tributes ringing in her ears. _But sadness is different. You can't fake sadness,_ she told herself. She had loved Eric like the brother she never had, and Loki's situation was even worse than hers, because his pseudo relatives were in the same Games as he was.

"Don't worry, ally, I will not take what you say personally," he eventually responded. _A bad lie._ "We didn't move all that far yesterday. I simply see no reason why we should do differently now."

"We were both injured," she started, gesturing towards his recently replaced shoulder socket.

"And we have been miraculously healed now, correct?"

"We have _rested_ enough now," she pressed on in a determined voice. "We need food, and a safe shelter. Gamemakers don't like when tributes stay put too long, you know." Loki heaved a sigh and climbed to two feet, retrieving the canister of water and taking another drink while she watched.

"You seem to know an awful lot about what displeases Gamemakers, for an outlier," he observed, pocketing the canister and making no move to offer it to the girl.

"I watch the Games," she answered, thrusting her chin out and crossing her arms. "I listen to what my siblings say. You gotta problem with that?" Loki held up his hands in a peacekeeping manner, and gave a delicate 'carry-on' gesture with the pair.

"As you wish. In that case, it would be wise to head in the direction I found the water. There was a building I checked that had food cans by the scores." He gave a small shrug as Ororo gaped at him, pausing mid-action as she reached for her hammer.

"Loki..._why_ would you leave the food behind?" she asked, the boy appearing sideways in her vision as she stared.

"I had that whole canister of water to return with. It can't be expected of me to do all the work in this convenient relationship," he stated loftily, shrugging again.

"I shoved your shoulder back into place!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouth to hush herself despite the outrage. "I kept you warm," she hissed. "_I_ _gave you my hoodie, ghost gum._"

"You also took it back," he pointed out, and this time Ororo did pick up the hammer even while gaping at him, and heaved it into the air, ignoring her back and arm's complaints.

"I will knock that shoulder back out if you're not careful," she growled, and Loki held up his hands once more.

"My apologies," he said smoothly, and the girl let the hammer drop to her side at the words. _He's possessed,_ she thought, forcing her jaw to work again and close her mouth before she caught flies. _This is Gamemaker magic. _From the few days she had known Loki in the Capitol, the word 'sorry' and its relations had never passed his lips. She doubted they had even crossed his mind. _And yet, here he is, expressing remorse,_ she thought, twice _in the last few hours. _She shook her head, adjusting the hammer into carrying mode, and shooting him a suspicious glance. _Definitely possessed._

"Okay then," she finally stated. "You lead the way." Loki waded through the bushes that concealed their hidey-hole, avoiding the main entrance to their park. _See Sam, I'm good at being a leader,_ she thought. Steve would have been proud of the camp she had found, complete with its bolt hole and vantage points. It was a shame really, that he wouldn't get to see it. _Maybe if he wins, they'll show it in the video, and he'll see how much I listened._ Because Ororo wanted Steve to win, if she wasn't able to. In her mind, he beat Logan, and Kate, and Tony. It wasn't something she liked to think about, the four of them dying for her to win; it made her sad, and sadness wasn't good in the Games. It was why Loki didn't seem overtly sad about Brunhilde in the sky, or even Thor.

Sadness was a weakness. And she was walking with someone who liked weaknesses.

It was slow going for the two of them as they walked the deserted streets. The looming buildings blotted out the blue glow of the Tesseract, which had to be miles away by Ororo's reckoning, based on what she saw by the river. The further from the luring light they went, the more the buildings looked decayed and crumbly. _Unsafe._ Tree roots broke the cement on the roads and pavements, the trunks and branches stretching up to the sky and the light, tangling through empty windows and the shells of buildings. The air of the place seemed thick, and the creeping vines that claimed walls as their own made everywhere unwelcoming.

_This is what they do,_ she reminded herself, as the urge to turn back to the more stable streets she'd walked with Steve rose up in her. Gamemakers didn't want tributes walking away from the Tesseract and the supplies and the bloodshed. That was _boring_ television for the Capitol. Unfamiliar and uneasiness made tributes turn back. _And then they die._ She'd seen it before, in Sam's Games, when the Gamemakers had been fed up with all the sneaky business and forced and manipulated tributes into retracing their steps. _Not gonna happen here, Director._

"You know," Loki began, breaking the silence between them eventually. "You could always walk beside me. A way can be led walking two abreast."

"You can still stab someone in the back walking side-by-side," she muttered under her breath, making no move to change the one-pace behind she'd kept since they left. "I'm watching our backs so no one can sneak up on us," she added in a louder voice. Loki gave a disdainful snort.

"Security is heightened by a one-eyed girl. The citizens of Marvel can now rest easy knowing they have you on hand." Ororo's hand tightened its grip on the hammer at the words. _That_ would make good television, she knew, if she swung the hammer right now, and clocked the dark-haired boy over the head. Everett would marvel at the better odds she'd receive from the bookmakers, and tell anyone who would listen that it had been his idea. She might even get a sponsor out of it, if she was lucky.

There was a brief moment where she toyed with the idea.

Old Ororo wouldn't do something like that though, she reasoned, and since she was _still _Old Ororo and hadn't changed like Forge said the tributes all did, killing the mildly infuriating boy was out of the question. She was starting to think he was less like Misty, and more like one of the older Lost Boys, quick with condescension with subtlety enough that if she _were_ to hit him, she would get the blame. _How are they all so good at being the victim?_ she asked, playing with the grip on her hammer while she wondered.

"Pray tell, what happened to your eye?" Loki asked, breaking the silence once more. Well, it wasn't exactly silent when they weren't talking; thinking back to the first couple of days, when the birds called in the buildings and ceased when the tributes spoke, Ororo couldn't help feeling a sense of déjà vu. The birds – whatever birds they were – around this area of the Arena were obviously still unused to human voices and, just like before with Steve, each time she or Loki spoke, their songs stilled briefly. Ororo had thought it disconcerting initially; now though, it just seemed like part of the background. _Chirp. Silence. Chirp. Silence._

"When I was small, the Gods smiled down on me and gave me favour," she recited. "But everybody knows that the Gods always take something in return. To remind you." She gave a small frown as she said it, recalling Nanny's voice as she muttered them in a stilted accent.

"And their gift to you was throwing you in to this mix, yes?" Loki twisted his head back to smile a thin smile.

"Their gift was giving me T'Challa. And Steve. And a family to watch out for me," she growled fiercely, to stop any chance of them sounding hollow. Loki gave a knowing nod, and turned his attention back to the ruined road. The girl's hand lifted up, fingers tracing the bony ridges that held the blind eye in place. _Gods didn't do this,_ she thought, her frown deepening and expression darkening. _Poor little Ororo, having to deal with a worm in her eye_. Adults would only whisper it when they thought she wasn't listening. It was children her own age that taunted and teased her, even when she fought back and got angry. That had always just made them laugh more. _Stormy Wormy,_ they'd bellow out between loud guffaws.

* * *

"_C'mon, Wormy, it's not like we made it any worse for you." The words brought a fresh wave of tears as the girl lashed out at the speaker, arms swinging wildly, unable to pinpoint the proper location. "All we did was give your worm some food!" In the darkness, Ororo could hear them laughing, some high-pitched, some loud, some soft. _All laughing,_ she thought through the tears, frantically trying to rub her eyes. The motion only made it worse, and she yelped, snapping her hands away from the burn that spread through both eyes, blinding her. _

_She tried to glare in the direction the laughs were coming from; she knew her tormenters from school, knew they were bigger and older than her. They were Monica's friends, nearly reaping age and ready to take on the world._

"_Leave me alone!" Her hands balled into fists as they laughed again, and she swung out with her arms, surprised to hear a grunt and a startled scuffling back of feet as her fist connected with someone's body. "Aundray, I'll tell Monica on you!" Ororo was well aware that her sister's no-nonsense attitude and beauty had her male friends head over heels for her. Though she found that quite not nice at all, she knew she could pull that card whenever they caught her._

"_Stormy Wormy all upset?" She recognised Aundray's voice, and leaped away from him as a sharp palm hit her on the nose. "Mustn't lose that temper of yours, Stormy, or your Nanny will get'cha." She received a shove from behind and stumbled forward, the tears doing little to remove the dirt they had kicked into her eyes. Splotches of water landed on her as the heavens above Eleven began to open, ricocheting off the dry dirt road, and she heard the group surrounding her laugh again._

_"Why don't you dance, Wormy? Dance in the rain?" It was someone else's voice this time as she was shoved again. "Monica said Wormy used to think she was a rain goddess." Ororo wiped her eyes again, the one good one starting to see blurry shapes in the rain. _

"_Nobody wants to play with a wormy kid," Aundray spoke up again, and Ororo froze, tears coating her face, "even if they think they're a stupid goddess."_

"_Am I fighting you and them, or just you?" The laughs cut off abruptly at the words. "Neither? Then get lost, ya little shits." Ororo sniffled in the rain. In silence, she watched the group pull their hoods up and run in the opposite direction to the speaker, tears mixing with the rainwater. There was only the sound of the rain pattering against the ground for a moment, and then came the trudge of heavy black boots, and the girl looked away as her brother got down to her level on his haunches._

* * *

"_What ails ya, kid?"_

"_Oh, Eric!" She flung herself into his arms, heaving great sobs into his jacket and clinging onto him fiercely. The boy latched his arms around her just as tightly, squeezing her close and making her feel like everything would be okay. "They put dirt in my eyes and pushed me and made me cry and I tried to – to – to stop them but there was too many." The words came out in a torrent as Ororo choked on her tears and buried her face into his shoulder._

"_What they call ya, kid?"_

"_Stormy Wormy." She sniffled again, her words muffled by his clothes._

"_So you're a storm in a tea-cup. A firecracker." Eric nudged her head with his shoulder. "Look at me, kid." Ororo slowly lifted her head to face him, sitting on his knee as he balanced in the road, staring at her own reflection. Even in the sun-shower's light, the dark sunglasses still glinted and gleamed like new._

"_I hate this worm," she said softly, hiccupping and looking down. Eric caught her chin and lifted it back up._

"_If you want to be a rain goddess, kid, then you go be a goddess. That worm ain't stopping you. Nothin' is stopping you. Rain's already here after all." Her hand automatically went up to touch her eyelid, tears and dirt falling onto her cheeks. Eric pulled his sleeve onto the palm of his hand, gently wiping away the dirt. "You worried about that eye, kid?" At her nod, he gave a low laugh, and slowly reached up to take his sunglasses off. His eyes were bloodshot, and the socket area was pale, and Ororo couldn't help staring at the weak, sun-fearing eyes of Eric Brooks. _

_He slid the glasses over her eyes, and everything darkened just a little. "_Now, kid," _he whistled, switching to Wakandan, "_you go and dance in the rain, and don't worry about your eye."

* * *

"Ororo, are you even listening to me?" Loki's voice jolted her out of thoughts, and she snapped her eyes forward.

"Of course," she answered automatically, berating herself inside for being incapable of listening to two things at once; her inner self being one thing in this instance.

"Well, I guess I'll reiterate – and this is purely for _my_ benefit you understand – when I say that the place I found is just up here on the left," Loki continued. Ororo could sense the smugness radiating off the older boy, and gritted her teeth together. She didn't respond to him, since a response would only give him greater satisfaction, lapsing instead into silence, her arm aching from holding the hammer in the same position. It was the only way she could hold it though, her battered side fairly useless in that regard. She thought about offering it to Loki to hold for a little while, to give her arm a rest, then immediately put that thought to bed. It wasn't the same as sharing Steve's shield after all, a largely defensive weapon. Ororo was just fine in her alliance with Loki when she was the one with the offensive tool.

Following the boy as he moved off the main road and began climbing over some rubble, Ororo couldn't help giving silent admiration to Loki for finding the place he had spoken of. _If he found it at all,_ a suspicious part in her mind added. The girl brushed that part away; though Loki was someone she frequently wanted to strangle, he liked food just as much as she did, and wasn't about to throw away a few hours walking to nothing. They could have used the time far better than that.

The alleyway – since she couldn't call it a street, it was smaller than anything in Eleven – had walls that climbed up and up towards the sky, darkening the area more than cloud cover or gathering dusk could. She couldn't help noticing how very _small_ the place was, and how it seemed to get smaller the more she looked upwards. Her eyes widened slightly, and her breath caught in her throat as she stumbled slightly, thrusting her hand outward to lay her palm flat against the wall. The building wasn't moving. It was much sturdier than any of the buildings she had slept in with Steve. The rubble they had stepped over was not part of it, and none of it was going to collapse down on top of her and Loki.

"Ororo?" Loki called from ahead, and the girl forced herself to look at the boy, paused near the end of the alleyway, rays of dying sunlight dancing on his face, his expression one of concern.

She took another breath, inhaling deeply, past the smell of concrete jungle and sweat, to the faint scents of greenery that crept through the buildings.

"Coming, yeah, sorry," she muttered, stumbling through the alleyway to catch up with Loki and practically bursting out onto the open street before them. She took another deep breath, tilting her head west where the sun was nearing the horizon. They had been walking longer than she wanted. There wouldn't be much time to find a place to stay far enough from the food cache before the darkness fell. _Just because the Careers are gone, doesn't mean there aren't other things out there,_ she thought, her footsteps loud against the concrete as she straightened up.

"I present to you, our feast," Loki announced, waving his hand in a sweeping gesture, his voice seeming to echo in the quiet of the dusk. Ororo looked over, and then followed where Loki's single slender finger pointed toward. The suspicious part in her mind had been proven wrong, it would seem. The girl took the little building in with the wariness of a hunted creature, similar to the deer she had hunted with Steve. Gamemakers certainly didn't want all the tributes to starve – that had happened one year, and she recalled Peter and Nanny saying how boring it was. Disgusted by violence was one thing, but at least there was a thrill of excitement in it. There was nothing exciting about fatigue and hunger and dysentery. Gamemakers _did, _however, want to lure tributes in with the idea of food, and then unleash some sort of mutt to destroy them.

Those places were usually welcoming in their exterior.

This building lay shadowed and surrounded by littered debris.

"I did enter it, you know," Loki said in his bored tone. "Nothing tried to eat me." Ororo shot him a hard look, then examined the surrounding area with an intent she hoped would rival Steve's. Nothing leaped out at her that would suggest a trip switch. She carefully looked at the ground all around, the way her former allies had done to search for tracks, the concrete yielding little results, and then ventured closer to the place.

"Just because you entered it earlier, doesn't mean it'd be all clear now," she said in a knowing tone, gesturing for Loki with the hammer.

"It meant that with the Careers," he put in, as though he couldn't help informing her that he was one of _them_.

"Well the only Career I'm looking at is the scrawny one, so I think the mutts would take their chances with _you,"_ she growled, harrumphing loudly in the street as they walked up to shuttered window frames with splintered glass to protect, the doorway's shutter half closed. Ororo peered in through the slots of the shutter; even in the gloom of the dusklight, she could see the canisters of food and the big storage boxes. Nothing moved inside; there were no hints of nasty surprises that the Capitol loved.

Ororo flashed Loki a wide smile. "I don't know how you did it, but you've just been promoted to Lead Food-Finder. I'd give you a badge, but there's nothing around." With a flourish, she reached over and affixed an imaginary pin on Loki's breast. A brief look of uncertainty crossed his face, before the boy gave her a small smile in return, patting the area. Ororo was glad he'd put aside his disdain for childishness; he looked a lot better when he smiled.

She gave him a short, sharp boot with her foot on the upper thigh, snorting as he gave a yelp, his calm demeanour lost briefly. "Come on, then, there's food to be gotten!" Loki grumbled a bit, his frown returning as he rubbed his thigh and entered the building. Ororo shot a last look around the silent street, spotting the explosive-proof camera and giving it a wave. _Look at me go, Sam!_ Then she darted inside to the gloom.

The two worked quickly together, rooting through the cans in search of properly closed lids and unspoilt food. Closer inspection proved that many of the food cans were useless, the smell of rancid food no shock to Ororo, though she bit her lip to stop laughing at Loki's expression.

"Don't you love the smell of decay in the evening?" she asked, throwing yet another can to the ground with a dull thud, and pocketing another.

"No." Loki's lips curled in distaste.

Ororo let out a loud cackle. "Ha! You just said you loved it!"

"What?" Loki spluttered out. "No, I would _never_ –"

"Too late, you said it, no take backs!" Ororo shot in, laughter echoing down the building as the older boy swore. Ororo mentally chalked down a mark for her in her tally of one-ups against Loki; she was losing spectacularly so far. They fell back into silence, the girl setting down the hammer by the door to free up her other pocket. They wouldn't be able to take everything with them, but she reckoned six cans each would be enough and still allow unhindered running from attackers. Loki was surrounded by dead cans.

"Did you even check these cans when you came earlier?" she asked. Loki dropped another can sharply.

"Of course," he said after a moment.

"It's taking ages," she complained, begrudging the praise she had given him earlier. Loki cast a quick eye away from her, and the girl looked away from him to the street outside. "_And_ it's getting too late. How many have you got?"

"Three."

"So have I. That'll have to do. We need to find a place away from here to sleep. Let's go." Loki stepped over the rotten cans nodding, his boots crunching in the dirt, marring the soles that had been washed clean with the river's current. He ducked his head under the shutters and stopped on the quiet street. Ororo patted her pockets, the cans safe in her jacket, and followed him towards the door. _Hammer,_ she reminded herself, flexing her sore arm and turning back to pick up Thor's weapon.

The kick connected with her injured spine, and she was sent sprawling to the ground, hitting the fallen cans awkwardly.

Then came the unmistakable grating sound of the shutters rattling down over the door, and Ororo's blood ran cold.

She coughed, wincing at the pain in her back and front, pulling herself onto her haunches, coughing again. The gloom had grown with the extra shutter barricading the door, a hundred slender rays of dusk flitting into the room with the cans, a few shadowed by the traitorous bastard that was Loki Odinson. Ororo turned around, not quite believing what had just occurred, and then sprang at that shutters, her fingers latching into the slits, peering out onto the street. Loki stood there, his head tilted, hands folded.

"Are you playing a game, Loki?" She pressed her face against the shutters, reaching through with her fingers.

"Yes," Loki answered shortly. The street outside was very quiet; Ororo could hear her breath loud against the cell wall.

"Is this because of what I said earlier? Because I'm sorry I made fun of you." She paused, and it struck her that outside was _real_ silent, not just the quiet she associated with other streets. She hadn't heard the birds outside since before the alleyway. "I don't like this game."

"Of course you don't," Loki said. "Nobody likes a game where you die at the end. Such is life."

"So you're just going to leave me here while you skip along your merry way?" she spat out, her hands rattling the shutters in a vain attempt to lift up the heavy metal. "I've still got food in here. It's not as though I'll _starve_." She gave a hollow laugh, forcing it up though her throat tried to constrict.

"I've no intention of letting you starve, Ororo," Loki responded, his voice still bored as he raised a hand and cocked his ear to it. "Pray, I believe you have an echo." The girl's breath caught, the laugh swallowed up as a phantom sound rose up from the bowels of the building. Ororo's eyes widened, and she tore at the shutters, the deeper laugh recognisable even as an echo.

"What have you done?" she growled, the edges of the shutters cutting into her fingers. "I thought we were a team, Loki. I thought we were an alliance."

"We were a convenient alliance until it became _in_convenient. So I created a new, _more_ convenient alliance." Loki waved his hand where the sound had originated. "You helped me live, which I now thank you for," he added.

"This is how you thank people?" she snarled, banging the shutters with a fist savagely.

"No. This is what I do to people who kill my blood." Her fist froze mid-thrust, and for a brief moment her heart stopped in her chest at the scraping sound that started faintly behind.

"I told you he tried to kill me," Ororo said, her voice a polar opposite to the seconds before. "You said you understood." Loki gave a small sigh, and took a step towards the shutter. His green eyes seemed to sparkle even in the dim light. Ororo tried to look inside them, tried to see what he was thinking, tried to plead, but he had two eyes and she had only one so she was already at a disadvantage. He wasn't like Steve, able to fall victim to helpless eyes – Loki already played that role.

"But you see, former ally," Loki said softly, smiling a little. "My brother mine, Odinson, he was not yours to kill. _He was mine._"

"_Rororo...here Darkie, Darkie..."_

"Loki...please...let me out," Ororo whispered, her throat tightening even more, strangling her before she would even have a fighting chance against the whispers in the walls.

"I believe 'Victor' is a title more beseeching to me," he purred.

"_Come 'ere, girrrrl...ROARooooooo..."_

"Let me out," she said again, her voice rising, panicking, because _he_ sounded closer and the room's walls were getting closer and the way out seemed farther and farther away.

"Farewell, and good health until the end of your days." She could feel Loki's breath through the light slits, looking down at her and drawing in right beside the shutters. Ororo's hand shot out, small enough to fit through the slit, and latched on to his breast, where she had pinned the badge of honour.

"Let me out, Loki," she hissed, her voice threatening to break. _Don't cry._

"Let me_ go_," he retaliated, ripping away from the hold. She clung on for a moment, until the tearing of fabric snatched him away from her. Ororo clutched the bit of jacket in her fingers, her expression darkening.

"You better hope I come out of this building," she spat out. "Because of the two of us in here, I think you know which one you want on your tail." For a brief moment, the flicker of hesitation she saw in his eyes earlier returned, then his face smoothed out.

"I think you'll find my new convenient relationship will prevent that."

"You think he'll stop with me?" Ororo laughed again, the sound wheezing from the pressure in her airways. "You're a fool, Loki Odinson." She paused, wrapping her fingers around the shutters and pulling herself against it. "Loki Noonesson. Loki, the bastard."

He turned away from the shutters, and walked down the silent street.

"_LOKI!_" she screamed, shaking the shutters. "_Loki, come back! LOKI!"_

She didn't expect him to answer, and she wasn't surprised when he didn't, clinging to the shutters, her legs turning to jelly. She slid down against the barricade, hitting the ground with a dull thud, her breath catching. _Don't cry,_ she told herself, biting her lip. _Sam wouldn't want you to cry._ The thought did nothing to help her as her eyes welled up and the tears began to spill over. They were angry tears and frightened tears, and Ororo trembled on the floor, pulling herself into a tight hug, gasping for air. A small part of her waited for the footsteps of Loki to return, the ghost gum traitor.

She heaved a great sob, tilting her head upwards to the ceiling to search for the hidden camera. She hated the cameras now, hated the one-way system they set up, hated herself for letting her guard down around Loki. Her hand scrunched into a fist, and she pressed it against her arm angrily, her vision swimming in the tears.

She hated that Sam had _known._ Had he watched the monitor, frantically trying to figure out how to warn his tribute of the trap she was skipping in to? Another sob. Her _family_ had seen Loki and Cletus on the television, had known this was coming. _Everyone knew it was coming except _me, she thought bitterly, pressing her fist against her eyes in an effort to quench the tears. _Stop crying, stop cry –_

"_You and me, baby, were BORN to be together. Ororoooo!"_

His voice caused her to choke on her sobs, and a fresh wave of trembling crashed over her. Her family had probably yelled at the television, pointed out to their stupid, _stupid_ sister that the birds had stopped singing, and she should pay attention to what was going on. She had killed _Thor_, and she was stronger than this whimpering creature. _Get up,_ she told herself, but her legs shook and gave way when she tried to slide into a standing position. _Get up!_ There was a _tap-tap_ noise coming from the building, like a nail against boards. It grew louder and fainter at the different materials in the walls, and it was hard to tell how far away it was. She didn't want her family to see her die; she'd already hurt them enough by acting oblivious for the past day.

If Nanny was standing beside her, she would smack her hard for crying. _Don't let them see or know, even if you trembling inside_, she growled inwardly, trying to get angry, to will her body to stand firm. _You pull yourself together, Ororo Munroe,_ she told herself, putting on her best 'Sam' voice. He'd always told her to be calm, to not lose her temper. _Summer breeze, not a hurricane._ But she'd been angry when she had faced Thor, and she had been angry when she faced the orchard dogs.

She'd be angry facing Loki's partner-in-crime.

She wiped her eyes fiercely, taking a few deep breaths, feeling the trembles lessen through her. The _tap-tap _had stopped, but Ororo knew there was time. _There's always time,_ she thought. Loki had left her with nothing, but his brother hadn't been so miserly. Her eye darted over the gloomy floor at the cans, and she emptied out the good food from her pockets. They'd be too light to weaponise, she reasoned, but the rancid stores could be beneficial. She twisted around, reaching for the nearest cans. _Focus. Focus. This is a game. Play the game. _She was too old for pretending that the killer in the building was Goliath in disguise, but the thoughts worked. Loki said she was in a game. Sam said she was in a game. Nick Fury said she was in the Games. _Play the game,_ she thought, grasping a heavy can.

Then she screamed as a sharp, stabbing pain came from her lower leg, and her whole world flipped upside-down.

Her vision blurred and pulses of agony shot up her leg, and Ororo could hear herself scream, the sound cut off as her chest rolled over a fallen can and winded her. She barely registered the fact that she was moving – not moving, _being dragged_ – along the ground, away from the door Loki had left from, away from her food supply, away from Thor's gift.

_Hammer!_ she yowled in her head, forcing her injured arm to shoot out and grip the handle of the hammer, another scream escaping her lips at the dual pains that were now firing through her body, from the tops of her fingers and the stab in her leg. She struggled to focus her eye, her head cracking against other food cans not helping the situation.

"I found _you_! I _told _you we were born to be together...for a little while at least." He wasn't even looking at her as he dragged her from the food store, cackling to himself in the gloom. Ororo's chest tightened as her hand slid over little pools of warm liquid; even without her sight, she knew her hand was turning scarlet. The realisation was enough to unfreeze herself, and the girl started to struggle, gasping as the movement caused whatever he had buried into her leg to burrow deeper.

"That's it, _HONEY-BUN_, you gotta _live_ a little. Get your heart _racing. LOOK ALIVE!"_ Cletus bellowed out the last bit, picking up the pace and swinging his other arm merrily. Ororo caught a gleam of metal as the cleaver he held danced in the dusk light that sneaked through the building windows, and her struggles increased. The store she had entered wasn't the only way out of the place. The real scope of the area made itself clear to Ororo's half-vision and her resolve hardened. There _had _to be another way out. Since there was no time left she could cling to for hope, the idea of a bolthole was the only thing she had.

It came as a shock to the two of them as the dragging suddenly stopped and Ororo's leg dropped down to the ground, sending a fresh wave of cries out. Cletus seemed not to notice for a few heartbeats, and the girl forced herself not to delay, bracing herself against the hammer and clambering to her feet. She picked up the hammer, the handle slick with the blood it collected from the trail her leg had created, and she whimpered at the lack of support the limb had. _Don't whimper,_ she told herself. _Don't be a big baby._ She took steps back and the noise seemed to be a radar for Cletus.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said, flashing her a toothy grin and wagging the cleaver towards her. "You gotta _relax_. Ain't gonna taste nice if you're all worried." Ororo made another noise, her eyes wide, taking another step back from the red boy. She found the source of the stabbing quickly, and gave a gulp; his fingers moved in a drumming motion but they were too long and too grotesque to be real. One long hook had blood collecting on the tip of it, and she couldn't stop a flinch as a drop hit the ground. Noticing her eye, Cletus swiped the hand in front of him, wiggling the fingers.

"You like 'em? Come on, Orororor, it's not like you're _going_ anywhere; _ISN'T THAT RIGHT, MAH-VELLLL?_" Her grip tightened on the hammer as he spread his arms wide, basking in the cameras. There had to be a bolt-hole somewhere. She had to be able to go _anywhere_. "Plucked them right outta the mouth of some spiders – someone just _left_ them there. What a waste!" She remembered Loki's tale of mutt spiders, and couldn't keep a grimace from her face as he added off-handedly, "Tasted delicious though. All crunchy but juicy at the same time."

A pause. "Like _YOU._ All skinny and bony but you'll have your _juicy _sections too."

The words seemed to snap her out of whatever dazed shuffle she had been doing, and Ororo turned and sprang away from the boy, away from the way they had come from that she knew had no way out. She gritted her teeth at the pain in her leg, ignoring the hot blood that pumped out of the hole the spider fang had made and spilled down onto her ankle and into her boot. She had handled getting whacked with a hammer, and handled gravel burn. She could handle a measly little hole in her leg. Behind her, she heard Cletus roar with laughter.

"Did it just get badass in here, or _WHAT?_" She ran through the wide area, dead fountains with broken statues standing silently in the centre, seas of windows flashing ghostly images of her run, always searching for a way out, always trying to find it. It was useless though; her heart leaped into her mouth as a window showed the red boy on her heel. She thought she was going to cough it up as his arm reached out and snapped across her right shoulder and arm, repeating Thor's earlier motion. With a sinking sense of déjà vu, Ororo went flying onto her left and crashed into the ground, the hammer flying from her grip. It skid to a halt out of reach, and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Okay, _MAH-VEL, _we got ourselves a _DILEMMA _right here, right now!" Cletus bellowed, a loud noise erupting from a small frame. He stalked over to her and pressed a foot on her lower leg, grinning at the squelching noise it made as the blood suctioned onto the ground. "Dark meat tastes _so much BETTER_ when it's nice and quiet," he began, frowning a little as Ororo struggled to get her leg away from him and pressed down harder. The girl screamed again, hating herself for showing him the weakness. _T'Challa wouldn't have shown weakness,_ she thought furiously through the tears and the scream.

"But there's _NO_ point in killing quick now – she's squirmin' too much. So would it be better to _wait_ and kill quickly later –" He bared his teeth at her again in a too-toothy grin as Ororo froze in her struggles at the words, the barest hint of hope fluttering in her stomach, "– Or just have some fun and kill slowly _now?_" He lifted the cleaver to his ear, closing his eyes to listen and shoving his foot down onto her injury at the same time.

"What's that, you say? Pick 'number two'? _DON'T MIND IF I DOOOO_!" His hand seemed to blur and the cleaver slashed down before Ororo knew what was happening. The cleaver sliced through the scabs that had formed at the gravel burn, creating a superficial cut, and the boy seemed to relish it, leaping off her leg and holding the weapon to his tongue, licking off the blood. "Mmm-mmm, just like Momma used to make it." Then he launched himself at the girl, and she was scrabbling backwards, trying to find a foothold to stand as the cleaver slashed towards her.

She cried out at the flurry of cuts she received, trying to shield her body with her arms. There was a sudden clang, almost like a songbird, and Cletus made an angry noise, and Ororo realised she hadn't been sliced, and Forge's bracelet glinted in whatever artificial light that dimly lit the building. The precious seconds of confusion allowed her to get her footing. "Thank you, Forge!" She voiced her thoughts aloud despite herself, and launched herself into Cletus, the momentum sending the two of them crashing into the ground.

Balling her hands into fists, she lashed out at the boy, slamming into his chest as his teeth snapped at her. Each thump that landed on him was rewarded with another cleaver cut, the spider fangs swiping towards her, one catching her cheek and sending her rolling off him. The cuts burned like wasp stings and she groaned, rolling away and back onto her feet. Cletus was already back on his, his breathing up only a little, still grinning.

"Isn't this the _BEST_? You wanna kill me, Ororororor, and doesn't it feel _SO GOOD_?" He let out a cackle, swinging the cleaver slowly and prowled towards her. "You kill 'cause you're angry –"

"Because I _hate _you," she hissed before she could stop herself, licking her lip as a trickle of blood slid down her face from below her blind eye.

"Alrighty, 'cause you hate me," Cletus rectified, bringing his spider fangs up to created near-comical quotation marks. Then he took a long step forward, and Ororo could smell his breath as he started to whisper, "But I'm gonna kill you, _'CAUSE I CAN_!" She flinched at the loud voice, and then yowled like a kicked cat as the cleaver swiped again, slicing clean through her shirt and jacket and creating more cuts. She staggered away as he laughed again.

"_LOKI!"_ she called, hating that she was calling for that traitor. _"_Loki, _help!" _She was rewarded with a cleaver slice through the back of her jacket, where Thor had caught her with the hammer, and a thought flashed into her head; that she wanted Loki to _die_ because he had left her here, and he would get to _see _her call for him if he won, and that would just be too much winning for Loki in her mind.

"_Steve!_" she cried, knowing it was useless, that he was as useless as T'Challa was in this situation. Her vision swam again as she sobbed out again. _"Steve, I'm sorry! Help! Steve!"_

There was no Steve.

There was only Thor's hammer.

She caught it in her sight, only a few feet from where she was. She couldn't beat Cletus; her fists hadn't dented him, and hadn't slowed him down remotely. She clenched her hands together, feeling Forge's bracelet hanging heavily on her wrist, and eyed the red boy. _Slow...or quick?_ They were the only options left. She wiped her eyes, the back of her hand smearing with blood and tears. She would _not_ let her family see her slowly die. She was no _worm_, squirming on the ground until Cletus snuffed her out. She was one of T'Challa's _dragon_ worms, and _she_ decided her fate.

Ororo sprang to the hammer, feeling the blood on her hands in the grip. _Thor's blood, my blood, T'Challa's blood._ The hammer had already seen a lot of blood; a little more wouldn't hurt it. She heaved it up, bracing it with her right arm, the cuts he inflicted leaving a spider-web pattern of blood on her arm, and she faced him.

"This is what I mean about _livin'_ a little!" he howled, starting to laugh again, and Ororo launched herself at him. He swung the cleaver, and she twirled around, building up the force, and then hauling it at whatever body part was nearest her. She heard a crack and Cletus' angry cry, and the hammer flew out of her hand, unable to keep it in her grip.

Her eyes widened as she realised the sound meant she had connected with something. She straightened up, hoping for an arm, her hope squashed as the boy held up his spider fang hand, the appendages splintered and shattered well beyond repair. The boy made an angry noise again, and Ororo knew there was no more hope, no more doing anything. He swung the cleaver towards her to resume his assault of the superficial cuts, and the girl's blood ran cold again to overcome the instinct to dodge. Instead she took a minute step forward, and the weapon sliced deeply into her neck.

"_NO!_" Cletus howled, but it sounded so far away to Ororo. "_Orororor, YOU CAN'T DIE YET_!" The whole room seemed to tilt and spin, and she sank to the ground, her legs gone to jelly. She blinked slowly, seeing the red boy in the haze flicking his tongue out as he closed the gap to her, catching some sort of weak red fountain in his mouth. _Blood,_ her thoughts supplied helpfully, but it didn't seem to matter to her. It was like she had cotton wool clogging up her ears, dulling everything around her, even the sounds of her breath, and it took a second to recognise that the gasping noises were coming from _her_, but that didn't seem to matter anymore either.

_I'm sorry I cried, Nanny,_ she thought, tasting salt and metallic elements.

Then the world swirled and turned upside-down, and she thought she saw Eric behind Cletus, waiting for her.

Then everything went into velvety blackness, and Ororo sighed.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	83. Chapter 82: Eye of the Beholder

**Hey guys, we're back with another update for In the End, You Always Kneel! As you've probably noticed, we didn't have a Thursday update – I apologise for that, I had taken the day off for my twenty-third birthday. I feel so old. However, putting up the chapter now instead, and after the last quite devastating update I wonder if things will start going easier on our tributes. For some strange reason, I doubt it. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Two – Eye of the Beholder**

**Night, Day Eight**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

"_I never 'worry' about action, but only about inaction."_

– Sir Winston Churchill

"_Our biggest regrets are not for the things we have done, but for the things we haven't done." _

_― _Chad Michael Murray, _One Tree Hill_

* * *

"This is _ridiculous_!"

The exclamation was followed by the sound of something heavy and metal smashing against the floor. Steve groaned silently and allowed himself a small moment of weakness to press his face against the floor and wish with all his heart that Tony Stark possessed the incredible ability to _be quiet._ Especially when other members of their little group were trying to sleep.

Something must have given him away – possibly the movement of his shoulders as he tried to curl in on himself – because Tony spoke to him next. "And the captain awakes!" he declared, and even with his back to the other boy, Steve knew that he was making a grand gesture with his arms. "Did I interrupt your beauty sleep? Oh, sorry, Cap. Goodness knows you need it."

With an internal sigh as Tony snickered, Steve cracked one eye open and rolled on his side to look at the other boy. Tony was propped against the wall, having only just healed enough to move from his sickbed, and was grinning despite the dirt and dust smeared on his face. His hair was a mess too, sticking up in odd places, so Steve guessed that he'd only recently woken up. A makeshift screwdriver was dangling loosely from one hand, the smashed remains of an old security camera scattered around his feet. So that was what Steve had heard break.

"No hard feelings, Tony," Steve replied, his voice rough with sleep. His lips twitched with a small smile. "At least I'll fit in."

Bruce snorted with laughter, and Steve glanced over to see him poking at the remnants of their campfire with a stick. It was sputtering a pathetically small trail of smoke, but there was no flame. Tony muttered a small "_traitor_" under his breath at the noise, thankfully more amused than offended.

Steve pushed himself off the ground and moved closer, wondering if they ought to gather more kindling. He wasn't great at lighting fires, but neither were the other two boys. Logan was the only competent one among them. Speaking of…

He glanced around, but Logan was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Logan?" Steve asked, turning back to Bruce.

The other boy was frowning at the smouldering wood. He glanced up at the question, absently wiping at his cheek and leaving a smudge of ash. "He's outside," Bruce told him. "Went for a walk around the perimeter, I think."

Steve nodded, glancing out the window of the old shoe-making shop that they were currently holed up in. They'd been here for two days – though healing, Tony was still far too weak for any significant amount of travel. Outside, though, morning sun was filtering down on the street, soft and warm. The metal shoe sign was banging gently against the walls, its eerie clanking soft in the morning silence. He probably hadn't slept much past dawn.

Actually, Steve hadn't slept much, period. It was too hard. Not with so many things to distract him, worry him – Ro was missing, Brunhilde was gone, and Tony's chest, though healing, was technically killing him. Slowly.

And, of course, they were supposed to be fighting to the death.

Steve grimaced, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. Weariness lingered under his skin, sinking deep into his bones. It was almost too much – but he knew he had to stop thinking about everything all at once – and not let it overwhelm him. _Focus on what's in front of you,_ he reminded himself and brushed aside the fact that the voice in his head sounded startlingly like Peggy's.

With that in mind, he pulled his hands away from his face and straightened his shoulders. Steve took a deep breath and forced himself to focus. He had things to do. What did they need?

_Food,_ his mind supplied immediately. They had some meat to cook breakfast with – Steve didn't know what it came from, just that Logan had killed it yesterday and refused to share the details – but their supply was getting low. They probably only had enough to last one more meal. _Okay. Breakfast, then another hunt._ But to cook the meat, they needed…_Fire._

So, first things first. They needed kindling.

Steve stood slowly and stretched, murmuring a quick explanation as to where he was going. Then, he made his way out of their broken-down base and onto the street. Purpose strengthened his stride, his mental 'To Do' list making Steve feel infinitely more at ease.

He kept to the smaller side streets, careful to remain inside their little radius of safety where he knew Logan was on watch. There weren't any parks nearby that he knew of, but one of the city's long-lost residents had kept an expansive garden that had now grown out of control.

The last time he'd passed it, their group had been slightly larger – Brunhilde had prowled at his side as they'd followed Logan to their new base, Tony sagging in the lumberjack's arms as Bruce kept pace beside them. With the adrenaline draining from his veins and post-fight paranoia setting in, it had been hard to shake the sense of unwelcome as the group had stumbled through the empty city.

Brunhilde hadn't stuck around. As soon as it was clear that Tony was going to live, she'd packed her things. The goodbye hadn't been particularly sorrowful – Steve hadn't known her, really. Now, he never would.

Well, at least the small group had parted on amiable terms. They'd agreed, just this once, not to kill each other. _A debt of honour,_ Brunhilde had called it.

A small, ironic smile pulled at Steve's lips, and he shook his head in amused disbelief. How had his life come to this?

Steve pulled himself out of his thoughts as he drew closer to the crumbling building, remaining wary as he approached. In the arena, it was all too easy to forget the constant danger. But Steve was determined not to be taken off-guard.

He shouldn't have worried. The gate to the back garden swung open with a rusted groan, revealing a tiny jungle; potted plants spilled over clay constraints, hedges collapsed under the weight of their own growth. A thick blanket of brown, dry grass spread below his feet, having been exposed to the hot arena's sun for too long. On top of that, of course, was a cluttered spread of dry sticks and branches, fallen from the large surrounding plants trying to claw their way to the sky.

Steve gathered as much as he could, ignoring the scratches on his arms from sharper sticks. He moved to hold the tangled bundle with his left arm and fumbled to pick up an assortment of smaller twigs and bark with his right. Hopefully, a spark would catch on the twigs that he could grow and then feed to the larger branches.

His return to base was much faster than his departure. On his way, Steve finally caught sight of Logan moving easily between buildings. The other boy spotted him just as quickly and greeted him with a nod. Steve barely paused to say, "Breakfast is in twenty," before he was striding back into the previously abandoned building.

Steve had barely crossed the threshold before Tony asked, "And you didn't bring anything back for me?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Haven't you got enough toys?" he countered before resuming his earlier seat. Bruce helped him, gently easing various branches from his armload and lowering them to the floor.

Gingerly, Tony scooted closer in a silent offer of help as Steve bent down to peer at the remains of their last cooking fire. He blinked, slowly adjusting to the darkness inside their small base. Only a little light filtered down from the holes Logan had punched in the crumbling ceiling, illuminating the ashes of the fire on the workshop floor. It was still smoking slightly, which he took as an encouraging sign – surely there had to be at least one hot coal left to coax into a spark?

Grimacing slightly, Steve gingerly pulled the old logs apart. They crumbled beneath his hands, leaving ash on his fingers. He glanced at it absentmindedly – and was abruptly back in District Five, cheeks pink and fingers smudged with charcoal as he presented Peggy with a gift for her sixteenth birthday. It had been a portrait of her, one of the best he'd ever drawn. He hadn't quite managed to capture the twinkle in her eye, but she'd still been just as breathtakingly beautiful on paper as she was in real life. Even the memory knocked the wind out of him.

God, he missed Peggy.

"Uh, Steve?" Bruce's questioning voice snapped him out of his reverie with a slight jerk.

Steve glanced at him. "Sorry, I just…" He shook his head, the words failing him. Ignoring the slight tug on his heart, he brushed thoughts of Peggy away. He wasn't in District Five anymore – he was in the arena, and if he ever wanted to see her again, Steve had to survive.

Which meant he had to, somehow, make a fire.

With a new determination, Steve leaned forward. He gently parted the ash away from the crumbling logs and felt warmth beneath his hand. _Wait, was that…_

It was. Right in the heart of the fire's remnants, he had found a softly glowing coal. Relief loosened his chest, and Steve groped blindly for some kindling before Tony pushed it into his hand. He eased it closer to the heat source, angling it carefully before he took a breath and blew on it ever so gently.

The coal flared, but nothing happened. He tried again, frowning slightly. This wasn't nearly as easy as Ro or Logan had made it look.

The third time, the twigs glowed briefly with heat before cooling once again. Steve took another breath, determination quashing the frustration in his chest, and blew gently over the coal.

This time, the spark caught. Steve let it grow into a small flame before feeding it more small kindling. It took time, but eventually, he eased it onto larger sticks, then branches. Bruce and Tony helped too, encouraging the fire to grow bigger as they fuelled it. Eventually, it was burning nicely, and Bruce quickly dug out their last reserves of food.

They didn't have much. A few partially-cooked strips of meat, which Tony quickly weaved onto some sticks and held above the flames, as well as a handful of dark-coloured berries that Logan had promised were edible. It would be a meagre meal, Steve knew, but it was the best that they could do.

Just as the meat was turning an appetizing shade of brown, Logan entered. The three other boys glanced up at him and made room around the fire, shuffling backwards.

"Anything interesting?" Bruce asked.

Logan shook his head. "No sign of anyone nearby." He leaned forward to take the meat-stick that Tony was waving in his face, propping his arm on his knee to hold it over the fire.

Silence descended between them, each boy focusing on the brightly crackling flames in their centre. After a moment, Steve's gaze flickered to the faces of his companions – Bruce and Tony were sharing an unreadable look as Logan grimaced at the ground. Steve suppressed a sigh. It wasn't as though he'd automatically _assumed_ that teaming up to defeat an evil robot would simultaneously destroy any awkwardness between them … but, well, it would have been nice.

Eventually, he shook himself. They were in the Avenger Games – they didn't have time for awkwardness. More importantly, Steve didn't have any time to waste. He'd made an unspoken commitment to stay with these guys, but his mind was still firmly focused on finding Ro. As soon as Tony was healed enough to walk, they would be going after her.

Steve cleared his throat, and all eyes instantly focused on his face. "I think we should make a plan," he began, holding their attention. "Write a list of things we need to find, things we need to do, and cross them off."

Yesterday, they hadn't achieved much – most of it, and the day before, had been focused on trying to heal Tony. The spray and skin grafts they'd received, as well as the magnetic harness Bruce had created, had done wonders for the young boy's health. But he'd still been weak – _narrowly avoiding death will do that to someone,_ Steve thought wryly – and they hadn't wanted to take any chances. "We haven't got any time to waste," he finished, echoing his own thoughts from earlier.

Bruce's face was lined with understanding, and Steve met his gaze for only a moment before letting it drop. Tony may have forgotten that before the showdown against Ultron, Steve had been searching for someone, but Bruce apparently hadn't. Maybe Bruce had picked up on Steve's desire to get moving, to find Ororo again. He nodded slowly, a silent promise.

Next to him, Logan dipped his chin. "I agree," he said, his voice a quiet rumble. "We have to stay on top of our supplies."

"The water Brunhilde collected is running low," Tony added, indicating the near-empty buckets with a wave of his hand. "Not to mention the fact that we need more food."

Frowning, Bruce glanced up. "Did Brunhilde mention where she found that water to any of you before she left?" he asked.

A pause, and then Logan and Steve groaned in unison. "She didn't say anything to me," the boy admitted, and glanced at Steve. He shook his head grimly, confirming the same.

"Well, I was unconscious for pretty much our entire alliance," Tony said, shrugging. His magnetic harness was glowing through his tattered shirt, a pale blue ring underneath the dirty grey of his singlet. "So if she said something to me, I don't remember it."

"Don't matter." Logan waved a hand, "When she collected it, she was gone for only a few minutes. It has to be nearby, so we won't take long to find it again."

"And what about food?" Tony asked, eyeing the other tribute. "Another hunting trip?"

"Looks like," Steve confirmed. "Logan and I'll go, unless…" He trailed off, looking at Bruce questioningly.

The other boy waved a hand. "No, I'll stay behind. I'm not a fan of…um, of that. I'll just take care of Tony while you're gone."

"Fair enough," Steve agreed with a slight nod.

There was a pause, and then Tony spoke wryly. "And I guess I'll just stay here and try not to die, then. Right?"

Logan met his gaze evenly, without any trace of amusement in his face. "Right."

Bruce cleared his throat, pulling his stick away from the fire and prodding at the meat gingerly with his finger. After a moment, he tore off a small strip with his teeth, chewing quickly. "It's ready, I think," he said, and they all pulled their breakfast away from the fire. "It's hot, though, so be careful."

Silence fell between the four boys once more as they focused on their meal. Tony dragged one of the water buckets over, passing it between them so they could wash down their meal – which was tough and tasteless, but filling nonetheless. They were running dangerously low on water, though – the line hovered just below halfway, and they were careful to keep some in case of an emergency, so there was little to be shared.

By the time they were finished, the sun had climbed significantly higher into the sky. Steve wiped his mouth and stood, catching Logan's eye. "Ready to leave?" he asked quietly. Logan grunted and got to his feet, throwing the stick to the side and wiping his hands on his pants. Steve took that as a yes and glanced at the other boys. "We'll be back in a few hours," he told them.

He waited patiently at the door while Logan strapped his claws back to his forearms, having set them aside to eat without accidentally scratching himself. It only served to remind Steve that, on top of everything else, their group was running low on weapons too. Other than Bruce's sword, Steve's shield, and Logan's claws, they had only a few old pieces of rebar and broken pipes to serve as makeshift clubs or knives. How they would kill an animal using those, Steve didn't know.

If only he still had Carol's spear. Or, even better, the girl herself. But Steve brushed the thought from his mind before it took root. It was better not to dwell on Carol, or what had happened to her.

Logan stood, slashing the air with his claws in quick experiment. The straps held, and he nodded to himself before striding past Steve and out the door. He followed quickly, taking care to shut the door behind him.

He had to hurry to catch up with Logan's quick strides. Steve fell into step beside him, casting a quick glance around them as he slid his arms through the straps of his backpack. There was no sign of anyone – not that he'd thought that there would be. There'd been no sign of another tribute on the security cameras that Tony had repurposed for their own cause. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

After a minute or two of silence, Steve spoke. "Where are we heading?" he asked.

Logan gestured roughly to the northeast. "There's a good hunting area that way. Maybe twenty minutes out," he said, his words short.

Steve squinted in the direction that he'd indicated. He could see nothing but more of the same urban sprawl. "How do you know?"

The other boy didn't reply for a few seconds, choosing instead to examine the curve of the claws between his knuckles. "I spent some time near here not too long ago," he admitted. "Found a few things worthwhile before I moved on."

Accepting the answer with a nod, Steve went quiet. As the silence stretched between the two boys, his mind wandered inevitably towards Ororo – wondering where she was; if she was safe; if she was alone. If she was scared.

Anxiety churned in his stomach, harder to ignore with nothing else to focus on. Steve had done his best to put aside how hurt he'd been when she'd abandoned him – younger and more vulnerable than himself, Ro always had to come first. But now, without a trail to chase, the pain threatened to swallow him. He shouldn't have been so pushy with her – Steve should have _listened _to her; should have picked up on the vengeance burning in her chest and known how far it would drive her.

If anything happened to her, there'd be no one to blame but himself.

Caught up in his own misery and worry, Steve barely noticed when Logan came to a stop. He barely managed to pause in time, his hesitance only just escaping the other boy's notice. He glanced at Steve.

"This is it," he began, and Steve glanced around. They were on the edge of what might have once been a well-maintained park, now wild and overgrown. "I can probably find some rabbits, maybe something bigger. What about you?"

_Oh. Of course._ Steve had pictured the two of them working together to bring down some larger prey – he had a brief flashback to the day he and Ro had caught a deer, almost a week ago – but it did make more sense to split up. Their group couldn't live entirely off meat, after all. "I suppose I'll gather, then," he suggested. "There has to be some wild onions or something around here."

"There are dandelions and clovers around here, too. Collect 'em if you can," Logan suggested.

Steve nodded. "Okay." Then he glanced up at the sky, squinting against the brightness. He pointed just a few inches above the horizon. "Meet back here when the sun hits that spot," he said. "We'll only have a few hours, but I'm not comfortable leaving Tony and Bruce to fend for themselves. We'll just have to make the most of it."

The other tribute nodded and moved away without another word. Steve watched him walk away for a minute before sighing and shaking his head. Wishing that Logan acted a little more like a friend and less like an ally was pointless, Steve knew.

He brushed the thought away – Steve had a job to do. And he'd better get to it.

Hours later, Steve's backpack was significantly heavier, and his knees were starting to ache from crouching to collect plants. His shirt was damp with sweat, and he'd long since tied his jacket around his waist.

Logan's park had turned out to be a veritable mine. Clovers littered the ground, and dandelions nestled in clusters every few metres. He'd only found a single wild onion, but it was nestled in his bag all the same. There were a few bushes covered in blue flowers that he'd thought he'd seen Ro chew on once or twice, so he'd collected those too, as well as some thick stalks of something that vaguely resembled asparagus.

Steve straightened with a groan, stretching his back. As his gaze lifted, he spotted Logan traipsing towards him. From what he could see, Logan had tied several of his catches together with his hoodie string, and he had a brace of rabbits swinging from each hand, dangling just above the claws.

He glanced at the sky. It was late afternoon, so Logan was right on time. Steve quickly grabbed his backpack and headed towards him. "How'd it go?" he asked.

Logan made a small noise of affirmation. "Bagged a duck, some rabbits, and a squirrel or two."

Steve barely stopped himself from lifting an eyebrow. Unbidden, his mentor's words came back to him. _Logan seems like the type to know what he's doing in the arena,_ Quill had said.

_Yeah, no kidding,_ Steve thought. "I managed to find some things, too," he offered. "You might want to take a look, though. I'm, um, not entirely sure about some of them…"

He handed over the bag as Logan held out a hand, waiting as he peered at them. "Looks good," he said after a moment. "Except for these."

Logan pulled out the thick stalks from the backpack, holding them in one hand as he broke them in half and squeezed the tips. A milky, discoloured sap oozed onto his fingers, and Logan quickly wiped it on his pants. "Poisonous," he said casually and threw the plants aside.

"Oh." Steve's mouth had gone dry.

Logan returned his backpack, his face showing no sign of worry that Steve could have killed their entire group. He opened his mouth to speak, but something beat him to it.

_BOOM!_

A cannon blast. The noise rumbled through the arena, and both Logan and Steve glanced at the sky. It was the first one for the day.

They looked at each other. "Let's hope it wasn't one of ours," Logan suggested, after a moment.

Steve swallowed. Deep in his stomach, he felt sickly afraid. He didn't know why. "Yeah," he agreed, ignoring the way his pulse was fluttering in his neck.

"Let's go," Logan said.

* * *

By the time they reached their base, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. Bruce was waiting for them by the door, with Tony tinkering around inside. "Saw you on the cameras," he offered in explanation.

The security system that Tony had rigged up was, Steve could admit, probably one of his best inventions. By reprogramming the undamaged cameras that were littered around the city and streaming the feeds onto an old television that Bruce had found, they'd been able to keep a close eye on the streets around their base. Their surveillance range didn't extend very far yet, though Tony was making plans to expand it. Even so, the security system was invaluable.

"Has there been anyone nearby?" Steve asked, stepping inside.

Tony answered without looking up from where he was prying out old batteries from a damaged television remote. "Nope," he said, "Been quiet in our neck of the woods. Heard that cannon, though. You guys?"

Logan shook his head as Steve replied, willing his heart to harden. He had no reason to be afraid. "We heard it too. Didn't see a soul out there, either."

Bruce and Tony exchanged a glance, and Steve could guess what they were thinking. For the past two – almost three – days, there had been no sign of any other tributes. The ease with which they were living in the arena was making Steve uneasy.

Logan didn't seem to pick up on the rising anxiety – that, or he chose to ignore it. The lumberjack swung his catches onto the ground and sat gracelessly, preparing to skin the animals. Steve followed suit, gently lowering his bag to the floor – which Bruce must have cleaned, he thought, noting the lack of dust. Gratefulness surged in his throat. Steve hadn't mentioned it, but his asthma had been playing up a little because of it. The other boy must have noticed.

"So, who's cooking?" Tony asked.

Bruce offered immediately, and no one disagreed. The other two boys had kept the fire going, and arranged the logs so that their cookware – the repurposed, shallow base of a plant pot – could balance over the flames. So far, they'd only managed to make broths. But it was easiest for a still-healing Tony to drink, so there would be no complaints.

It didn't take long. While they'd been gone, Bruce had also refilled their water supply – it had taken a bit of exploring, he admitted, but he'd finally found a functioning tap in a bathroom tucked away in a nearby house. Bruce filled their pot and then threw in a handful of Steve's plants as they waited for Logan to finish peeling the skin off of his prey – which, no matter how many times Steve saw it, still made him feel slightly nauseous – and cut the meat into cubes, which he threw in. While the group's collective chef skills were minimal at best, Logan reassured them that the end product would be safe to eat.

Probably.

They didn't have any other bowls, just a few bent utensils. The group of four ate straight out of the pot, talking quietly over their meal. Outside, the sun was sinking further below the horizon.

Once they were finished, Steve stood. "I'll take first watch," he offered. He'd been the last to wake up that morning, so it made sense for him to be the final one to sleep. Besides – with full stomachs and warmed by the fire, he could tell that the others were starting to fall asleep.

As expected, none of the others boys argued. They made noises of agreement and started to move towards their bedrolls, suppressing yawns. Steve banked the fire and then slipped out of the door, pulling on his jacket as he left. The arena was hot during the day, but temperatures dropped quickly after dusk.

Steve slid his shield onto his arm, glancing around as he shut the door behind him. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. They'd boarded up the small shop pretty effectively – with the door closed; there was no light to suggest the small fire burning inside.

He blew out a breath between his teeth and chose a direction at random. Steve could check the perimeter first, he decided. Then he'd examine the surrounding area for any signs of other tributes – just because they hadn't seen them on the camera didn't mean that they hadn't come through – and then, finally, start branching out to check the extended area.

* * *

He'd only been patrolling for an hour when Steve first felt it.

The sensation began as a few hairs lifting on the back of his neck. Steve, stepping out of a ruined building, paused only to pull up his hood against the cold wind and continue his patrol. There was no sound but the occasional glass crunching under his feet.

After a while, the tingling on the back of his neck had only grown. Steve rubbed his hand over it unconsciously and shifted the weight of the shield on his forearm.

Discomfort was building in his stomach, but Steve brushed the feeling aside. He was beginning to think that he wasn't alone – but that was impossible. The three other boys were safe inside their base, and he was on his second pass of the perimeter, with no sign of anyone else. He was alone. He had to be.

Steve paused to shift a few blocks out of the centre of the road, wary of tripping on them later in the dark, when there was a sound behind him. It was small – nothing more than a piece of gravel rolling down the street. But Steve stiffened. The tingling on his neck seemed to grow, but he was careful not to react. Instead, the tribute took care to remain noiseless as Steve lifted the broken rubble and set it down gently, taking the opportunity to glance at the road behind him.

There was nothing there.

Steve straightened, retrieving his shield from where he'd rested it against a nearby wall. He pretended to brush away some dust on its surface, glancing in the reflection to check again. Still, the street was empty.

Unease rippled across his skin. He slid his arm through the straps on his shield, preparing to defend himself if it became necessary. Steve started walking again, keeping his footsteps light. He didn't look over his shoulder.

His chest felt tight, anxiety fluttering under his ribs. He couldn't ignore it – Steve was being followed. What he couldn't yet tell was whether or not the presence was malicious.

Was it Ororo? The thought made his heart feel lighter. Steve wouldn't have even questioned the nature of her return – coming back like this, in the middle of the night with no warning, was almost exactly what he'd expect. No doubt she'd find it amusing to scare him half to death.

It could be her. Steve wished, with all of his being, that it were. But he'd been out patrolling for three hours, and his stalker had been following him for at least half that time.

Ro wouldn't have waited that long.

Steve clung to that thought with all of his strength. It was the one thing keeping him from spinning on his heel and shouting her name.

Instead, he kept walking. The route through the streets and the empty buildings was habit now, and Steve could focus entirely on the streets behind him. His ears were strained to detect the slightest noise, and every muscle in his body was tense. But behind him, there was nothing.

Occasionally, he thought that he heard an echo; someone's footsteps touching down, softly, in time with his own. But every time Steve tried to catch them – tripping slightly over his own feet, hesitating a second longer on his left leg – he failed. Either he was overreacting, or the person hunting him had experience.

But Steve didn't think he was overreacting.

The night dragged on, and nothing happened. He did nothing to tip off his tail to the fact that he knew he was being followed – but equally, they did nothing further to alert Steve to their presence. He knew that he should wake up someone else to take his place already, but Steve refused to lead his pursuer straight to his friends. If they were going to attack him, he'd face them head-on.

And then, just as Steve resolved to turn and confront his prowler, the eyes on his back disappeared.

Paused on the threshold of yet another empty building, Steve surreptitiously glanced behind him. Again, there was nothing – just as there had been the entire night. But Steve could feel the difference. A chill ran down his spine. He was no longer being watched.

It wasn't reassuring. If anything, Steve was put even more on edge. What happened? Why had the situation suddenly changed?

The moment of reprieve stretched out into minutes. Moving cautiously, Steve stepped out onto the street. Above his head, the moon hung as a pale disc in the dark sky, casting weak silver light over everything in sight. He glanced around carefully.

_Nothing._ He turned on his heel and kept walking, staying alert.

Steve looked around once more. The street was still; the only sound the low whistling of wind. Agitation was building under his skin, and Steve reached up to run a finger under the straps of his shield. It felt too tight – what if he was attacked? He wouldn't be able to throw it.

Minutes passed in silence. Steve passed the last building, heading towards the more sheltered roads, where crumbling urban jungles melted into sprawling forests. The working streetlights disappeared – some flickered on and off, though most refused to light up at all. The trees had grown to block out the moon almost entirely, too.

It was dark, and Steve was alone.

He was beginning to realize what a bad idea this had been.

To his right, a bush rustled.

Steve spun on his heel, ducking behind his shield as he planted its edge in the dirt. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. The events of the night were coming to a head; Steve could feel it in his chest. Something was wrong – the situation had changed again.

He stayed there – frozen in the dirt, hiding behind his shield – until his heart no longer felt like it was trying to escape from his ribcage. Slowly, Steve peeked over the rim of his shield.

Nothing. The bushes had fallen silent once more.

Then, they rustled again.

Slowly, Steve stood. Something was wrong. It had to be. Why spend the entire night avoiding his attention only to do this? Why not attack when his guard was down?

This had to be a trap. He just didn't understand how.

He slid his shield back onto his arm, angling it carefully over his chest. If anyone attacked, he'd be ready. Steve moved slowly towards the bushes, his every nerve blazing under his skin. He didn't even breathe.

Warily, he parted the bushes and stepped into the overgrown park. There was a clear path stretching in front of him, and Steve didn't think twice. Cautious and slow, he kept moving forward and searching the area around him.

_Nothing._ Shrubs and trees closed in on him, pressing closer and closer. Steve followed the path. Every time he paused, the bushes would shake just ahead of him. The malevolent gaze from earlier had returned. He could practically feel it burning into his chest like acid.

His pursuer was leading him somewhere.

Steve lifted his shield, half-wishing that he'd borrowed the dagger that Logan had stolen from Raven. Fear and anger were warring inside his chest. His breath was coming hard and fast, too loud in the quiet night.

Another branch moved. Steve whipped his head around, searching for a flash of something, anything. _Nothing._

Abruptly, the anger burst inside his chest. "Show yourself!" Steve yelled, and he spun on his heel. _Nothing._ There was no sign of anyone. "Enough with these games!" His words thundered into the quiet night. There was no reply.

And suddenly, the gaze on his back lifted. Steve felt it like a physical weight leaving his shoulders, and this time he knew beyond doubt. Whoever his watcher had been, they'd disappeared.

Steve cursed under his breath, turning slowly. And then he saw it.

Smooth. Round. Some kind of sphere was lying on the ground not a foot away from him, nestled amongst a pile of leaves. It hadn't been there before.

His stomach dropped through the floor even as his heart rose to his throat. Steve's mind had gone blank. What was it? He didn't know. But it wouldn't be good.

Slowly, mindlessly, he moved forward and sank to his knees. The dirt was soaked, moisture seeping into his pants. In the back of his mind, it occurred to Steve that it hadn't rained in almost three days.

He reached out, and gently, gently, grasped the sphere between his rough fingers. His hands weren't shaking, despite the growing sense of unease in his chest. Around him, the rest of the world had been forgotten.

The ball was soft and smooth. _Almost…slimy, _Steve thought. He felt oddly detached, as though he were observing the whole scene from outside his body. It couldn't hold its shape, deflating slightly in his hand.

There was something dangling from the back of it, Steve realized belatedly. Nausea rose in his stomach. He held it carefully, struggling to see in the dim light, and ran his fingers gently down the cord. It was covered in moisture but ended roughly, as though the cable had been torn apart.

Holding it carefully in his hand, Steve shifted the small object – and finally, it caught the light. His stomach dropped. It was clouded and murky, hanging from a grey cord. An optic nerve, still bleeding.

A blind eye.

His world erupted. Steve stumbled to his feet, the world spinning – he thought he was screaming, maybe, but something was ringing in his ears. He was holding an _eye_ in his hand, oh God, a blind eye–

He thought he was hyperventilating, maybe, but Steve was staggering towards the base, and he needed to _breathe._ But he couldn't, because he _was holding an eye_–

Steve fell against a tree and had to stop, because his earlier meal was forcing its way up his throat. The acrid taste burned his oesophagus, and he choked on it, coughing into the back of his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut. _Oh God, _Steve had _an eye in his hand and it was still bleeding, why was he still holding it_–

Fumbling, he ripped an old cloth out of his pocket – a cut-up bed-sheet; he used them as emergency bandages – and wrapped it around the eye. Steve couldn't see straight. Tears slicked his cheeks, but he couldn't stop to break down like he wanted to because, because–

Because he was holding a blind eye in one hand, and there was only one girl in the arena it could have come from.

There were cannons bursting in his mind, and Steve remembered the one from earlier – he hadn't even considered it, but he should have known – she would have been _scared_ and _in pain,_ and he hadn't even thought of her.

He was gasping her name in time with his heartbeat, thunder roaring in his ears. Steve couldn't breathe, but he had to – he had to get back to the others, because the eye in his hand belonged to a dead little girl and _he had to do something_–

_A dead little girl._ Steve was making noises in the back of his throat like a wounded animal, and suddenly, the tears began anew. _She was just a little girl,_ he thought desperately.

_And now she's dead._

The blind eye couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

It was Ro's.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	84. Chapter 83: Call to War

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a new update for ITEYAK, aptly titled "Call to War," given that YouTube is pretty much jampacked with Civil War promos. Have begun to get increasingly excited for this movie, just hope I don't get as burned out as I did with Batman v Superman (a movie which did a lot of things right, in my opinion, but also got a lot of things wrong, some of them quite basic). Sadly, Wolverine will not be in that movie, but we've got him here, written as always by Canucklehead Cowgirl.**

**A big thanks to TheHazardsOfLove13, FandomsForeva, and our anonymous Guest for their reviews. With regards to FandomsForeva, we did see Ororo's death directly! It happened at the end of Chapter Eighty-One: Cold Blood, two chapters ago!**

**Now, without further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Three ****– ****Call To War**

**Morning, Day Nine**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"If they stand behind you give them protection. If they stand beside you give them respect. If they stand against you...No mercy."_

Bodhi Sanders, _Modern Bushido: Living a Life of Excellence_

* * *

Logan was fast asleep, though peaceful was not a term that would describe his slumber. His dreams had been getting progressively worse, and in them, the whole world had a tint of red to it. The sounds that played out in his dreams were sickening.

Echoing screams from the bloodbath accompanied Creed's graveyard rasp as if the man was still standing over his shoulder…telling him what he'd expected of him.

_Don't wait to do it, boy…They're just meat to be wasted. All of 'em_, the bigger man had said over and over more times and in more ways than Logan could count since the first time he'd rested his massive, heavy hand on Logan's shoulder. The sensation of it came back to him in his dream, and he rolled his shoulder, trying to shake the memory.

He twitched in his sleep, and the oppressive weight from his dream pushed him down and made him more restless. All around him, he could only sense blood. His hands were slicked with it. He could feel the weight of the droplets that had sprayed across his face, from who, he couldn't tell. Warm and slippery, the strong metallic scent of it had overwhelmed his senses.

His breathing picked up as the dream intensified.

In the midst of his nightmare, he was trying to make a sound. Anything to wake himself up. Panic rose. He tried to scream, but it fell flat in his throat as if someone had been holding him down by his vocal cords. He felt paralyzed as he fought to move…to wake up. But no matter how close he came to a scream tearing itself from his tensed body, nothing would come out. The harder he fought to wake up – to move. Scream. _Anything_ – the more intense the sensation became.

He had no warning before he saw Raven impaled on his makeshift claws. The dream felt so real he swore he could smell her breath as she gasped for air. From some awful twisted corner of his subconscious, she melted into Kurt. Then Parker. Then Kate – and finally, Fox. He could feel the hot blood running between his fingers and down his arm.

Someone's hand gripped his shoulder and shook him lightly. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He grimaced and tried not to hear the sound that the unsharpened rebar had made as he pulled it free from his victim.

_Schlll-_

"Logan." The voice was unexpected…and unfamiliar for a moment.

His eyes popped open with a sharp intake of breath. In a smooth, quick move, he kicked himself away from the voice and into a crouch, the claws held out in front of him and his hands balled into fists as the tear-streaked face of Steve Rogers came into focus.

But it wasn't just the red eyes and tear trails that threw Logan off when he took in Steve's appearance. The boy was a wreck. His hair was a mess – leaves and small twigs stuck in it, a red streak across his cheekbone where, clearly, a tree branch had hit him as he rushed away from something ... or someone. Something horrible had to have happened. Not knowing what it was only disoriented Logan further and made him more anxious.

Steve froze and watched him warily for a moment as Logan visibly tried to pull himself under control. He had to regain his bearings, especially seeing as the sudden jolt from nightmare to wakefulness had not done him any favours.

Steve's reddened eyes flicked from the anxious young man's face to his claws for just a fleeting second before meeting Logan's icy blue glare.

Apparently thinking better of waking Banner and Stark in the same way, Steve cleared his throat and raised his voice.

"Everyone up," he said, slowly and clearly, his voice wavering a bit…making it come off more like a request than an order. The naturally authoritative tone Steve usually commanded had been weakened.

Steve was all business but was clearly reluctant to take his eyes off of the dark-haired, wild-eyed tribute before him. Cap's body language was the polar opposite of Logan's, though he remained ready. His eyes were haunted by some horror that hadn't been there the night before.

Cap broke eye contact from Logan and turned away. The action got the tense young man to relax a hair and let out a breath. Logan quickly realized that Steve really hadn't meant to startle him. Just a case of wrong person…wrong timing. _Very_ wrong timing. It occurred to him that the blonde tribute was lucky that Logan hadn't sent his claws through him on waking.

Logan looked around their base camp in the old store front quickly and then watched Banner across the way for a moment as he caught his breath. The boy from Six looked concerned.

"You alright?" Banner asked, but Logan just began to slowly lower himself back to the dusty floor, sitting cross-legged while he forced himself to relax. He closed his eyes to take a few deep, cleansing breaths before answering him.

"M'fine," Logan rumbled finally, eyes still closed as he concentrated hard on the breaths he was taking.

_Fine. Yep. I'm just peachy,_ he thought to himself. _For now._

That certainly hadn't been the first nightmare he'd had since they'd gotten into the arena, but the pressure and the nature of the Games was causing them to intensify and added new, more horrible elements to them. Of course, he knew this was bound to happen sooner or later. He had just _hoped _for later.

He grumbled to himself as he thought of the more sombre tone his new group had. Although he didn't miss the naive outlook that the kids at the nest had…being part of any team didn't feel exactly right to him while their fates twisted in the wind. But the kids had needed someone to watch out for them and focus them when they needed to be focused. Not to mention someone to make sure Parker's bad jokes didn't kill them outright.

With his eyes closed, he scrubbed his hand over his face. The Games had been going for over a week, and already a beard was well on its way to being grown in. From the feel of it, he knew he must be pretty scruffy, though Jubes had mentioned several times how she thought he was born for the 'rugged look'. Whatever the hell that meant.

_Jubilee._

She was probably having fits at the state of him. How many times did she complain about having to make him shave twice a day to keep him 'presentable' for the cameras?

The thought of his yellow and electric pink stylist put him in a bad mood again, as thinking of her only brought him back to Creed. He glanced around their hideout just hoping that something to ease the snarly feeling in his chest would materialize.

The 'nest' had been within throwing distance of what had to have been an old liquor store. Trickshot and the Elf had glossed over it when they were scavenging due to its lack of edible goods…but Logan had found a few bottles there that put him in a much better mood. He'd cheerfully pocketed some whiskey for himself on one of his patrols, though he didn't get more than a taste before they'd gone and found Peter in the spider's lair.

Since then, he'd been reluctant to even touch it, though he thought about it often enough. He had realized quickly that the last thing he needed was to be the first tribute to die because they were too damn drunk to defend themselves.

He pushed the idea of getting numb out of his head, and within a few minutes, he was mostly back to his level of normal. Aside from the nightmares, that is. Or the way he had started to subconsciously analyse every move the other tributes around him made.

He had tried to push Creed's words from his mind…tried to force the images of death and blood away since he'd woken…but the scent that had burned itself into his nose still remained.

Just three days ago, his hands and arms had been coated in Stark's blood as he and Banner patched him up. Most of it had long been scrubbed or flaked off, but some of it had dried into the strappings for his claws that he was wary of removing unless he was sharpening them. There was plenty of rust red under his nails and soaked into the cuff of his sleeve, making the fabric slightly stiffened. He'd rested his head on that blood-stained cloth for a pillow as he slept.

The moisture in his breath had likely softened it as he slumbered, and his own body heat had helped to cause the heavy, coppery scent to intensify again.

There wasn't anything on his hands or his arms…but the sleeves of his hoodie was a different story. They were what he assumed was the reason behind his nightmare drenched with blood.

Instinctively, he rubbed his palms on his pants, hoping to gain a little distance from the scent, but it was a futile movement. His hands were likely as clean as they were going to get in the arena. Never had he wanted to take a dip in a lake more in his entire life. But a bath was likely the last thing he'd get anytime soon.

He watched Stark wince while he began to sit up all on his own finally. It was nothing short of a damn miracle that he was still breathing. He'd lost so much damn blood. But amazingly, Stark seemed to be on the mend.

Logan let out a slow, controlled breath. The nightmarish images had finally, truly retreated from his mind as he watched Banner act as nursemaid to Stark.

He felt like he couldn't take any real credit in Stark's miraculous recovery, though. Outside of digging a few embedded scraps of metal from Tony's battered flesh and stopping some bleeders while the others were more or less still in shock, it had all been Banner. The fact that Tony was even alive was proof in and of itself of how good Bruce was. He'd done a helluva job.

Stark was looking worlds better as he began to gingerly pull himself up in a slow, pained attempt to get to his feet without jostling the harness that held the magnet suspending the metal embedded near his heart.

It seemed that the two brainiacs had hit it off, and in a way, Logan was glad to see it. He quietly observed as Bruce gave Stark a little verbal encouragement, which for once, Tony was taking in silence. Miracle upon miracles.

It meant he didn't have to put up with anyone else cozyin' up to him. And though Stark had improved by leaps and bounds, Logan vaguely wondered if he'd just end up having to kill him later after all their careful work. He watched Banner as he checked the bandages, and a dark thought entered his mind.

He knew exactly how he could kill Stark without even getting his hands dirty. Hell, half the work was done, and he'd already restrained himself from doing it once. It would be quick. Easy. Little effort involved. One solid punch or kick in the centre of his chest, and the shrapnel would pierce his heart. Even if he didn't tear the magnet away, the result would be the same.

The first time it had popped into his mind was right after Stark's little shock bracelet experiment. Talk about a quick way to get on his bad side. Had it not been for the fact that Stark was so damned mentally fragile, he'd have killed him on the spot. Of course, Banner talking him down after the fourth or fifth shock was incredibly helpful to Tony's health too.

He shook his head abruptly, wondering to himself why that was stuck in his head. A little shock wasn't enough to make him want to snuff the kid, even if it had been without a warning. But … he couldn't ignore the weakness that the boy wore like a glowing target. He locked his jaw and closed his eyes again. It wasn't his voice in his head giving him pointers on how to kill the man he'd helped to save…it was Creed's.

All those hours trying to tune him out as he yammered on about one kill or another or a technique that he or another tribute had used with devastating consequences. Hours of him driving into his head that he had to exploit the weaknesses already there or make a weakness for them…it had actually sunk in.

And now that he realized it…he couldn't stop analysing how to take his friends and companions down. Their weak points were hard to ignore…and every one of them had a few to choose from.

He shook his head again in an attempt to get off that train of thought, reminding himself that, regardless of what Creed had apparently tried to brainwash into him, kindness, trust, and decency were not weaknesses. And so far, everyone that he'd allied with all shared those same virtues.

This was going to get really ugly before it was over.

He leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to refocus. He couldn't think like…_him_. Not like Creed. He'd kill, sure. But unlike his sadistic mentor…he actually needed a reason. Opportunity wasn't enough. At least...he didn't think it was enough.

Killing Raven was far easier than he thought it would be. He hadn't really considered her for a moment before he did it. All he had known was that it wasn't Kurt. She could have been anyone else. He knew he could kill…and would do it again. If nothing else, to keep someone a lot more innocent than him from having to do it and living with the guilt for the rest of their short lives. But he just couldn't see himself hunting people down unless they deserved it.

"We have a problem," Rogers said at last. The sudden statement pulled all three young men's attentions to him as his voice and his authority cracked.

Steve stared down at something in his shaking hands. Logan didn't like seeing him like this...vulnerable. _Emotional_. It set off alarm bells in the back of his mind.

Without another thought, Logan found himself on his feet again. He watched the young man intently. What had him so tweaked?

"Rogers?" Logan prompted when it was apparent to him that Steve wasn't going to continue on his own volition. The tall blonde looked up, his jaw locked as he clearly did all he could to control his reaction. But he didn't do nearly enough, from Logan's viewpoint.

"I was checking the perimeter," Steve said, his voice shaking the slightest bit. His body language read to Logan as that of a kid in turmoil. Well, _more_ turmoil. "I heard a noise…and I found this."

Logan, Bruce, and Tony shared a glance before Logan broke rank and stepped forward as Bruce stood to join them. Stark repositioned himself to try and look at what Steve had bought with him. It was obvious what it was as soon as they saw it in the low light.

The milky white orb that was 'Ro's blind eye stared up from the cloth it was resting on in the palm of Cap's hand. All of them seemed to be frozen. Seconds ticked by, but the only sound in the room was the squeaking of the sign outside as it caught in the early morning breeze.

"No..." Bruce whispered softly as he pulled off his glasses and looked away, turning them compulsively in his hands, a tight frown on his face. Logan didn't speak, but his shoulders dropped, and his face had suddenly lost all the tension that had pulled his brows together in the frown that he'd worn since he'd lost the campfire kids …while chasing after Cletus.

They stared in stunned silence for a moment as Steve allowed them to process it, likely working through it himself too. The loss of the spunky little girl had impacted all of them, likely much harder than 'Ro herself ever would have considered possible.

Banner started to say something…asking for details that Logan couldn't even think about – what did the details matter at this point, after all? She was gone. Outrage seemed to be the supporting theme in their little group, however, and had he been in a better mindset, their unified anger would have been grounding. Instead, the slow burn that had been building just got a little more fuel tossed onto its fire.

Cap tried to shoulder the burden alone – blaming himself for not looking for her more, convinced that he could have saved her if he'd just tried harder. Lamenting how he'd failed his role as her guardian and protector.

Meanwhile, Logan stepped back from the frosted eye. His hearing seemed to go fuzzy as he pictured what little 'Ro had probably suffered at the hands of the maniac that had taken her young life. He was seething.

She was just a kid. _Just a damn kid._ That redheaded sonofabitch had mutilated her corpse when he was done killin' her…and likely torturin' her too.

Guilt-ridden whispers from two nights before echoed in his ears as he lifted his chin and met Stark's eyes. Meanwhile, in the background, Cap and Bruce went back and forth about the situation with Cletus. Logan's jaw locked, and Stark's face took on an expression of deep resolve.

Logan had thought the young man was hallucinating when he'd told him the state that he'd found Pepper in. He'd assumed that it was part of a particularly disturbing fever dream. Now he knew that had been a naive assumption on his part.

* * *

_It was well past dark. Logan had finally talked Banner into taking a break before he passed out from exhaustion. He was convinced that Bruce had fallen asleep before he'd laid down properly._

_All was quiet, and Logan had just sat down near Stark when the injured young man grabbed his arm and began mumbling in hushed whispers._

_Clearly, Stark didn't want anyone but Logan to hear him._

_"__It's my fault. It's all my fault that she's dead. I should have protected her. I should have been there for her. I should have been there to save her." His voice had cracked as he spoke, and his grip on Logan's arm was tightening more than Logan could have given him credit for, considering the extent of his injuries._

_"__The hell're you talkin' 'bout, Stark?" Logan rumbled as he yanked his arm free from his grasp and glared at the young man._

_"__Pepper. My Pepper. It's my fault she's dead," Tony replied, swallowing thickly. His eyes were wide as he stared off at nothing in particular. "I lost her. I lost her the first day in the bloodbath. Cletus killed her. I let her die."_

_Logan had made a point to look at the first night's 'show'. He was checking to see if the few people he had come to respect had made it through the bloodbath. He did remember seeing Pepper in the sky. He wasn't terribly surprised._

_"__She was my best friend. We did everything together. I can't…I can't even pick out clothes without her opinion. How do you deal with that? How do you handle losing someone that important? I don't know how to do this…I can't do this," Stark said quietly, the shake heavy in his voice as he turned his troubled face to the older teen. _Perhaps –

_Logan saw Tony's dark eyes glistening in the flickering light of their tiny campfire, and he heard a jerky breath that could have been a sob _–_ if those same eyes hadn't suddenly widened in pain from the spasm._

_"Don't. Just don't. You can't do this to yourself…not right now." Logan held his hand up between them for a second as he locked eyes with him, willing him to calm down before he spoke again. It took a few moments, but finally, Stark took a slow, calm breath, and Logan could see he was pulling himself together a bit._

_"__There ain't a damn thing you can do about it now. So do both of us a favour – shut the hell up and go to sleep," Logan growled out. Silence fell between them for far shorter a span of time than Logan would have liked._

_"__But…but he…Cletus…he took her arms. Why would he _do_ that? Why would he take her arms?" Stark had said it out of nowhere, in a whispered rush. Logan's brow wrinkled up, and he just stared at him for a moment before deciding he simply had to be in shock._

_Without knowing exactly what that medicine had done to him…Logan decided it was possible that he was hallucinating on top of everything else._

_But then again, it was Cletus. That guy was unhinged. No telling what he might or might not have done._

_When Logan spoke again, his voice was gentle, devoid of any whisper of a growl. "Listen, kid." He paused until Stark met his eyes. "Just…let it go. For now. Just for five minutes. Try to put it out of your head for that long. Otherwise, it'll kill you if you keep at it the way you're goin'," Logan told him sagely._

_Tony stared at him for a few moments, taking in the advice slowly._

_Stark frowned suddenly. "Sounds hokey. Will that actually work?" Stark asked…sounding more like himself with the smart alec tone._

_Logan slowly let out a breath as he decided the best way to approach. "It'll work for five minutes, anyhow. You can survive damn near anything for five minutes if you put your mind to it."_

_"__What do you do if you make it five minutes?" Tony asked._

_"__Go for five more."_

_They were quiet for a little while; only the muted crackling of the fire from the next room over broke the silence. Logan thought the younger boy was thinking it through. He hoped he was maybe even giving it a shot. As Logan put it from his mind, Stark blinked up at him hopefully._

_"__Is that what works for you?" _

_For a split second, Logan was stricken. And with that, the frown returned, and he shut down completely._

_"__Go to sleep before I smother ya, Stark," Logan growled out as he turned his head away from the young man, his eyes on his boots. Stark clammed up and tried to relax…or tried to look relaxed._

_Tony had to be out of it. Sure, there was murder and mayhem, but the stress of losing his girl had clearly taken a toll on him. There was no other reasonable explanation for what Tony was saying about Pepper._

_Good ratings or no, he doubted that the Gamemakers would allow the delicate citizens of the Capitol to have to endure watching a lunatic dismember other tributes one by one unchecked._

* * *

Logan glanced back at Ro's blind eye as the others passionately let their opinions be known. Stark advocated building something to take Cletus down, prompting Bruce to bridge the gap for Steve to explain the science of it. He basically just broke down into easier-to-understand terms what Stark was talking about while the famous savant nodded his head.

The three began to discuss their options rapidly, but Logan kept out of it, stoic and thoughtful in his own way as he looked down to the near razor-sharp edge on the claws that he'd been honing in his down time. Nothing he was considering needed the slightest bit of genius prep. Or any assistance.

He started to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching as he worked his jaw, nearly growling to himself. Stark watched him from his cot, his eyes widening bit by bit as he saw Logan seem to shift into something more wild than he'd appeared to be already, when Steve caught his attention.

"Logan!" His head snapped toward the young man calling his name. "You got any bright ideas? We can't let this stand. He targeted her from the beginning. I was supposed to protect her."

Logan was beyond words, but he nodded as he tried to rein it in. He too felt responsible for the little girl's demise. Had he caught up to Cletus the night of the storm, 'Ro might still be alive – flitting about the trees in relative safety.

He reminded himself to hold back that rage until he could use it. All the while, he was thinking to himself, _Well, I wanted a reason._

"We can't even set a trap for him…we have no idea where he might be or where he might go," Banner argued as he gestured with his hands. "The bastard could be watching us right now."

"First Pepper…now Ororo. What are we going to do about it?" Stark asked as he shifted his position. He grimaced as his hand flew to his chest, where he'd clearly just pulled something. He quickly gave up that position and sank back to his resting place. It was clear that he desperately wanted to try to figure out a way to contribute to the manhunt in spite of his still-healing injuries.

Logan kept his eyes on Stark, his mind going back to the look of horror on his face when he told him about Pepper – that haunted look was still there, stronger now that he had something else to remind him of it. Logan looked down at his hands as they balled up into fists, the leather straps holding the claws in place creaking a bit as his heavy forearms flexed.

"We have to go after him," Steve said with a calm determination. "If anyone deserves to die here, it's him." No one disagreed.

"Where do we even start?" Bruce asked. "The arena is massive. He could be anywhere. There have to be a million places to hide. How the hell do we _find_ him?"

"I'll find him," Logan offered with a growl, his voice gravelly and smoky from disuse. The others stopped their discussion to turn to him as he looked up at them with a sombre stare.

"That's not really a plan, Logan," Steve dismissed with a shake of his head. "And we need a plan of _action_. He's not going to just…appear for us."

"Doesn't need to. I'm a tracker, Cap. And I'm the best there is at what I do. Show me where you found this," Logan replied as he nodded to the bloody eyeball, "and I'll find the low life that put it there. Then when I find him…" He looked down to his hands as they flexed, the leather creaking as he tightened his muscles and clenched his jaw. The threat was clear. "The rest'll take care of itself."

The three boys looked between themselves, clearly sure that the bulky little tribute would follow through if given the opportunity.

"Tony's in no shape to travel," Banner pointed out as the Iron Man himself attempted and failed to pull himself together enough to join the fight. "And we can't leave him here."

"The heart is willing, but the flesh is weak." Tony chuckled mirthlessly to himself. "Never thought I'd say _that_."

Steve and Logan both gave Stark a dismissive glance before sharing a look.

"We sure could use your help, Bruce…but it's clear that Stark needs you more. Can you try and keep him alive while we go…deal with this?" Steve asked of Banner.

Bruce exhaled slowly as he looked at the cloth Steve still held reverently in his hand. "Yeah," he said quietly as he nodded. "I can do that." His fists clenched tightly as he looked at Logan. "Be careful. You can smell crazy on Cletus. Expect the unexpected." Logan nodded once, and Bruce added, quieter still, "Smash him up good for me, will you?"

Logan smirked with a malicious glint in his eyes as he nodded. "Don't know about smash, but I'll see what I can do about slice and dice."

"Fair enough," Banner conceded.

* * *

After Cap showed Logan where he'd found the eye, Logan locked his jaw and went to work. It took him little time before they struck out at nearly a jog, with Logan on point. His focus darted between Cletus' path and their surroundings as he kept his eyes open for danger on the trail headed southeast. Steve watched his back as Logan more or less followed the signs from Cletus that announced the approach to the Williamsburg Bridge.

The truth was that Logan wasn't entirely trusting that Cletus hadn't left an easy trail on purpose, so when he could, he would break from it and just check the trail from twenty feet off of it as they kept up a good clip. He wouldn't put it past the psycho to lay out traps if given half a chance.

The buildings in that area…or what was left of them, in many cases…were much shorter than the ones nearest the Tesseract. Instead of smooth concrete and glass, these were red brick and mortar, and all at once, the smell of salt water began to wash over them as a light breeze blew in off the sea.

For blocks, the signs around them announced over and over the distance to the looming bridge, whose supports were visible from several blocks away.

For some reason, Logan didn't care to see a bridge before them. He was perfectly happy to keep this hike on dry land, if possible. And from the state of the buildings, he didn't have much faith in bridges left over from…before. He tried to keep the thought of the force field at the river and how explosive it could be out of his head. As it was, he'd started picking up small pebbles when he stopped to check the tracks…whenever they'd hit a spot where it looked as though the trail backtracked, he'd toss one…wary of running into the invisible barrier face first. Although it was a relief to _not _find the force field, every stop had Logan more irritable.

He'd had enough of playing hide and seek.

They reached the long approach to the eerie trestle bridge with rusty cables strung across it and sections of the trestles twisted into haunted, bizarre forms.

"Are you sure this is where he went?" Steve asked suddenly. His voice held a serious tone of disbelief as he warily looked up at the twisted metal and broken cables that swayed in the breeze high above. Logan tried not to snarl at him.

"You think I wanna go this way for fun? I'm just hound doggin' it. Followin' where the signs lead," Logan answered with an irritated tone, untrusting of why they'd have to cross this old, decrepit structure. "You can stay here if you want; I really don't need a sidekick anyhow. But if you're goin' with me, then we're followin' the trail. I haven't seen a spot I thought he might have gone another way, or backtracked, or I'd take it."

He paused in his little rant and tried to take a calming breath. Steve certainly wasn't to blame for the path they were on. He let out his breath slowly with some of his anger and tried again as Steve watched him warily. "This is where it leads, and if we want him, like it or not…this is where we gotta go."

Steve shook his head, never taking his eyes off the bridge or the buildings around them.

"Well…let's get this over with. If we're following the signs, we'll get to see what exactly 'Brooklyn' is." Logan took another deep breath and nodded curtly before taking the first step toward the massive structure, cautiously watching where they were headed as they started across it.

"Keep an eye open," Steve warned. "I wouldn't put it past Cletus to be hiding in this mess trying to ambush us," he said as his gaze darted from one steel beam to the next. Logan nodded his head in agreement.

Two sets of railroad tracks ran down the centre of the structure. There were two roads on the top deck, though in many places, they had fallen through to the lower level, and in some spots, on the northbound side, it was wide open straight down to the water. All along the pathway, there were paint flakes that had fallen from every surface, littering the old, pockmarked pavement.

Outside of scaring up a small flock of seagulls, the crossing was totally uneventful, though looking over the edge into the water was a bit unnerving.

On the other side of the bridge, it took Logan precious little time to find the boot prints in the dirt that showed they were indeed still on the right track. He took a moment to point it out to Steve before nosing back down the trail, actually anticipating catching the little creep.

"Any idea what we do when we find him?" Steve asked suddenly, though Logan couldn't tell if the question came from nerves or anticipation.

The advanced state of decay on the buildings and various structures around them suddenly made it seem a little more ominous as they walked.

"I try not to plan things out that far ahead," Logan replied, his focus fully forward. "But if it makes you feel better, or you can't stomach it…when it means somebody's gotta get blood on their hands – I'll try and make sure it's me."

"And if everybody has to get blood on their hands?" Steve asked.

"Then I'll probably just let it happen," he answered with a smirk. "But if you haven't got the guts to finish the job, just keep the hell outta my way."

"Don't worry about me," Steve countered. "As far as I'm concerned, Cletus is less human than that robot. But for now, let's just find him."

Logan grunted, and they continued on, backtracking from time to time when Logan second-guessed the path, finally ending up downright pissed off when the trail led to another bridge.

"He's leadin' us in circles," Logan growled out, his temper hot again as he looked over to the bridge they'd just crossed. It looked a lot worse from where they stood now. "Bastard's playin' with us."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he was just waiting for us to leave Stark and Banner alone so he could attack them," Steve answered. He was irritated in his own right at the way this was falling together.

"Don't worry too much about them. Somethin' tells me Banner can handle himself just fine," Logan offered.

"What makes you say that?" Steve said with a frown.

"It's the quiet ones you gotta watch out for…and he's _awful_ quiet." That got a smile and a nod from the tall blonde, and the two started towards the second bridge of the morning. Although it seemed to be in slightly better shape, this one just felt more…rickety.

The approaches that led to what the signs announced as the **Brooklyn Bridge** were in much worse shape than those that had taken them over the Williamsburg. The railing was contorted wrought iron…some of it melted into odd shapes and rusted metallic puddles.

The trail that Cletus had left was all but invisible on the concrete, but Steve apparently decided to make sure they were on the same page.

"If my hunch is right, he's just trying to wear us down, having us walk all over the city. Let's not waste too much time making sure I'm right," Steve suggested. Logan wholeheartedly agreed, sure that the trail would once again become easier to follow once they crossed back onto terra firma.

The battered stone towers held more cables than the first bridge they'd crossed…which meant more broken cables hanging off the sides down toward the water or partly lain across the old, battered roadway.

One of the towers had an entire corner missing…and judging by the way many of the cables near it were shorn, it was probably a safe bet that it was in the water. One thing was certain though…the size of the city before them looked all the more grand as they made their crossing…the tall skyline looked almost fake, with its broken, glass-faced buildings that looked like they could be a hundred stories tall.

Cars were abandoned along the span of the bridge…and both young men made a point to avoid them as best they were able in case the scrawny lunatic from Ten was lying in wait in one of them. Every step he took had Logan tensing up a little bit more – just ready and waiting for Cletus to show his ugly mug.

Steve held his shield in front of himself until something stopped them both dead in their tracks not far off the approach on the other side of the bridge.

"What the hell is that?" Steve blurted out, wide-eyed. Facing them was a giant, green-tinted woman's head that wore a spiked crown. Several of the tines were bent and twisted. Her face had a gash from her temple to her lips, and the neck looked as if someone very large had simply twisted it off of its body.

"Who do you think she was? She had to be important to have a statue that big."

"No flamin' clue," Logan answered as they walked around the eerie, decapitated head. Logan didn't give it much thought before he nosed back down the trail. Steve had to jog to catch up – his focus still latched onto the statue.

As they headed south, Steve turned to steal a glance at the big green head a few times, a frown on his face. Something about it just didn't feel right to him.

They trekked past the half-burnt sign that read **Battery Park,** and the concrete beneath their feet became more broken up and crumbled, yet they continued on. Logan's focus was on the ground, again searching for a better trail than the one that had dead-ended, when Steve broke into his thoughts from a few yards ahead.

"I think I found her body," Steve said grimly. Logan's head whipped up, thinking of Ororo…but when he looked across the river, it was clear that he was talking about the statue.

The greenish woman's arm was bent at an angle and held a torch, the golden flame of which was dangling precariously and swaying gently in the breeze. Steve looked almost lost as he stared at it.

Logan glanced from the still-standing body in the middle of the river to over his shoulder back towards where the head lay, trying to estimate how far away it had landed.

"Yeah, well, let's get moving," Logan prompted. "Enough sight-seein' today. We got a mission to attend to, and it ain't dealin' with vandalism." Steve agreed quietly, and the two of them walked away from the river's edge, back toward the city.

The sun was high overhead, and both young men were in increasingly foul moods from walking all morning. All that way, and they hadn't seen anything truly significant. Just more overgrown areas where trees and bushes had tried to reclaim the old city with weak, spindly branches. To make Logan more snarly, the trail was quickly going cold.

He slowed down and looked a bit closer at the little trees. Some of those weak little branches had been broken by someone as they passed through. He frowned at the broken twig and turned to look over his shoulder at the way they'd come, mentally mapping out the path. That twig was broken purposely. It had to be. It wasn't in the way.

This felt like it was a path that had been laid out. Which might just mean a trap.

A growl rose in the back of his throat as his 'cheerful' disposition took a total nose dive into murderous. If that little creep thought he could funnel Logan…he was sorely mistaken.

Both young men saw the obvious trail, and while Logan moved to take point again, Steve kept a wide, wary eye.

Up ahead of them, Logan heard a noise and froze, muscles rigid. It clearly sounded more human than anything else.

He turned his head so his ear was toward the noise, and he held up his hand in a gesture for Steve to stop – the same gesture that he'd used when he'd hunted with Trickshot for the deer. Steve froze and tried to crane himself to hear whatever it was Logan was listening to.

The two tributes met eyes as the sound of hushed voices began to drift toward them. Not one voice, but two…

Steve tensed, watching Logan carefully as he readied his claws and began to sink lower into a crouch. The blonde raised his shield in a defensive manner, ready to bash someone or deflect an attack if need be as Logan turned his ear toward the noise. The sounds of shuffling feet began to grow loud enough that Steve heard it too.

"We're not getting past this without a fight, are we?" Steve asked at just over a whisper as they stalked forward.

"Not likely. Their choice…their funeral," Logan growled in return, muscles tensed and claws ready to shred, Steve at his side.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady**.


	85. Chapter 84: Dog Days

**Hey guys, we're back with a new update, this time featuring our very topical Peter Parker, just under two weeks before he makes his debut in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (sorry North America, you guys will just have to wait a little while longer!) As always, he's written by the marvellous abrokencastiel, and after last week's cliffhanger, let's see if we get any more resolution this time round!**

**A big thanks to FandomsForeva, KJAX89, GeekyComicBookGuy, Bookcrazysongbird, chesirecat9116 and our anonymous Guest for their reviews! With regards to GeekyComicBookGuy's review, the main reason why we haven't shown any fights from Logan's POV is that everyone he's gone up against so far have ended up dead, and we always try to let people write their own character's deaths. But don't worry, he's got some action coming up soon!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Four – Dog Days**

**Day Nine**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"There is something more terrible than a hell of suffering - A hell of boredom." _

– Victor Hugo,_ Les __Misérables_

_"'Come,' he said, 'come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same." _

– Bram Stoker_, Dracula_

* * *

It was another hot day in a long line of hot days. Peter had lost track of exactly how long they'd been in the arena. Nights and days blurred together, not helped by the time he'd spent unconscious with the spiders. Kurt could probably tell him, but it didn't seem important anymore. The one thing that mattered was making it to the next day, but Peter was getting a little tired of just surviving.

He stooped to peer under the dumpster. _I really shouldn't complain. I'm not alone, I've fully recovered from the spider-juice, and there was excitement yesterday._

"Anything in that snare?" Kurt asked from his post at the alley entrance, interrupting Peter's thoughts. He glanced back momentarily before returning to his gaze to their surroundings.

"Nothing." The wiry boy shook his head with a sigh when he saw that his spider-web trap was undisturbed. At least they had found a use for the material that had been wadded at the bottom of Kurt's backpack. Surprisingly, it wasn't super sticky and yielded pretty easily under a sharp blade despite its strength. Perfect for making rabbit snares.

_At least I hope rabbits this time around. Don't really want to eat another rat._ He stood and leaned over to check the interior of the dumpster. The garbage remains didn't look promising in the least. The rainstorm from a few nights ago had left a couple inches of dark water and a rotting smell made his nose wrinkle.

"Anything orange?"

"Nope." He rejoined his friend at the end of the alley. "On to the next spot."

Kurt motioned to the faded 'For Sale' sign Peter had insisted on carrying around for the past couple of days. "You are getting quite the odd collection between that and your mystery syringe."

"I like to think of it as being prepared." A hand strayed to his pocket to reassure himself that the syringe was still there.

"Or you could call it being stubborn." Kurt laughed as they continued down the street.

* * *

_"I spy something blue," the Eight boy said as he interlocked his fingers and stretched his hands over his head._

_Kurt took a moment to look around before pointing to a building down the street. "The frayed curtain in that third story window."_

_"Dang. You're getting good at this." Peter grinned at his companion. "You're turn."_

_The duo walked down the middle of the broken street in the midday sun, carefully avoiding the cracks and potholes that threatened twisted ankles. They hadn't gotten exactly lax, but they definitely weren't hiding. There hadn't really been anything to worry about aside from the general sense of arena anxiety that never left. Peter had actually been able to get some good rest since being rescued and, despite losing half the alliance, he could still sleep easy with Kurt watching his back. Actually, he was feeling more rested than he had since leaving District Eight. _I'm beginning to understand why tributes like alliances so much. Going solo is exhausting.

_They hadn't seen another tribute since being split up from Kate and Logan a couple days earlier. Unless Sin's body counted. She'd been the first body he'd actually seen and it made everything alarmingly real. A little over a week ago, she was chucking junk food at him with an actual smile. What was left of her was just wrong. All twisted, broken, and blank. . . Peter shuddered involuntarily at the memory, earning a glance from Kurt._

_"Cold chill." Peter shrugged._

_His friend didn't look quite convinced, but didn't pry. "I see something green."_

_"Tough one, tough one." Peter tapped his chin with a finger while he considered their surroundings. "There's a surprising amount of green in this grey city."_

_"Indeed." The Elf smiled slyly._

_With a dramatic sigh, Peter held up three fingers. "Three guesses. The vines on the front of that building there?"_

_"Please, too obvious."_

_"But that makes it a great option! The one you least expect to be right being the right answer."_

_Kurt shook his head and let out a light laugh. "You are putting way too much thought into this."_

_"Maybe." He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Guess number two is the lettering on the storefront."_

_"What storefront?"_

_"That one." He pointed to one of the few intact glass display windows. The arching words painted on it were chipped and illegible, but definitely a shade of green._

_"Nope." The Elf grinned. "One try left."_

_"Hmm." Peter bit his lip with a frown. "Got it! The street sign."_

_"Good try, but still no. It's the glass of the streetlight."_

_"That was my next guess!" He threw up his hands in exasperation._

_"Of course it was." Kurt laughed. The sun was warm and Peter had tied his jacket around his waist, soaking in the rays. Kurt had removed his as well, only with his jacket draped over one shoulder to keep it out of the way of his sword. One hand rested on the hilt where his fingers played with the ribbons tied there. "What's the score?"_

_"Five to five. If you guess the next one right, you win."_

_"Better make sure it's a good one then, _mein freund_."_

_"Of course I'll pick something good. I'm master of this game." Peter took a quick glance at their surroundings, not letting his eyes rest for too long in one place. He passed over the more obvious answers, instead going for something high up. A faded 'For Sale' sign caught his eye. "I got it! I spy with my little eye something orange."_

_"Orange, orange, orange, hmmm. Is it the brick of the building?"_

_"Nope." Peter smiled. "Two more guesses."_

_The Elf frowned. "What about the potted plant container?"_

_"Swing and a miss. I can taste the victory." He rubbed his hands together in excitement._

_Kurt bit his lip in concentration._

_The seconds passed and Peter started whistling absentmindedly._

_"The rust on that car," he finally said._

_"Not even close!" Peter jumped up and punched the air victoriously. "I win!"_

_Kurt sighed and shook his head. "What was it? There aren't even that many orange things here."_

_"The 'For Sale' sign in that window." Peter pointed to the seventh story window displaying the advertisement._

_"That for sale sign?" Kurt's eyebrows furrowed. "That's not even orange!"_

_"What? It totally is!"_

_"I think you need your eyes checked. It's definitely red."_

_The tall boy squinted at the sign. "No, I'm sure that's orange. Orange as an orange."_

_His companion resolutely shook his head. "I'm calling foul. I win."_

_"I'll prove it!" Peter took off, his boots crunching on the asphalt and the pack bouncing against his back._

_"What do you mean?" Kurt hurried to keep up with his rushing partner._

_"Stay here and watch the backpack." Peter slid it off his shoulder and shook out his hands, looking for a good place to start his climb._

_"Come on, Pete. Is this a good idea?" The Elf warily looked around._

_As an answer, the young man began scaling the brick, easily finding the handholds in the broken building._

_"Seriously, we could even go inside the building. Take the stairs like a normal person."_

_Peter paused and turned to look back down at his friend. He'd already made it up to the third floor. "That's no fun! Besides." He turned and began climbing again. "I'm getting rusty. I need to practice."_

_Kurt sighed loudly. "If you fall, I'm not going to catch you."_

_"Oh, please. I'm not going to—Ahhh!" Peter let go with one hand and swung it wildly in the air as he leaned back as far as he could go. Below him, Kurt's head snapped up and he automatically held out his arms. Peter stopped mid-yell and grinned down. "See, you would."_

_"You ever hear the story of the boy who cried wolf?" Kurt called just loud to be heard._

_Peter laughed as he continued upward. The rough brick scratched at his fingers and the scar tissue on his shoulder pulled a bit, but it felt good to do something that burned energy. He was feeling stronger every day and didn't need to stop for a break nearly as often. He finally reached the window and carefully extract the thin metal sign through the broken glass. "Heads up!" he called down to Kurt as he let it drop._

_The sign slipped through the air and was snatched before it hit the ground. "Now get back down here."_

_"I'm coming, I'm coming." Peter moved over to the drainpipe and quickly slid down. "Now let's settle this."_

_"You are going to be sorely disappointed." Kurt held the sign up to his sweatshirt and grinned smugly. It was hard to argue that the faded sign really did resemble red when next to the fabric._

_"Unfair. We need to find something orange to compare it to. Otherwise it's biased." Peter snatched the sign and hefted the backpack onto his shoulders. "Come on. We'll find a traffic cone or something."_

_"I'm beginning to think you're a sore loser." Kurt laughed and followed Peter's quick walk down the street._

_"I just want to make sure you feel like you really earned this win."_

_"Whatever you say, Spidey."_

* * *

The second snare was another bust. There were signs of animals, but they were apparently smart enough to avoid the loose trap the boys had set in a destroyed store. Peter brushed off the dirt and rubble from his knees as he stood from the floor. It was a pointless gesture considering that his clothes were completely disgusting. The rain had made them feel a little cleaner, but it at this point he was beginning to think the grime was part of what was holding the fabric together. He hopped back through the broken store window and retrieved the backpack and his sign from where he'd left them.

"Seriously, how long do you plan on carrying that around?" His companion pushed off from where he'd been leaning on the wall and the pair continued on their way.

Peter tossed the sign into the air with a twirl and caught it in his other hand as it came back down. "I'm actually getting pretty attached."

Kurt shook his head. "Just don't hurt yourself."

"Me? Hurt myself?" His eyes widened as he pointed at himself. "Never. I'm the epitome of coordination."

"Yeah, like when you tripped on the sidewalk back there."

"I told you, the Gamemakers moved the concrete as I was walking!"

A laugh escaped Kurt. "Forget about trying to kill you, they'd much rather embarrass you."

Peter tapped his temple. "Never underestimate the power of mental warfare."

They lapsed into comfortable silence, hugging the buildings as they made their way down the street. Peter spared a glance at the sun, estimating they had a couple more hours until nightfall. Just enough time to get settled before it got dark. They would need somewhere with a window so they could watch the faces in the sky. The anxiety always got worse while they waited for the faces, worried to see the other half of Team Awesome appear. There would be a small feeling of relief when no burly teenager appeared after Sin. There was still pang of guilt whenever Rouge was projected, but Peter had learned to ignore it. They would keep still and quiet until the face of T'Challa dimmed and the music stopped without their Hawkeye appearing. Only then would Kurt relax, knowing that Kate was still alive. The wrinkles in his forehead would smooth and a smile would return until the next night or cannon boom, whichever came first.

_Sometimes I think he looks at her the same way I looked at Gwen. _Peter shook his head and cleared away the thought. _Don't think about that. Probably just imagining things anyway. Arena fever or something like that._

A small sparrow was spooked by their passing and shot out of a window, making the young men jump. Kurt's sword was at the ready in an instant while Peter attempted to shield his face with his sign. The bird chittered angrily as it flitted from one side of the street to the other before disappearing around the corner.

A sigh escaped Peter as he lowered his sign and relaxed a bit. "You'd think we were jumpy or something."

Kurt slowly replaced his sword in his belt, casting a look around. "I still expect her to show up behind us."

The half-smile Peter gave didn't quite reach his dark eyes. "Nah, I think we're good. You know what they say: electricity never strikes the same place twice."

* * *

_The day after finding the sign, the boys were still wandering aimlessly through the city. The sun was beginning to set and they knew they'd have to find shelter soon._

_"_Eins, zwei, drei_." Kurt held up his fingers as he counted._

_"Eins, s-why, dry?"_

_Kurt smiled encouragingly and nodded. "Close. _Zwei_ is pronounced more like S, V, and I. _Zwei_. And a little more goes into drei. Make it a bit rougher. Try again."_

_Peter thought for a moment before giving it another shot. "_Eins, zwei, drei_."_

_"Congratulations! You can now count to three." The Elf clapped politely with a wide smile. "And that concludes your lesson, because those are the only numbers I remember."_

_"Hey, it's more than I know." Peter laughed. "Jessica Drew, Rouge's mentor, she speaks a lot of languages. I always thought it was really cool. One time she-" Peter started to say more, but something made him pause. The prickling feeling of being watched had returned after days of absence. His brown eyes scanned their surroundings, catching a small movement at the end of the block. He nudged Kurt and dropped his voice. "We're not alone."_

_The boy from Nine immediately stood at attention. "Where?"_

_Peter pointed to the corner where he had seen the flash of red._

_"Did you see who it was?" Kurt drew his sword and held it at the ready._

_"No." He stepped forward cautiously, making sure Kurt was with him. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" No one appeared. "Olly, olly, oxen free!"_

_"What was that?" Kurt shot him a side glance._

_"Uncle Ben used to say it when we played hide-and-seek." Peter shrugged without looking from the corner._

_"Looks like we're both learning new sayings. We know you're there. No use hiding!" the other called out to the hidden tribute._

_A few more frigid moments passed before the girl came around the corner. Her straight black hair hung around her face under the red beanie like a curtain. It was Wade's partner._

_Peter forced a smile. "Wait, I got this. Electricity for. . . Elektra." One of the last two living Careers._

_The dark haired girl said nothing, but gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. Her jacket was stained a darker red, but Peter couldn't tell if it was someone else's blood or her own._

_"Is there anyone with you?" Kurt asked._

_Small shake of the head. A glint from her hands brought attention to the two knife like weapons she carried. She moved over a little more, putting a burned out car between them. There was a slight limp to her step that she was trying to mask. She was hurt. Whatever sort of fight she had been in hadn't left her unscathed, but she had still won which meant she was still dangerous._

_"Guess that makes two against one," Kurt said grimly._

_The girl was still a block away from the boys, but Peter could feel her dark eyes measuring them up. He instinctively tried to make himself look more intimidating under her unnerving gaze. "It does seem that way." Her voice was cool and calm as she raised her twin weapons. Dried blood was still caked on one of them._

_The Elf adjusted the grip on his sword while Peter started looking for escape routes. He figured he could make it up to the fire escape fast enough. No doubt Kurt could make it, too. That would at least give them the high ground, and with a bad leg she would have a lot harder time catching them, especially if there were other injuries he couldn't see. Still, it would be better to avoid confrontation it if they could._

_Peter cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, you know, it seems like a pretty even match up. Two people with one sword against one with two knives. Maybe we should just, you know, call it a draw."_

_"Why? We're going to have to kill each other anyway." Elektra flipped a weapon in her hand, but didn't take a step. "I think my chances are pretty good against you."_

_"Maybe against me." Peter laughed. "But Kurt here is pretty talented. There's no way you didn't see him in training. I don't think you could get away unscathed. Especially not with that limp."_

_His companion nodded. "Pete has a point."_

_The girl frowned and seemed to hesitate. A hand strayed to her stomach, but she masked the motion by adjusting one of the weapons._

_Peter put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Seriously, you just go your way and we'll go ours."_

_Elektra cocked her head slightly. "How do I know you won't sneak up and stab me in the back?"_

_"Because you could do the same thing to us, and we are going to trust you to have a conscious." He gently started pulling Kurt backwards. "So, truce?"_

_The girl stayed perfectly still for a moment before giving a curt nod and spinning on her good heel. She quickly disappeared into the shadowed ruins of the city, her dark hair fanning out behind her._

_"Phew. That was a close one." Peter gave Kurt a smile, his shoulders relaxing after Elektra's exit._

_Kurt didn't move his gaze from where the girl had vanished. "You know we are eventually going to have to fight," he said quietly._

_Peter shrugged. "But you have to admit, you didn't want to face her any more than I did."_

_"Fair enough." He slid his sword back into his belt. "Come on. Let's get some more distance between us and her." He began to jog and Peter followed suit._

_"You know, we should have asked her what she thought the colour of the sign was."_

_"If you want to go back and ask her, be my guest." Kurt laughed, a smile returning to his face._

* * *

A rock in the road met Peter's boot and he kicked it down the street where it clunked with a rusted mailbox. He paused a moment to dig the water bottle out of their bag. "Running into Elektra has to mean we are getting closer to other tributes."

Kurt shook his head with a smile. "I don't think that's how it works."

"Sure it is!" Peter took a gulp of water and pointed the bottle at Kurt to emphasize his point. "It's been days, right? I mean, there's still quite a few of us left, so the Gamemakers will want to make us all get closer together."

"If they _are_ doing that, they're being a lot more discreet than in past years." The Elf took the water bottle and drank as well.

"I'm telling you, we are getting close. I can feel it."

The other boy shook his head with a laugh. "If that's the case, we should check this last trap and find a place to lie low for the night."

"Sounds like a plan." Peter jogged up to the last snare's hiding place and cautiously peered under the stacked planks and garbage. The body of a rabbit was caught in his spider-web, trash and leaves kicked up from where it had struggled. "Success!"

"Seriously?"

"We are eating well tonight." The successful hunter shuddered slightly before reaching down to saw the webbing with the edge of his sign. "See, useful," he made sure to point out to Kurt once he'd cut through.

"You know I have a sword, right?"

Peter ignored the comment as he pulled the rabbit out and held it up in victory.

"Logan would be proud." The Elf grinned back.

Peter put on a scowl and made his shoulders as big as he could. "Listen here, bub. It ain't easy bringin' in the bacon. Ya gotta sniff it out. Follow the tracks. Become the _Wolverine_."

"Pete, please." Kurt tried to keep his laughter under control.

"Ya better shut it." He began stalking forward, his nose twitching. When he reached the end of the alley he struck a burly pose and looked at Kurt with one eyebrow raised as high as it would go. "Don't wanna give away our position." Peter added a growl for good measure.

The young man lost it and doubled over with laughter. "I would love to see Logan's face if he saw this!"

"He would probably kill me." Peter grinned.

"Probably?" Kurt shook his head. "Definitely."

They both started laughing again, leaning on the building to keep standing. Every time they seemed to get themselves under control, they would look at each other and start laughing again.

"Okay, okay," Kurt finally managed, wiping at his eyes. "We should really get going."

Peter nodded, not trusting himself to keep from laughing again if he opened his mouth. The rabbit was stored in the backpack and the boys continued on their way.

They hadn't gone two blocks before Peter's steps slowed.

"What is it? Is she back?" Kurt readied his sword.

"No idea. Just have a feeling," Peter whispered back.

They edged slowly toward the corner, hugging the building and trying to walk as quietly as they could over the rubble. A slight crunching sound reached Peter's ears that wasn't in rhythm with their steps. He slowly lowered the backpack to the ground and raised his sign as some sort of protection. Kurt reached the corner first and paused to check that Peter was ready. The boys exchanged soundless nods and Kurt whirled around the corner, sword slashing, followed closely by Peter who let out a yell.

The sound of metal hitting metal echoed through the air and the boys froze face to face with Logan and the young man from Five. Kurt's sword was entangled in Wolverine's claws, inches from making contact with skin.

"Logan!" Peter dropped the sign to his side immediately. "I can't believe we found you!"

There was a pause before Logan's gruff reply. "I could hear yer yappin' from three blocks over. Didn't I teach ya anythin' 'bout keepin' quiet?"

Kurt and Peter exchanged a glance and both had to stifle their chuckles. "We really are glad to see you, _mein freund_," the boy from Nine said as he dislodged his sword from Wolverine's weapons.

"Back together again!" Peter slid an arm around both tributes' shoulders and pulled them into a semi-hug. "Isn't this nice?"

The Elf laughed as Wolverine ducked out from under the arm. "Yeah. Just peachy, Parker. Now get off," he growled, but Peter thought he saw a twitch of a smile on the older boy's face.

The blonde boy from Five cleared his throat. "Sorry, but I don't think we've officially met." He extended his free hand. "Name's Steve Rogers."

"Kurt Wagner."

"Peter Parker." He could distinctly remember Steve and his district partner making quite a statement in the parade. Poster children with their blonde hair, blue eyes, and patriotism. Even with all the dirt and grime the guy still managed to look presentable, unlike Peter who had given up long ago. There was a large silver shield on Steve's left arm and Peter raised his sign with a grin. "I have a shield, too."

"I think mine's a bit sturdier." Steve knocked on the metal for emphasis. "No offense."

Peter spun his sign deftly through the air with a frown. "No one seems to appreciate my sign. Speaking of which, would you call this orange or red?"

"Red," the two new comers agreed in unison.

"Told you." Kurt grinned, punching the deflated Peter lightly in the shoulder.

"Fine, you win," Peter sighed dramatically. The two laughed at the confused expressions on Logan and Steve's faces.

"I don't think we want to know," Logan informed his blonde companion.

"Where's Kate?" Kurt looked expectantly at Logan, the smile still on his lips. "It's not like her to let you go out and leave her behind."

The older boy shook his head and looked down. "She's not with us. Haven't seen her since the storm."

"Oh."

The mood darkened between the three old allies. Peter ran a hand over the back of his neck. _Hard to be Team Awesome again without her_, he thought. Kurt's shoulders had slumped and Peter moved to bump shoulders with him. "I'm sure she's fine. She's Kate! Probably living on top of the tallest building and training hawks to bring her dinner. Speaking of which." He retrieved the backpack. "We've got food! It's just one rabbit, but I'm sure we can make enough to go around."

"I'm afraid dinner will have to wait." Steve adjusted his shield on his arm while shooting a meaningful glance at Logan.

Peter put on a horrified expression. "What could be more important than eating?"

"We're huntin' down that murderer from Ten," Wolverine growled.

A shiver ran through Peter at the thought of the dyed boy. "Why in all of Marvel would you want to do that?"

The blonde boy's jaw clenched. "He killed 'Ro."

"And he left her eye for Steve to find." Logan spat the words with venom, his hands clenching into fists.

The breath caught in Peter's throat and he sensed Kurt stiffen next to him. The little girl with the shock of white hair and cloudy eye had stood out among the tributes. Not because she was picked to win, but because she was just so _small_ in comparison with the rest of them.

"Do you have a plan?" Kurt's quiet voice was quivering slightly.

"Not exactly. Right now we're just tracking him."

Logan snorted and squatted, his claws hanging between his knees. "It's not even really trackin'. Trail's too easy. He knows we're comin' and he'll be ready for us. He wants us to find him."

Steve sighed. "I'm really starting to wish Stark and Banner could have joined us."

"Tony?" Peter perked up at the mention of his chess opponent.

"Yeah. He was hurt in a fight during the storm. Banner's looking after him back at camp." Steve looked at the two lanky boys with unwavering blue eyes, considering them momentarily. "If you're willing, we could use your help."

A lump formed in Peter's throat and he swallowed it down. _This is a suicide mission_. He half-smiled. "You recruiting us, Captain?"

The boy smiled slightly. "Guess I am."

"You can count me in." Kurt's jaw was set.

"You know how to use that?" Steve motioned to the sword.

Kurt smirked and patted the hilt. "Well enough."

"Good." The blue eyes turned to Peter.

The boy ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm not exactly a great fighter, but I'll help as best I can."

"Ya could prob'ly talk him to death." Logan snorted as he straightened. "But just in case, ya should have somethin' that can do damage." He retrieved a dagger from his belt.

Peter smiled. "Always looking out for me. Aren't you, Wolvie?"

Logan's eyes narrowed and he held the dagger blade out to the younger teen. "More like I don't want ya watchin' my back with just that crap sign."

Peter carefully took the weapon and twirled it. The hilt fit his hand and the smaller size felt more comfortable than the swords he had practiced with during training. "Thanks."

Logan nodded curtly and looked up at the dimming sky. "Let's move. Don't want to meet this kid after dark."

Peter shouldered the backpack again and slipped his new dagger into his belt. "Ready when you are."

The group started moving down the street, Logan leading. Their quiet footsteps were the only sounds. Even the birds seemed to have left this part of the arena. Kurt kept a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Their eyes met and the Elf gave a small smile before returning to watching their surroundings. Steve's shield reflected the light from where it hung on the boy's arm, and Peter watched the light flick across the buildings. _I wonder if he's tried to use the reflection to light anything on fire. What kind of metal is that, anyway? Can conduct electricity? That'd be pretty awesome._ _Maybe he'll let me take a look at it later. _The urge to ask was strong, but Peter bit his inner cheek and kept quiet. There would be time for questions later if everything worked out right. He sighed internally and shook his head. _Off to war with a captain. Definitely not where I saw myself headed in these games._

He spun his sign until the noise made Logan shoot him a look. The shadows were getting longer and through the breaks in the buildings Peter was starting to see the green of trees. Something was forming in the pit of his stomach with every step. It didn't feel like a bunch of nervous butterflies, more like a nest of spiders.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**


	86. Chapter 85: Blood in the Water

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our latest update for In the End, You Always Kneel. The end is visibly in sight now, as the final chapters have been sent out to be written, and this chapter here marks the end of another round. As a result, we're dialling up the intensity to eleven as we return to Cletus Kasady and Gumby1011. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Five – Blood in the Water**

**Evening, Day Nine**

**Cletus Kasady of District Ten**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

"_He'd stand there amid the carnage, blood on his hands and stolen jewellery in his pocket, and, with and expression of injured innocence, declare: 'Me? What did _I _do? And it was believable right up until you looked into those cheeky, smiling eyes, and saw, deep down, the demons looking back..." _

― Terry Pratchett_, Night Watch_

* * *

To be perfectly honest, Cletus was revelling in it. He was _basking _in what had to be his favourite part of this brand new, wonderful wide world of the Game that he was living in: the anticipation.

He knew they were coming.

As he stood waiting on the path that had once been paved but was now laid as a path of shattered cobblestones from the ravages of time, Carnage desperately anticipated the arrival of his next two victims.

There was a charge in the air. It was a living, red, humming electricity that coursed through the sky, arcing through every strand of the overgrown plants around him, blasting its way through his veins. It coalesced with manic malice on the surprises he'd left scattered on the way to his nest.

Even more sharply than that, the energy took shape around the cleaver in one hand, the slap-dash claws lashed to the other, and the teeth showing each and every one of their blood-encrusted points in Carnage's overly-enthused grin.

He was ready.

He'd never been more ready for anything in his entire life. He _thought _he'd been ready back when he volunteered, but no. That was _nothing _compared to this. This potent, intoxicating feeling of _utter fixation_ on the big question: Who would they send?

Surely Rogers would come, what with his _overwhelming _urge to avenge 'injustices.' They called him 'Captain.' A dead man leading other dead men with dead ideals. Cletus could think of nothing less fitting. There was no way Rogers could resist the milky-white orb of bait. But who else would arrive? He didn't remember quite entirely who else was in the camp. He'd remembered hearing Logan's low rumble at their little campsite. That badger would be likely to tag along.

What a follow-up to the tasty treat that Roro had given him…the Captain and the Wolverine. Carnage licked his lips. It would be a hearty feast; that much was certain.

So enraptured was Cletus in his own thoughts that he didn't hear them before he saw them. There was a bend in the path about fifty feet ahead of the boy. When they all had rounded the corner and paused, Cletus' mouth hung agape for a moment before curling into a highly specific grin. It was the kind of flattered, illogical grin that a serial killer flashes when he sees news crews out front along with the Sentinel vans.

It wasn't just Logan and Steve that had come, no. Peter and Kurt had tagged along for the ride as well. More bodies to throw at him.

There was a stillness as the boys looked into the eyes of Carnage.

The murderer stared right back.

In a rush, the four hunters exploded into a flurry of motion. And at the head of that wonderfully visceral avalanche was the Captain: his eyes almost had enraged murder in them. _Almost._ Cletus just raised his hands. "Ya ever had fresh veal before, Cap'n?" the maniac called out.

Steve, of course, said nothing in response, instead putting even more fury into his charge. But _still _no full-blooded murder.

_Ah, well._

Carnage just shrugged nonchalantly before slicing through the branch on a stump just next to him, untethering the steel cable that had been tied around it.

The Captain's eyes went wide as the length of log swung down, barely missing Cletus' head before bearing down on the enraged tribute. The maniac had had such time, oh, so much gloriously uninterrupted time to prepare for this.

The splintered mass was covered in shorn and sharpened branch-nubs crackling with that delicious essence. It would put a hole in anybody in a heartbeat. The Captain only barely managed to throw himself to the ground to avoid it, and the other three stopped to help him get up on his feet after the log's rope had broken and left it stuck in the dirt, harmlessly out of the way. He cackled as he watched them take stock of each other from the corner of his eye.

But by then, Cletus was already off on his way, jogging down the path. Not sprinting, not dashing, but simply vigorously jogging. It wouldn't do for them to miss out on their other surprises (or for Cletus to miss out on their other surprises, for that matter.) So he took the time to look back over his shoulder as he led them on. "It's succulent stuff, Cap'n!" The boy couldn't help but lick his chops. "Juicy, tender, and it blends oh-so-well with any spice you could name!"

The four pursuers split up but kept following as Cletus ducked off the old paved trail and onto a footpath through the underbrush, seemingly at random. He could hear a pair of tributes behind him, barking like hunting dogs.

"He went this way!" Kurt said in a loud whisper as he led the way through the brush, Peter close behind him.

"Watch your step, Elf…he's still leadin' us off!" Logan shouted out from a different side as the two groups converged again.

But more telling than all of these shouts was the Captain's utter silence. There were no orders shouted, no advice given. Only his steady breathing revealed him to still be in pursuit from a different direction as Carnage darted through the underbrush. He ducked beneath a fallen tree, and Rogers was right on his tail, shield in hand.

Cletus leapt over a patch of loose leaves and tree branches in the path, and two of the enraged tributes followed suit, leaping at the same exact spot out of instinct over the inconspicuous patch in the path. Logan saw it just a hair too late to warn him as Kurt nearly took a step into the deadfall. "Elf!" he shouted, as he shoved the younger boy backward, losing his own footing instead.

With the sound of snapping branches, Wolverine fell into a four-foot pit. "Damnit!" came the resounding shout from Logan, at which Cletus could only grin. True, he hadn't been able to plant the spikes at the bottom like he'd wanted to, but at least it'd give him some one-on-one time with the dear Captain. No need to worry about that sword and those claws too early, now.

As Carnage dashed to the thicket ahead, he couldn't help but grin. The older tribute really had _no idea _what he was going to walk into. Once he was inside the nest, Cletus came to a halt and turned to face the furious Captain, who was stunned momentarily to inaction by what he saw.

The Nest look like it had been hastily lashed together by a madman, because it honestly had been. A rough wall of branches and fallen logs enshrouded the space – much like a small arena – and this wall had been disguised to look like a normal thicket. In fact, a few trees still stood within the space, but there was much more than that.

There were gouges out of the ground in random places; broken sticks and failed attempts at fashioning hand-made weapons were strewn about. And then there were the pieces. Gnawed bones scattered, spatters of blood here and there, a pile of rodent, bird and other assorted skins accumulated in one corner. There were also several strange, incomprehensible timber-carved objects that were suspended in the boughs of the trees above, all spiked and heavy and menacing-looking.

"Do you like 'em?" Carnage giggled at the Captain. "Took me _days _to ready the nest, just for you, heheh. Anyways, we were talkin' about veal, right?"

Steve Rogers slowly turned his gaze from the sky to the boy. There was something primal in his gaze. "She was a _person, _Cletus."

"Ya know, where I'm from, veal calves are often raised in crates." Cletus licked his teeth as he raised his blade ever-so-slightly. "Right from birth, they rip 'em from their mother and put 'em in a little box, standin' shoulder to shoulder. Ain't got no room to move. Which is good, because movement toughens up the meat, ya see."

Steve didn't hesitate. He charged at Cletus, shield-arm already hauled back for a powerful bash. "She was a _PERSON, CLETUS!" _But with that bellow, he knew to duck. He barely dodged the strike and hopped back a couple times to put distance between them.

_"Rude!" _the maniac pouted like a spoiled child. "Anyways, they keep steady tabs on the calves, inject 'em with all sortsa chemicals, making sure they're the _perfect _meal! No way the up-and-ups in the Capitol would even have them put on a plate if they were anything less, you see what I'm saying?"

Without another word, Steve lunged at Carnage, throwing punch after punch after whooshing shield strike. The boy managed to dodge most of the blows left and right, chuckling incessantly, but those strikes that made contact had only barely done so.

This was his first fight. A _real _fight. He was just doing _so well! _He could already _taste _the meat!

In an instant, Cletus saw an opening in the barrage. "Ah, knock it off, little calf!" He wound back and slapped Steve across the face with the flat of his cleaver's blade. "You gotta at _least _use those manners you're so renowned for."

Steve did in fact take a step back, although it was from surprise more than pain. He even raised his shield pre-emptively as he seemed to gather himself for another attack. The maniac had lashed out so quickly, without warning – it was the kind of razor-sharp, instinctive movement that any opponent would be a fool not to be cautious around.

"Now, as I was saying, eh...Feeeeh..." Cletus sighed with annoyance as the intimacy of the two-man fight was utterly shattered.

With an irritated snarl, Logan burst into the arena, with Kurt and Peter hot on his heels. Enraged eyes locked with manic ones.

"Welp, that's fine; I can be a crowd pleaser!" Carnage smirked, taking a small step back. "After all, I gotta practice playing up a crowd once I'm made victor, right?"

Logan took a step forward, snarling and shaking his head. "That ain't happenin', bub. Look around ya."

And Carnage did, in fact, take a moment to look around. That energy was crackling higher than ever before, sending sparks to the tips of Carnage's fangs, to the palm of his knife hand. But he could sense it in his foes, as well. It ran along the edge of the Nightcrawler's sword, danced over the surface of the Captain's shield, arced from tip to tip of Wolverine's claws…hell, a little of it even glowed from Peter, though it was hidden behind that…that…

_Did he honestly bring a _'For Sale'_ sign to a hunt?_

"You're done, Cletus…" Steve's voice was steady and even, but there was the unmistakable rumble of pent-up anger underlying it.

"You've gone and made a target out of yourself," Kurt added. "It's about time someone took a shot at you."

The boys were drawing closer now. With every small step Cletus took backwards, they all took a step forward. The maniac's grin faltered. They could kill him at any time…. Well, if he was anybody else, they could kill him at any time. Cap was in the lead, the other three lined up behind him like good little soldiers. It was clear who was in charge, and their great leader held a hand up in hesitation. Even with all of that primal intent crackling around them, they seemed to Cletus to be unable to finish the job.

Carnage backed up until he felt his back against the wall. He felt the shape he knew would be there. He felt the crackling running up it to that thrumming, pent-up mass hanging above them all.

His grin redoubled as his gaze fell upon Peter. "What about you, kiddo? No snap to add? Haven't you got a wise to crack?"

The boy just shook his head, casting his gaze downwards. "This…This isn't funny."

"Re-he-heally?" Cletus couldn't help but chuckle. "Gotta tell ya, I find the whole thing high-larious!" He threw his head back as far as it could go with that wall in the way and cackled madly. His eyes never left Logan's claws as the burly lumberjack made a quick move around the good Captain. But the cackle did in fact redouble as those claws came up for a swipe at him. Not missing a beat, Carnage ducked down as claws sliced clean through the cord he'd been concealing with his body.

The crackling mass of wooden objects above the Nest began shuddering under their own weight as Carnage darted for a bolt-hole to his left – an emergency escape.

In an instant more, he was slipping under the wall. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the four hunters shouting as the debris fell. It was a lovely sound, like so many cattle groaning in alarm as they were herded into the slaughter pens. Carnage was cackling with sheer delight as he walked away from the Nest.

Then, from within the chaos, he heard several resounding, metallic clangs. Carnage blinked; the smile dropped momentarily from his face as he looked back. Then, from within the wreckage…

"Is everyone alright?"

"Where'd that little slimeball slip off to?" Logan growled out. "I'm gonna shred him!"

"Ankle twisted. I'll live," Kurt admitted

There was a second of shallow panting before Peter sounded off. "Yeah, I'm fine,"

_What is that shield _made _of? _Carnage lamented internally before taking off away from the ruined Nest.

Not a kill. Not one single kill! All that time spent preparing and not one meal to show for it! _Ah, well…_ Cletus sighed as he wandered away. _You want someone killed right, you kill 'em yourself. _Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he saw them slowly getting back on their feet before Peter shot a glance over at Cletus. The day's game wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

Carnage darted back through the woods. They were hurting now; they had to be. That wasn't no bird's nest he brought down upon their heads!

The four boys split up as they left the Nest…battered and bruised far more than when they walked in.

Cap turned to the three of them, and they broke apart into two groups again…Cap and Kurt, and Peter with Logan this time as they split up in search of the wayward Cletus. Logan led the way, grumbling to himself about how incredibly badly this had gone for them so far, when Peter got distracted by something off the trail. Sure his Wolverine wouldn't lead him wrong, he stopped to examine one of Cletus' playthings. He stepped from the path as Logan turned a corner, too distracted to pay attention to his charge.

It was just the distraction Carnage needed to take on the Web-head. He rushed him, and so shocked was Parker by his sudden appearance he fell backwards, stumbling and stammering as Cletus bared down on him.

He had him on his back, though to Cletus' surprise, little Petey Parker managed to grab hold of his wrists, but he hadn't caught him quite quickly enough, and the terrified tribute found himself millimetres from Cletus' snapping teeth. "C'mon, Bug Breath! Give In! I'll make it quick and painful!"

"Logan!" Peter shouted, but before he could shout again, his saviour was there. With a shoulder check, Cletus found himself skidding in the dirt, with the Wolverine standing over him. His smile faltered for a moment, and he sprang to his feet and dashed off, Logan hot on his tail.

One swipe…whiff…Two swipes…closer, but not quite. Third swipe barely scratched the boy's flesh. But he kept moving, and Logan seemed to get more frustrated with the lack of blood as Cletus taunted him further into the woods. He disappeared from Logan's sight for just a moment, and when he reappeared, it was with barely a rustle of the bush to Logan's right when Cletus burst forward and head-butted him.

"Sonofabitch," Logan growled out as blood dripped down his chin – the Seven boy's lip split wide open. He looked furious as he all but snarled; crimson stained the front of his shirt as he again took off after the deranged boy. Shouted curses echoed through the woods, alerting the rest of the little army to where the party was.

After a short jog, Cletus turned to face him and waited … his timing had to be perfect … he'd led him right to where he needed him to be. _There._ Logan lunged forward with a roar, his full weight behind the claws. His heart hammering, Cletus dodged out of the way just barely. The little tribute paused in confusion.

"You dirty little..." The claws he'd been brandishing about this whole time lodged in the trap Cletus had set for him…it was nearly invisible, and of course the little Wolverine hadn't been paying as close attention as he should have. The springs in the mattress made a perfect Chinese finger trap of sorts – if your fingers happened to be rebar metal claws. The harder he pulled, the more stuck he seemed to be.

Cletus walked up to the trapped boy as he struggled to pull himself free. "Always were the reckless one, weren'tcha?" A single red finger brushed along Logan's chin before the maniac brought it to his lips, sampling the blood. Cletus' eyes couldn't help but go wide with delight. "Tangy, well-seasoned with adrenaline, and still warm. _Delicious!"_

With a delighted grin, he raised his cleaver high over his head, more than ready to finish the little beast where he stood, helpless.

When the cleaver reached its apex, he started the downward swing and again found himself knocked to the side, the wind knocked from his lungs as the Captain made his reappearance, Peter and Nightcrawler in his wake. They didn't need to be told – Kurt and Peter went to help Logan as Cap again came after Cletus, fury etched into his features.

When Cap turned his head, Cletus again slipped off into the darkening trees. He skilfully dodged the tripwires and spring traps on his way back toward the lake…so many more fun surprises there…

Forging through the brush, Carnage was heading to the final confrontation. He knew he was. There wouldn't be anywhere for them to escape to, not from him. He would kill them all. He _would _kill them all! He just needed an open space to work with, surely!

The echoing sounds of yelps and curses were like music to his ears as his prey let loose the whip-like branches set to lash them as they triggered the tripwires on the only real path to where Cletus now stood.

Bursting out of the brush, Carnage found himself in a small, sandy lakeshore clearing. _Perfect. _Turning to face his dinner, and finally reap their bounty, Cletus felt a chuckle welling up in the back of his throat.

A minute or two later, the four hunters trudged out of the brush. Angry red welts were fresh evidence of the lashing the boys had taken as they tried to follow him out. The grin never left Carnage's face. They all had seen better days: dirt spattered their clothing, Kurt was now walking with a slight limp, and a trickle of blood was still dripping steadily from Logan's chin. Even Steve had a few dents on him. Peter, though, seemed more or less unharmed.

_Did he manage to dodge them all? _Cletus wondered, an eyebrow raised. Shrugging off the thought, he lifted his arms in a grand, mocking gesture. "Well then? FIGHT ME!"

In a flash of motion, the Nightcrawler and the Wolverine were upon the maniac, slashing their blades with murderous intent. But Carnage was a small target, and an unpredictable one at that. Sidestepping the strikes and moving so that the two allies had to be careful not to cut each other, he brought about his cleaver for Kurt's neck, the strike barely being defeated by his rapier's blade. Instead, Cletus brought up his knee into Kurt's gut, doubling him over.

A flashing cleaver blade sought to end the fencer's life, but with a metallic _clang,_ Logan brought about his claws, parrying the knife. "Not gonna happen, bub," the Seven boy growled.

Cletus snarled with frustration, but before he could get out so much as a word, Steve bowled the whole group over, charging into them with that shield of his. The maniac felt himself hit the ground – but only after falling through a few inches of water.

The fight continued in the shallows, Steve sending out another furious barrage of punches. But Cletus – coughing and sputtering aside – did a marvellous job of evading his blows. "You – ack – ya think you've got me cornered, do ya!?" Cletus snarled, lashing out with enraged swipes every so often that just _clanged _of of that thrice-damned shield of his! "I'LL CHOP Y'ALL TO BITS AND HAVE YA WITH A RAT GARNISH!" The strikes came down with repeated fury, and while the shield simply hummed in defiance, then man wearing it was grunting with the effort of deflecting the blows.

"Steve!" The shout came unexpectedly. So did the sign.

A faded orange mass slid into Cletus' vision before smacking across his face with a loud _whump. _Instinctively, he lashed out and felt his cleaver hit home with a _very _unsatisfying, plastic-sounding _chugnk! _A quick glance revealed the knife to be wedged square in the "O" on Peter's sign. And then the knife was gone – ripped away as Peter darted away from around five feet of frustration and hungry rage.

Instinctively, the maniac looked around for _anything _to use as a weapon, his hands opening and closing in a primal, dazed impulse that they would close around _anything _that wasn't empty space. Cletus saw no replacements. He also didn't see something else. Something _important._

_Where's the Nightcrawler? _The thought had barely crossed Cletus's mind when a long, slender blade erupted outwards from his stomach. And just like that, the red, crackling energy of the world was gone. The splashing of desperate footwork subsided. Slowly, with utter disbelief, Carnage looked down at the rapier blade just in time to see it twist and slowly draw itself back through him. Blood poured from the neat little wound into the lake, like it was a half-turned tap.

The dying boy looked up at the four hunters. No. _No. _He was _not dying, thank you very much!_ Against every impulse in his body, Cletus Kasady started to laugh. It wasn't hearty. It wasn't manic. It was a frail, nonsensical little laugh, and with it, his eyes locked with his pursuers'. "A- and you think tha-... that's it, do ya?" The boy stepped forward, breath shuddering. "Ru…Run a blade throu-uough him and that's it?"

Logan was already walking away.

"You can't- _WON'T _keep me down _t-that easy!" _Why was the world wobbling? "You d-don't have it in ya to win! Yer all nuffin' but sight-veal for the Capitol's eye-mouths!" Cletus brought an enraged hand to the gaping hole. "_I'm _the one destined to win! I am _eternal! I am the Carnage!"_

Rogers shook his head and turned to leave. "Come on, guys, let's go."

They weren't listening. They weren't _listening _to him! _Why was it getting dark? _Cletus's eyes rolled between three backs and one face. And then, after a moment of staring from Peter, even he turned, Carnage's cleaver _still _lodged in his sign.

And that was the last straw. Cletus felt foam rising in his mouth. Or rather, Cletus' _body _felt the foam. He wasn't paying attention. "THAT! IS! MINE!" He surged forward at Peter with speed unbecoming of a dying child and reached out for his blade when–

It moved.

Cletus missed the grab as Peter instinctively swung around and beamed him with the sign again. It skittered across the water as the stunned Carnage managed to find his footing long enough to grapple with the young man and drag him deeper into the lake with him.

With his last bit of strength, Cletus wrapped his long fingers around Parker's neck and pushed his head under. The Eight boy thrashed and swung, desperately trying to dislodge his iron grip. Carnage could feel his pulse racing faster and faster…bubbles erupted from the water...but the others hadn't gotten there just yet.

Then, with no warning, no…preamble...something cold and sharp made a path of white hot pain as it sliced into Cletus' neck. The boy looked down and only barely registered that one of Peter's arms had reached up from below the surface. He'd pulled Cletus' cleaver out of that damned sign, using his own blade against him.

Somehow, that hurt more than actual wound.

The iron grip loosened, and with a rush, Pete's head popped above the water again – the boy gasping and scrambling away.

He looked every bit as surprised as Carnage did as the maniac slid slowly under the water.

There's no feeling quite like gritty lake water passing through a gaping neck wound. Even the most deranged of victims can't help but gasp sharply as their mouths slip below the surface.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**


	87. Chapter 86: Red is the Colour

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with the latest update for In the End, You Always Kneel. Apologies for the delay, but unlike other times, this one was intentional – I have a very special chapter planned in just two updates, but we had a difficult time getting a writer for it, as this is a busy time of year for most people and most of our writers had already taken on as much writing as they could manage. As a result, I held this one up a bit in order to give the writer time to get the chapter done, and I'm very excited to see what you all make of it! **

**Obviously, a big event has occurred since our last update – I'm speaking, of course, about Captain America: Civil War. That film was part of the reason why this chapter is only going up today, instead of last Friday – what was supposed to have been a 5,000 word chapter had become a lot longer than that, after the film planted a few ideas in my mind. Did you guys see it? What did you think? I, for one, loved it, though I think Guardians of the Galaxy remains my favourite Marvel film.**

**A big thanks to Idalove2read, TheHazardsOfLove13, Bookcrazysongbird and sailorraven34 for their reviews after our last shocking chapter, and I'm glad to see it made the kind of impact I was hoping for. And we're really going to be ratching up the intensity of these last few rounds – after all, we've only got nine tributes left out of the twenty-four we started with!**

**Enjoy!**

**.-. . .- .-.. .. - -.- .-.-.- / .-. - .- . .-. .-.-.-**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Six – Red is the Colour**

**Skye, Agent Phil Coulson, Agent Grant Ward &amp; Agent Leo Fitz**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_We have laboured long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors." _

― Alan Moore, _Watchmen_

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength."_

― George Orwell,_ 1984_

* * *

"It never stops, does it?" Skye asked Coulson, nodding to one of the giant screens above them, playing back the death of District Ten's Cletus Kasady over and over in slow motion.

"No, it doesn't," Coulson replied, and his voice was perhaps a tad heavier than he had meant it to be, which he attempted to correct by noisily clearing his throat immediately afterwards. "It's shaping up to be a great Games, though. Director Fury's been delighted with public reception – the districts appear suitably tamed for the time being."

"'Tamed' is a word," Skye conceded. "So is 'oppressed.' And 'Beaten down.'"

"That's actually two words."

"Whatever."

Above them, the clip of Cletus' death finally stopped running, as the channel cut to an add break, displaying a product Coulson had heard Fury talking about for the past few weeks.

"**In conjunction with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Advanced Sciences division, Cybertek are happy to announce the launch of our latest development in cutting edge bionic technology – Infinity," **the screen announced, the female actress making it clear that this was to be considered a monumental occasion.** "As thanks for their brave and selfless action, this technology will be provided for free to all of our Sentinels and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who have been heroically wounded while in the line of duty."**

"How does one get 'heroically wounded'?" Skye asked curiously, as she and Coulson made their way out of the aircraft hangar in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, thankful to be off the bus and able to stretch her legs once more without having to worry about sudden turbulence.

"Getting shot while acting heroically, I'd imagine," Coulson replied, confused over Skye's confusion.

"So, like, getting shot while oppressing starving people living in abject poverty?" Skye shot back, and Coulson narrowed his eyes.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood, Skye, and even luckier that I'm the one you said that to. I'm not saying that there aren't problems with the way the system is…"

"Executed," Skye helpfully provided.

"_Carried out,_" Coulson stressed. "But you can't just spout out things like that. For better or for worse, things are the way they are, and you're not going to change that overnight. Little by little, we're making Marvel a better place – there are just a lot of people who'd prefer to make it a better place for themselves and themselves alone."

"You think this Infinity thing will ever make it to the districts?" Skye asked, and Coulson hesitated, both of them already knowing the answer.

"At least it'll help _some _people, Skye. You mightn't be so high-and-mighty if you ever lose a limb, you know."

"And until that day, I'll reserve the right to be as much of a bitch as I want to be, thank you very much," she shot back, and Coulson rolled his eyes in reply.

As he did so, a man passed them by, and for the second time in the space of a week Skye was struck by an unnerving feeling that she had seen the man before, though she wasn't able to place where or when.

_Just like the guy in District Eleven, _she thought. _The guy from Weapon X._

"Is it just me or does that guy look _really _familiar?" Skye asked, troubled.

Coulson glanced over at the man she was staring at, and nodded slightly. "I'm not surprised – looks like a Smerdyakov job to me."

"Smerdyakov?" Skye repeated, confused.

"Sure – the Smerdyakov Clinic? Best cosmetic surgery in the entire Capitol?" Coulson stated at her, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "None of this is ringing any bells?"

Skye shrugged. "Not really my kind of thing. Kinda surprised you know so much about them – didn't have you pegged as the kind of guy to be worried about…"

"About what?"

"Well, you know," Skye floundered, realising that she had just manoeuvred herself into an unwinnable situation. "Physical appearances. Ageing. The kind of things you'd get cosmetic surgery for…"

A moment of silence passed as Coulson stared at her reproachfully.

"I look after myself, you know. I exercise. I just have to bear a lot of responsibility."

Skye smiled, punching Coulson playfully on the shoulder. "I know you're the boss. And you have to compartmentalize everything, but it's not healthy. You need to loosen up. Try...yoga…or something."

"I tried it," Coulson remarked mournfully, grimacing in recollection. "But, I'm...really not flexible."

"But thanks," he added, and Skye rolled her eyes.

"So what's this about the Smerdyakov Clinic? Why doesn't it surprise you that that guy looked familiar? Do they pump people full of botox until they all look the same?"

"Oh, no, not that. What Smerdyakov specialise in is…well, custom facial restructuring in the style of past Avenger Games tributes."

Skye paused. "Wait, what? They make people look like _dead Games tributes?_"

"Eh…yeah," Coulson replied. "I never said _I'd _do it. Of course, they can't use the likeness of the Victor's because those are protected by law, as is President Thanos'. It's also illegal to impersonate a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, so you don't have to worry about anyone stealing your face."

"Huh," Skye replied, though she silently replied that just because something was illegal _didn't _mean that no one would do it.

"That guy was definitely rocking a Hank Pym, though," Coulson continued. "You must remember him, the 'Ant-Man' of District Seven? Must have been a good, oh, I don't know – seven years ago?"

"Yeah, I remember," Skye replied, nodding slowly as the realization hit. Coulson was right – that was _exactly _who the guy had looked like. She briefly wondered if the same thing had happened with the man they had rescued in District Eleven, and remained silent as she pondered this. If it was, why hadn't Coulson just told her that back then. And yet, for some reason she was getting the feeling that there was _some _sort of connection between the man from District Eleven and the Avenger Games.

She just couldn't _quite _put her finger on it.

They soon reached the perimeter of the Triskelion, and the pair of agents were waved through by a tired-looking Agent Blake – probably been working double-shifts, if the bags under his eyes were any indication.

"Someone's waiting for you," Blake yelled after them, clearly only remembering once they had passed through the barrier.

Coulson waved back to indicate that he had heard him, and shrugged in response to Skye's unspoken question. It was only as they entered the building that he caught sight of the two agents standing still in the tide of moving people, quietly waiting the twenty foot tall S.H.I.E.L.D. logo that dominated the entry hall.

"Garrett?" Coulson asked, the surprise evident in his voice as they neared the two agents – one older and slightly overweight, the other considerably younger, dark-skinned, and smiling. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The older agent of the pair smiled, and shrugged. "Well," he began, a twinkle in his eyes, "as opposed to the Level Eight jackass I'm staring at, _I_ still follow orders."

Coulson paused, wondering what particular case of orders Garret was referring to. "You're the worst at following orders."

Garret threw his head back and laughed, and after the slightest of hesitation Coulson joined him, while Skye stood awkwardly to the side. The younger agent made eye contact with her and rolled his eyes slightly, nodding in embarrassment towards Coulson and Garrett, and Skye smiled in reply.

"Oh, where are my manners," Coulson said, catching himself. "Skye, this is John Garrett, an old friend of mine, and this is Agent Triplett."

"Call me Trip," the younger agent cut in, proffering a hand which Skye reached out and shook warmly.

"Garrett…" she murmured, glancing at the older of the pair. "You used to be Ward's C.O., right? He was talking to you at the Games' Opening party?"

"Talks about me a lot, does he?" Garrett asked, smirking.

"Only a little," Skye admitted. "He doesn't really like talking about his past all that much. Not really one for opening up to people. I actually saw him talking to you at the party, and Coulson told me who you were."

"What?!" Garret exclaimed, a little over-theatrically. "A lady as gorgeous as you can't have spent too long at that party, or we definitely would have met before now. I'll have to give out to Ward for not introducing us sooner."

"I actually had to drag Skye away," Coulson interjected. "S.H.I.E.L.D. work. Also, please don't hit on my agents. You're way too old for that kind of thing these days, John. But speaking of S.H.I.E.L.D. work, can we get back to what you guys are doing here?"

Garrett held up his hands in apology. "Of course, Phil, getting carried away with myself. Fury assigned us to help you with your 'Clairvoyant' search. Guy seemed pretty pissed, apparently you took your sweet-ass time reporting on it."

"That's because I wanted to keep it as in-house as possible," Coulson said, glancing furtively around them to make sure no one had overheard Garrett's words. "Look, we'll continue this in my office – my tech guy is working on a potential lead, and I'm to brief my team on his progress in an hour or so. Although, I thought you had been banned from further field work. You know, after the…accident. Weren't you assigned to oversee Task Force VI?"

Garrett smiled, and rapped his knuckles off his lower torso with a dull metallic _clonk. _"Director Fury's new project – Infinity. You must have seen the ads, they've been blaring them during every break in the Games' coverage."

Coulson raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Wow, they rolled that out quick, didn't they?"

"Got fast-tracked to the top of the list," Garret informed him with obvious relish. "Cashed in on a few favours. We took a few hits on our last outing, so at the moment Task Force VI is just me and Trip here. But we're gonna do our best to help you, Phil. You can count on that."

"Did Fury get you caught up on our visit to District Eleven?" Coulson asked cautiously, as they made their way through the Triskelion towards his offices, aware that much of that particular mission was classified, and wasn't his to share.

"Only that you were investigating a group of insurgents, and came across the name 'The Clairvoyant.' Don't suppose you'd care to tell me what was so important about a group of insurgents that they had to ship your team out rather than leaving it to the local Sentinels, eh?" Garret asked, but his tone indicated that he already knew what Coulson's answer would be.

"If only I could," Coulson said wryly, turning to his friend. "You know how it is."

Garrett nodded, but Coulson could see slight hints of disappointment in his features. "That's compartmentalisation for you. It's a bitch."

"I'll message Fury, see if I can't get you the clearance for it. Would make things easier all round."

"Either way, I'm just happy to be back in the field," Garrett replied, shrugging it off. "Do you know what the most exciting thing I got to deal with this week, just before the Infinity confirmation came through? I had to pull Sam Wilson off Blackager Boltagon after the Munroe girl died. That was the first bit of action I'd seen in _months!_"

"You has to pull him off _Boltagon?_" Coulson asked, surprised. "Shouldn't he have gone for Xavier or McCoy? It was a District Ten kid who killed her, after all."

Garrett shrugged. "Can't say I blame him. That Kasady kid was a monster, you can't blame his mentors for what he did. Loki, though? I'm not surprised Wilson snapped – if that kid ends up winning it, they're gonna have to treble the Sentinel presence during the Victory Tour."

"That'd be all we need. Things are bad enough in Eleven as it is."

"You're really going to have to tell me all about that," Garrett noted, and Coulson paused for a second, before nodding slowly.

"I guess I am," he conceded. "I'll message Fury and file for clearance. If he has a problem with that…well, he shouldn't have cleared you for active duty. It's good to have you back."

Skye stirred, feeling lost in the conversation, and caught Coulson's eye. "Mind if I head back to base while you bring them up to speed?" she asked. "I've got some work I need to get through for Dr Zola, he's had me working on new algorithms since we got back. Kinda need to get them in before the briefing.

Coulson held her gaze for a second, and she wondered if he knew what she was really planning to work on, but he nodded. "Sure, go ahead," he replied. "In any case, you'll be sitting the next mission out – come to the briefing, but after that you can take the rest of the day off."

"Thanks," she replied, before saying her goodbyes and leaving.

* * *

Skye glanced around the offices, ducking her head into each room to make sure no one was around. Coulson was presumably briefing Garrett and Triplett on their recent foray into District Eleven at that very moment. Fitz and Simmons were in the lab, the former working away on the little drones that he used to provide forensic readings, while Simmons was prepping some sort of serum for the latest mutt she had been tasked at developing. All very hush-hush according to Fitz, who had dropped by earlier, his arm finally out of its sling.

May and Ward were who knows where, but Skye couldn't help but notice that both of them had been missing a lot lately, and generally at the same time. If she had a more suspicious nature…well, she'd be suspecting things.

Satisfied that no one was around, she booted up her computer and logged out of her account, instead punching in the username and password that she had so carefully acquired the day before. Once that had gone through she swiftly began cross-referencing everything that she had been able to dig up about Weapon X – though that was minimal – against S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database. Frustratingly, even with the extra security clearance, the searches turned up little that she hadn't already known, and she punched the table in anger, causing the keyboard to jump.

"What are you working on, Skye?" a voice asked demurely, and Skye glanced up guiltily from her seat, feeling relieved when she realised that Raina, the scientist who worked for Dr Strange, had been the one to enter the room, rather than a member of Coulson's team.

She frowned, surprised at not having heard the door open. "You were _very_ quiet," she said accusingly, and Raina raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"That's not a crime, is it? I'm a very quiet person."

Skye narrowed her eyes and peered at the scientist, noting once again that Raina had eschewed the typical lab coats worn by most of the scientists within S.H.I.E.L.D., instead wearing one of the multitude of flower-patterned dresses that she must own.

"Well, knock before you enter next time. Didn't your parents ever teach you that it's impolite to barge in on people?"

A moment passed. "I never knew my parents," Raina replied, a trace of sadness in her voice.

"Oh…I'm sorry. I didn't realise," Skye stammered, backtracking. "If it helps, I never knew mine either. That was part of the reason I joined S.H.I.E.L.D., to be honest. Thought they might have something on my parents, something to explain what happened to them."

"And did they?"

Skye bit her lip. "No. Not that I've been able to dig up, anyway."

"Is that what you're working on now," Raina pressed, sounding intrigued. "Have you been trying to access files that you don't have clearance to, and that's why you jumped when I spoke?"

Skye frowned. "Well, firstly, I jumped because you ninja'd in here and scared the crap out of me. And no, I'm not trying to find out about my parents right at this moment." She paused, and then conceded, "But yes, I am accessing files I'm _technically _not supposed to be. Well, trying to, at least, but I haven't had much luck yet. But give me time, I've only been at this for a few minutes."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, I'm going try and spoof the IP of one of the control servers upstairs, in the hopes that I will then be able to create a temporary administrator account for myself, and grant myself full Level Ten security privileges. If that works, I should have access to almost everything S.H.I.E.L.D. know. Of course, that's easier said than done."

"Sounds like something that could backfire, if it's ever traced back to you," Raina commented, and Skye nodded.

"That's why I'm not using _my _account," she replied. "Instead, I'm using Ward's. For a secret agent, you'd think he'd be smart enough to change his password from the default setting. He was basically _asking _for me to take it for a spin."

"Is that not a little…harsh? If they track it back to him…"

Skye snorted. "Ward's a big boy. He can take care of himself. Anyway, I'm being careful – it _won't _be traced back to him.

A burst of sound was suddenly emitted by her computer, and Skye groaned as she turned to it and silenced it, opening a malware search in the background without hope that it would find the source.

"What was that?" Raina asked, after witnessing Skye's obvious distress.

"Oh, just a bug, or a virus, or something," Skye replied flippantly, trying to hide the fact that she simply didn't know. "It's a song that pops up every now and again and plays itself, even when I've got the volume muted. No matter what I do, I can't find out what's causing it."

"You should get it checked out by security," Raina replied, and Skye shrugged.

"If I can't find whatever's causing it, there's no way in hell they will. It's only been going on for a week or so, only a couple of days into the Games. Ever since Coulson had me look at an A.I. program's coding, I think. It's just...frustrating. But forget it, it's my problem, not yours."

"Well then, what are you looking for?" Raina asked returning to the source of their conversation.

Skye hesitated, remembering Coulson's reluctance to speak with her on the subject. "Just something Coulson mentioned after our last mission. I just…need to find some answers, or I swear I'll go crazy."

She chuckled lightly to herself, but Raina didn't join in, instead simply staring at Skye thoughtfully.

"I hear a lot of things in my job," Raina said softly. "A great deal of things I'm not meant to know. My superiors speak too freely at times, but even they would be surprised at the amount of secrets I've amassed. Perhaps I'd have some answers for you, if you ask the right questions? You know what S.H.I.E.L.D. do to people who find out secrets they shouldn't know, don't you."

Skye stared at her, silent, unsure on how to proceed. Raina smiled slightly and turned to walk to the door, apparently taking Skye's silence as an unwillingness to discuss the subject.

"Raina…" Skye began, but faltered, and the scientist turned back to her. "Have you…have you ever heard of a group in S.H.I.E.L.D. called 'Weapon X'?"

Raina tilted her head to the side, silently appraising Skye for a moment. "You're delving into secrets you're not prepared for," she said slowly. "Why are you asking me about this?"

Skye shrugged, but felt excitement rising within in. Raina clearly knew something; the challenge was to get her to open up about it.

"We recently returned from a mission in District Eleven. An agent had been captured by a group of rebels, we were sent in to rescue him. And even though I didn't know how, I knew I'd seen him somewhere before. When I pressed Coulson about it, he gave me that name. He wasn't too happy about it, but I had made it clear that I wasn't going to drop it."

"I hope he told you to be careful when asking people about it," Raina replied, and Skye reddened slightly.

"He told to me to keep it to myself," she admitted. "Told me that he shouldn't have said anything in the first place."

"Maybe he shouldn't have."

Raina stared at her for a moment, and just before Skye was about to cut across her and tell her to forget about it, Raina spoke.

"You're familiar with the nine task forces in S.H.I.E.L.D., yes?" she asked, and Skye nodded tentatively.

"Task Force I is led by Jaspar Sitwell," she recited, a tad impatiently. "II by Clay Quartermain, III by James Woo, IV by Isabelle Hartley, V by Timothy Dugan, VI by John Garrett, VII by Phil Coulson – which is by far the best task force, by the way – VIII by Elizabeth Hand, and finally IX by Maria Hill. What about them?"

"Each are…well, they run S.H.I.E.L.D.'s covert operations. The Sentinels dispense justice and protect law and order in the light of day, while the task forces do so at night, in the shadows."

"And birds go tweet," Skye replied, wondering why Raina was spending so much time telling her what she already knew.

Raina tutted slightly. "According to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s official records, only those nine task forces exist. Task Force X, or 'Weapon X', doesn't exist in any official capacity. Its existence has been denied by the heads of S.H.I.E.L.D. and no one has ever been able to confirm a sighting. There's no evidence to support its existence, only rumour and hearsay. As an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., I must make myself clear on that point. Do you understand?"

"So they're ghosts," Skye murmured, and Raina nodded. "But what is it that they do, hypothetically speaking? If Coulson's team and the other task force perform the kind of missions the Sentinels can't, why are a team so secret that S.H.I.E.L.D. won't even admit they exist even needed?"

Raina shrugged, and leaned back on the lip of the table behind her. "S.H.I.E.L.D. aren't the highest power in the land, Skye," she said slowly, and Skye frowned, confused as to what Raina was getting at. "Even covert ops still generate paperwork. Sometimes, maybe there's something the Director mightn't want getting back to the President? Maybe he needs a team – a 'weapon', if you will – that can operate regardless of jurisdiction?"

She tilted her head slowly as she took in Skye's reaction. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Of course," Skye murmured, still taking all of this in. "I still don't understand, though. The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. enforces the President's will. The 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' that protects Marvel. Why would he need to hide anything that he does?"

Raina rolled her eyes and sighed. "Isn't it obvious," she asked. "Perhaps the Director has come to the conclusion that the best way to protect Marvel is to, occasionally, go behind the President's back."

"But that's…that's treason!" Skye protested, but the words sounded weak even to her own ears.

"It's only illegal if you get caught," came the reply. "Come on, Skye. You're smarter than this – Zola still hasn't shut up about the improvements you've made to Cerebro's selection algorithms. What did you think the aim of those algorithms were for?"

Skye frowned, thrown by this sudden change of topic.

"To select the best candidates for the Avenger Games, of course," she replied hotly, angered by Raina's insinuation that she had been thinking stupidly.

"To what end?"

"To what end? To…to put on the best show!" she stammered. "To provide entertainment. To use the Victors as inspiration to the poor and downtrodden in the districts."

"And the Victors?"

"What about them?"

"What are they?"

"There…the best of those we select?" Skye hazarded, her brain struggling to keep up. "The strongest, the fastest, the luckiest."

"Luck will only take you so far," Raina admonished. "So it's the survival of the fittest?"

"Sure. Exactly."

"And what are their typical attributes?"

Skye's mouth opened slowly as she repeated the question to herself, but she was on firmer ground now, her mind addressing Raina's question like the puzzle it was.

"They're the best killers, the ones who show no hesitation in killing when it needs to be done, but are humane or manipulative enough to gain the trust and respect of others. They're physically strong and mentally acute, able to foresee potential problems before they happen and rectify them through physical strength or strength of will."

Light dawned.

"They're the perfect soldier," she said slowly. "Leader, killer, survivor. Victor."

Raina remained silent as Skye processed this new information, and while it wasn't the first time that she wondered whether throwing her lot in with Coulson and his team had been the best idea, this _was _the first time that a trickle of fear began to seep down her spine.

"What does this have to do with Weapon X?" she asked, and Raina arched an eyebrow.

"Every soldier needs an army, Skye."

Behind them, Skye's computer burst into life once more.

_"I had strings, but now I'm free..."_

* * *

Skye was still pondering on Raina's words when Coulson called the team together for the briefing on the Clairvoyant. Heeding Raina's advice, she had decided to hold off on potentially incriminating Ward for treason, at least for the time being.

Simmons and Fitz had returned from the lab, and May and Ward had turned up moments apart, both looking a little flushed and sweaty – "yoga" and "gym" were the offered excuses – while Coulson had returned with Garrett and Trip, having brought them up to speed.

"We've been monitoring internal and external communications Capitol-wide for the word 'clairvoyant'," Coulson informed the table, before allowing himself a smile. "Thankfully, it's not really a word that comes up all too much. We'd have been in real trouble if we were looking for 'The Cleaner.'"

"We get a match?" May asked, and Coulson nodded, stepping aside from the terminal to let Fitz take point.

"We did indeed," the younger agent confirmed. "A private communication, made from outside the Capitol, somewhere in District Six. The exact location was scrambled, but voice recognition identified the speaker as one Edison Po, formerly of the District Twelve Sentinels, but was dishonourably discharged a few years back."

"What gets you discharged as a Sentinel in District Twelve?" Ward asked, confused. "That far from the Capitol, the Sentinels operate pretty much under an 'anything goes' policy."

"He gouged out a colleague's eyes," Fitz replied, and the agents clustered around the table winced collectively.

"Yeah, that'll do it," Garrett acknowledged with a wry smile.

"Any ideas on his current whereabouts?" Coulson cut in, and Fitz shrugged.

"Somewhere in District Six?" he offered, and shook his head slowly. "He mightn't even be there, the call could easily have been bounced over there from another location. Since he was discharged from the Sentinels, he shouldn't be able to leave the Capitol, but…"

"But we can't rely on that," Coulson finished for him. "Great, so he could be anywhere."

"Well…yes. He could be pretty much anywhere," Fitz conceded. "However, we _do_ have a list of known associates. Some have died in the line of duty since he was discharged, others parted company of bad terms _but _the last person to see him, as far as Capitol surveillance can tell, works in this very building."

Ward grunted with impatience. "Give us a name, Fitz."

"Ian Quinn."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

"_Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned."_

― James Joyce, _Ulysses_

* * *

"I want you to take point on this one," Coulson informed May, as they left the briefing room.

She glanced over at him, surprised. "I thought you just wanted me as a pilot," she replied, and Coulson shrugged.

"You were happy enough to tag along in District Eleven," he reminded her, and she bristled.

"That was different. You were taking untested agents barely out of the academy, not to mention whatever Skye is, into what should have been a black-ops mission. This time, we're not the only ones who can act. Quinn isn't under trial, we just want to question him about the whereabouts of a man he hasn't even seen in six months."

"That we're aware of," Coulson amended. "He hasn't shown up on S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance at all since then, which I would have thought impossible before today. If it hadn't been his voice on the end of that call that Fitz traced, I would have said the guy's probably dead somewhere."

"So you think Quinn might be involved?"

"Let's just say that I'm aware that he has access to S.H.I.E.L.D. hardware that would allow him to keep a person off the grid for as long as necessary and that he has friends of dubious morals. Maybe he's a victim here, but I'm willing to stake my left hand that he's involved."

"I still don't see why you can't let the Sentinels handle this."

Coulson sighed. "Because I want it done cleanly and quietly, and I don't think Ward can do it by himself. Because I trust you."

"You trust too easily," May replied sourly, and Coulson frowned.

"This is about Skye, isn't it?" he asked. "I've taken her off active duty for the time being. She won't be involved in this mission. God knows she deserves the break."

"You put too much faith in her."

Coulson sighed. "Go ahead, say it."

"I don't do petty."

"But you've been unhappy about it ever since I made the call. That I trusted my gut even though you said she was a risk."

May glanced over at him. "When someone breaks into my house, I usually don't invite them to stay. I _definitely _don't give them the name of a secret hit squad after they start poking their nose in business they shouldn't concern themselves with. But that's me."

"That's me too," Coulson argued. "But things have changed. You know when I took a bullet for Director Fury a few years back? Well, since then I haven't seen the world in the same way."

"Sure it didn't go through the brain?" the other agent asked wryly.

"You really don't do comforting either do you?"

"It's not in my job description," May shot back, and Coulson wrinkled his brow.

"Wait, being comforting isn't, or taking point on this mission isn't?" he asked, confused.

"Either. Both. Why me? You have Garrett and Trip now – why don't you use them?"

"You've clearly never run a mission with Garrett," Coulson replied drily. "Clean and quiet aren't his forte, and I don't know Trip. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I need people I can _trust _on this."

"We've already established that you trust too easily," May reminded him, and Coulson bit back the urge to roll his eyes.

"May, we've known each other for a long, long time," he said, meeting her gaze. "If I'm not supposed to trust you, then am I allowed to trust?"

"No one," she shot back. "You're in the wrong line of business if you think you can go around trusting people."

A moment of silence passed between them. "So, you'll take point on this one?"

May sighed. "Fine. But this is the _last_ time."

* * *

**Agent Grant Ward**

* * *

"_Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind." _

― Cassandra Clare, _Clockwork Prince_

* * *

Two hours in to their surveillance of Quinn's offices, and Ward was beginning to wonder if their target had been tipped off and made a run for it. He had only met Quinn in passing during his time in S.H.I.E.L.D., mostly with the latter server as an errand boy for Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman.

_Who could have tipped him off, though?_ Ward wondered, his mind briefly turning to Skye, but dismissing the possibility barely a moment later. Despite his initial reservations, Skye was proving to be the asset that Coulson had insisted she could be from the very beginning.

Ward and May had barely exchanged a word since Coulson had given them Quinn's last known location, in his offices in one of the free standing towers behind the Triskelion, only connected to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters by thin, tube-like corridors.

He was hesitant to break the silence, aware that they still hadn't adjusted to mixing their professional and personal lives since the two had first become entangled a few days back, ever since they had returned from District Eleven. Neither of them had meant for anything to happen, he knew, but somehow…well, something had happened, and had continued to happen almost every day since.

"You want to talk?" he asked, but May only glanced over at him with a look of scorn, providing all the answer he needed.

He rolled his eyes, but felt that even if she didn't feel like speaking, he should still say something to address what had been going on between them. However, every time he decided to speak he felt his mouth dry up and his vocal chords remain stubbornly unresponsive.

Ward glanced over at May – determined now to finally saw something – and frowned, suddenly realising that his fellow agent was unarmed. "Where's your side arm?" he hissed, struggling to keep his voice down.

"If I need a gun, I'll take one," May replied sharply, keeping her eyes trained on the target in the other room.

He sighed internally and rolled his eyes once more. "Right, I forgot I was working with the Cavalry."

This time, May broke her stare off and glanced at Ward, her tone chilly. "Don't ever call me that."

Ward smiled grimly, but then froze as movement at one of the lower levels of the building caught his eye, and he raised the goggles to his eyes once more.

"Shit," he cursed, as the room began to fill up with armed men, and he gritted his teeth together as Ian Quinn entered through the far corner of the room, surrounded by more armed guards, seemingly locked in a furious argument with one of them.

"I don't think 'nice and quiet' is still a feasible strategy," he murmured, turning to May, who nodded back to him, her lips pursed, evidently just as surprised by the unexpected amount of security Quinn had with him as he was.

Whoever they were, they weren't Sentinels. Sentinels didn't dress up in suits and conceal their weapons. And if they were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Ward didn't recognise any of them, which seemed unlikely. Some kind of private security force, then.

_Great._

Ward swallowed nervously, and glanced over at May, reproach clear in his eyes. "Should have taken more guns. I'm gonna call this in."

* * *

"**Remain in position," **had been the only reply Coulson had provided, and Ward scanned Quinn's offices impatiently as it became clearer and clearer than he and May were heavily outgunned and outmatched.

"If we don't move soon he could get away," he said, and May looked over at him disapprovingly.

"We've got our orders. Coulson told us to stay put, so that's exactly what we're going to do."

"With each minute that passes the chances of carrying out a quick and clean extraction become increasingly smaller," he pointed out. "Quinn's never had a security force like that attached to him before, and they don't look like S.H.I.E.L.D. either, so there's a good chance they don't know the building. The longer we wait the more time they have to get familiar with the layout. If we hit them now, there's a chance we could get the drop on them."

"We've got our orders," May repeated. "We wait for those orders to change. Deal with it."

_Well, fuck, _Ward thought to himself, realising that May wasn't going to budge on this, and became bitterly furious at Coulson for holding them back when they could have struck when Quinn's security force was moving in, catching them off guard.

Their radios suddenly burst into life, and Ward straightened up, hoping that Coulson had finally seen reason, even if the opportune moment had passed by minutes before.

"**Back up has arrived!"**

Ward and May glanced at one another, puzzled, as Agent Garret, Agent Trip, Coulson and Fitz suddenly rounded the corner, the former three heavily armed while the scientist wrestled with a grey haversack.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Ward hissed, and Garrett held out his hands, palms upwards.

"I thought you'd be happier to see me," he said sadly.

"I didn't think the 'quiet' option was still available," Coulson explained. "Seemed like you two could use all the help you can get."

"We can," May replied. "What about the Triskelion security? We start a firefight out back and they're going to start running."

"That's why we made you two wait," Coulson explained. "We've squared it with Director Fury. There'll be a hell of a lot of paperwork to fill, and if Quinn doesn't have anything for us there'll be hell to pay, but it's a risk I'm willing to take."

"So what's the plan?" Ward asked. "And why the hell is Fitz here?"

Fitz bristled, but Ward so no problem with the question he had just asked – Fitz was a scientist, not a field agent. His involvement would only complicate things, as he and Skye had proven in District Eleven.

"He's here to help," Coulson replied curtly, before laying out the plan of attack. "May, Trip and I are gonna hit the floor above Quinn's offices, just in case he's got more security waiting there. Garrett will be taking you and Fitz to the floor below for similar reasons. After eliminating any resistance on our respective floor, my team will take the northern stairwell up and Garret's team will take the southern stairwell down. All going well, we'll hit Quinn's security at the same time from both directions, cutting off their escape routes. We're outnumbered, but Fitz has brought something that he has assured me will help even the odds."

The collected agents glanced in Fitz's direction, and he gestured defensively towards his knapsack. "It'll work," he reassured them, although to Ward's ears it sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself.

"It better," Coulson told him, and with that they got to work.

* * *

"Comms are down," Fitz informed them, sounding worried, as they entered the floor beneath Quinn's offices, relieved to find it empty. "There's too much building on top of us. These towers are still lined with lead – you'd really think S.H.I.E.L.D. would have renovated them by now."

Garrett smiled reassuringly, and playfully punched the younger agent on the shoulder. "Trust me – it's better. You don't want them hearing the horrible death we're walking into."

Fitz stared at him, worry written all-too-legibly across his face, and Garrett sighed.

"Humour, son. You eggheads are too serious. Besides, if the job was easy..."

"It wouldn't be fun," Ward finished, and Fitz glanced from one to the other before gulping.

"I'm not afraid," he informed them. "Not yet."

"That's good," Garrett replied, glancing at the ceiling as they hears quiet murmur of voice above them. "Save that for the firefight. We haven't even made contact yet."

"I count four men," Ward hissed over to him, as the footsteps of the guards above them died down, progressing on their patrol. "They're heading towards the east wing. The line of sight should be blocked off by the office cubicles – if we hit them now the others won't see us."

Garrett glanced over to him, weighing up the risks. Judging by the number of guards Ward had seen earlier, he knew there was a good chance that the patrol they had just heard pass by overhead wasn't the only one they'd have to deal with, but the odds were good that they'd get the job done before anyone even realised.

"I thought we were to wait for Coulson's signal before moving to the next floor?" Fitz asked, and Ward and Garrett glanced at each other, an unspoken dialogue going on between them.

Garrett nodded. "We were, but plans change, kid. You just said the comms were out, right? What's he gonna do, shout down to us? We take those four out now, it'll be four less for us to deal with later. Follow me."

The three crept slowly up the stairwell, doing their best to remain silent, though Ward winced at Fitz's every footfall, promising himself that if they all made it out of this in one piece, he'd take the young scientist aside and teach him how to _really _walk stealthily. His breathing was all wrong, for starters, and he needed to learn how to distribute his weight properly with each step.

When they reached the door to the floor, Ward glanced over at Garrett, who nodded, having previously been counting silently to himself, judging the distance that the patrol had covered. If they had done this right, they should enter just as the patrol turn the corner, entering the space behind the cubicles that would allow the agents to silently dispose of them.

Ward opened to the door, and Garrett passed through, closely followed by the pair of younger agents. Ward caught a glimpse of the security patrol right in front of them before they turned the corner and disappeared from sight, just as predicted. His hand had just flipped the safety off his icer when he felt a change in the office's airways, as though someone was blocking an air conditioning unit behind them.

"Stop right there!" a voice suddenly ordered, and Ward glanced back to see a pair of security guards with their weapons raised and trained on the team. They had misjudged the patrol set-up, obviously, with a smaller, second team covering each patrol. Whoever Quinn had hired to protect him where smarter than they had anticipated.

"What do we do?" Fitz hissed, having immediately frozen in place and thrown his hands up in the air.

"Well, I'm a bit of a sweet talker when I need to be," Garrett informed him, before nodding over in Ward's direction. "You wouldn't _believe_ what I could talk this son of a gun into."

"You're going to try _talking _to them?"

"Son, just let me do my thing, okay?"

With that, Garrett turned around to face the pair of guards, a wide smile plastered on his face. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice oozing schmaltz. "I think we made a wrong turn, if you could just point us to the-"

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off as Ward drew his icer and fired off two bursts before the guards had a chance to react, sending them toppling to the floor. Of course, by now they had drawn the attention of the entire floor, so the three of them ran for cover in one of the office cubicles as the guards started firing.

"You know, I could have handled that," Garrett grunted, as he and Ward exchanged fire with the security forces. Behind them, Fitz had thrown his knapsack onto a desk, and was busy removing whatever it was that he had brought with him.

"Sure you could have," Ward replied sarcastically, taking down one of the guards with a well-placed shot to the chest. "I can't remember a time when someone saw through your patented bullshit, you know?"

"Are you talking about that time when we were tracking down the Coven killer? You're not _still _holding that against me, are you?"

"He locked me in a _cage_ for _three days!"_

Garrett rolled his eyes. "And who got you out of that cage?"

"Pretty sure that was Elizabeth Hand's task force, who actually _made the arres_t."

"Ah," Garrett replied, his face falling. "I had forgotten about that. But, seriously though, I would have found you eventually."

Something began to whirr behind them, and Ward glanced back to see Fitz fiddling with a small helicopter-like device of some kind.

"Is that _another _one of your drones, Fitz?" he asked, with a certain amount of disdain. "They're _already_ shooting at us, you know, so unless you want to take a few snapshots of our imminent deaths, can you please try and do something useful instead?"

Fitz tutted under his breath, as the drone's four rotors began to spin, and it lifted off into the air. "Ward, for the last time, this is more than a drone. This is a D.W.A.R.F., a Drone Wirelessly Automated to–"

"Retrieve Forensics," Ward finished for him, shaking his head impatiently, as behind him Garrett fired off three brief shots, downing one of the guards. "I know, I know. But this isn't exactly a matter of forensics right now."

"And that, Ward, is why I've made some modifications on _this _particular D.W.A.R.F.," Fitz replied, his eyes glued to the screen in his hands, thumbs deftly controlling the joysticks as he directed the drone over their cover, towards the firing guards.

Ward and Garrett, sensing that Fitz actually did have a plan, provided some covering fire as Fitz continued to pilot the drone above the guards, hoping to distract them from noticing it until Fitz had the chance to do whatever it was he was planning on doing.

Fitz punched the blue button at the side of the controller, and suddenly streams of blue electricity shot out of the drone, burying themselves into the armed guards in the other room, and Quinn himself, who was struck just below his left temple. Quinn toppled to the ground immediately, convulsing, and while a handful of the guards followed suit, some managed to stay on their feet, fighting off the effects of the drone's tazing.

"This one is Sleepy," Fitz murmured softly. "And he likes to spread it around."

Garrett whistled in admiration. "Impressive toy."

Fitz glanced over at him, and hefted his haversack over his shoulder. "I prefer the term "hard-tech hardware," he replied casually, before glancing back at his controller, bringing the device back.

Ward and Garret glanced at each other, before hefting their icers and charging forward, incapacitating the handful of guards who had managed to fight off Fitz's tazing. Garret walked over to their downed target, picking up Quinn by the scruff of his neck and lifting him to his knees, slapping his face in an attempt to wake him up.

Behind them, Coulson, May and Trip walked in through the door on the opposite side of the room. "We heard gunshots," Coulson said by way of explanation, and Ward nodded back in the direction that he and Garrett had entered through, just as Fitz made his way through the doorway.

"That would have been them shooting at us," Fitz supplied helpfully, gesturing to the room of downed guards.

"How you three deal with them?" Trip asked curiously, taking in the sheer number of prostrate thugs and whistling softly to himself in appreciation.

"Fitz took 'em down," Ward replied, nodding over to the younger agent. "Used one of his gadgets to taze the room, and Garrett and I mopped up the rest of them."

"Well then, good job Agent Fitz," Coulson said approvingly, and Fitz reddened slightly, ducking his head.

"Just happy to help," he muttered.

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

Coulson left the trio of younger agents, and joined May and Garrett as the latter's attempts to forcibly drag Quinn from unconsciousness finally bore front, though the man was still clearly dazed from whatever Fitz had done to him, possibly even concussed.

"It's time for you to start talking, son," Garrett hissed, as Quinn slowly began to get up from the floor, pulling himself to his knees.

"My head's still ringing from the last visitor," he said hazily, referring no doubt to Fitz's gadget.

Garrett bent down to make eye contact. "At least the last visitor left you with a head," he growled. "I'm not always that considerate. Now, we're interested in one of your newer projects. More importantly, we're interested in the people you worked with on it."

"Hmm?" Quinn murmured, before focusing somewhat. "Oh, but there are so many to choose from!"

Garrett grabbed him by the collar and hoisted Quinn to his feet. "Let me be clear," he began, getting right up in Quinn's face. "You have no rights. You have no lawyer. The only thing keeping Agent Coulson here from putting a bullet through you right here and now is that we don't care enough about you to waste good ammunition on you, and that you _might _know where we can find someone we actually _do _give a crap about. The only incentive I have for not tearing your tongue out is that you use it to answer my questions. Is that clear?"

Quinn nodded, seemingly realising the seriousness of the situation he had found himself in, and Garrett relaxed. He let go of Quinn, who staggered backwards before righting himself, and glanced over at Coulson.

"He's all yours," he snarled, and Coulson stepped forward.

"Hello again, Mr Quinn," he began. "I have a few questions I'd like you to answer for me."

"I knew you'd come for me," Quinn muttered, wiping his bleeding nose on the sleeve of his suit, glaring up at Coulson. "He said you'd come."

"Who's 'he', Mr Quinn?"

Quinn smiled, and the manner in which the blood was smeared across his face gave a demonic sense to his features, and Coulson realised that he knew what the man was going to say even before he said it, but Quinn did so regardless.

"The Clairvoyant."

Coulson froze as those two words left Quinn's lips, and he glanced over at Garrett, before catching sight of an image on the far wall of the room. A message for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find, no doubt, if the Clairvoyant really had tipped Quinn off that they had been coming for him.

A message for _Coulson_ to find.

He stared for a moment at the bloody red handprint – not yet dry on the far wall – encircled with a thin line of blood, and turned to Quinn, one question added to the list and a sudden trickle of fear running down Coulson's spine.

* * *

**Agent Leopold Fitz**

* * *

"_The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for." _

― Bob Marley

* * *

"That's the second time now," Simmons complained, as Fitz spun idly in his chair, a smug smile on his face. "The second time you've gone out in the field and actually seen some action. It's not fair!"

"Hey, you saw plenty of action in District Eleven," Fitz reminded her.

"But not today," she rebutted, gesturing angrily to the lab around them. "Instead I'm stuck in here, pulling ridiculously long shifts, all so that Director Fury will have a new mutt to unleash in the arena. I haven't slept in days, Fitz. In _days!"_

Fitz shifted in his seat, eager to change the topic. "So, how's that going?" he asked, referring to the mutt she had been developing. "Have you had any luck with getting the parasite to accept a new host?"

Simmons huffed, knowing that he was trying to drag her away from the rant she had been building up to, but also clearly willing to discuss her latest project with her best friend.

"For the last time, it's not a parasite," she reminded him. "It shares a symbiotic relationship with its host, providing strength and agility in return for sustenance."

Fitz's brow furrowed. "Doesn't its host have to be _dead_, though?"

"Well…" Simmons hesitated. "Well yes, yes it does. But a parasite would feed off the deceased host, whereas this _protects _the body it resides in. In many cases, it's actually been seen to reverse the symptoms of death, returning the body to the condition it was in while it was still alive."

"But still dead?"

"Well…yes, _still dead_. Just…healed. We've been working heavily with Doctor Strange's department to see if we can find some practical uses beyond the creation of mutts, but there have been complications. We had some disheartening results with live animal subjects that discouraged us from progressing to human trials. The substance is…volatile, and spreads easily. We've had to take extreme precautions when handling it."

Fitz walked over to her desk and stared at the rows of test tubes of the red goop, and shook his head slowly.

"Volatile in what way?" he asked, and Simmons hesitated once more.

"When the substance takes over the host, it requires immediate sustenance…" she said slowly. "It needs to…to feed."

A Sentinel suddenly entered the room, causing the pair of scientists to jump slightly, pushing an occupied gurney in front of him.

"I've got a delivery for…Dr Jemma Simmons? Curtesy of Dr Strange?" the Sentinel stated, and Fitz glanced over at his partner with his eyebrows raised. Simmons caught his glanced and shrugged slightly, before turning to the Sentinel with a wide smile.

"That's me!" she cheerily replied, and the Sentinel nodded.

"Do you accept responsibility over this object?" he asked.

Simmons glanced curiously at the gurney in front of him, the white sheets drawn up over the corpse beneath, and noticed for the first time that the Sentinel was handcuffed to the railing at the back of the gurney.

"I do," she said, and the Sentinel promptly drew the key to the handcuffs from his pocket, uncuffing himself a moment later. "This does seem a tad extreme though, I must say."

"My apologies," the Sentinel replied, massaging his wrist, clearly relieved to have the cuffs off. "Dr Strange's orders. We've had to step up security after recent attempts to tamper with the bodies."

"_Whose _bodies?" Fitz asked, cutting across, confused, but Sentinel merely gestured to the gurney and left without another word.

Simmons frowned, walking over to the gurney, and pulled back the sheet slightly to reveal a tuft of red hair.

"Surely not," she whispered, and whipped the sheet away to reveal the body beneath.

* * *

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**


	88. Chapter 87: Hijacked

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a new update for ITEYAK, and as of yesterday, I've finished the last of my exams! So, things should run smoothly from now until the end of the fic – while I'll be starting working full-time in a week or two, I'll still have evenings to write which I didn't really have in college. Fourth year was pretty intense, I'll admit.**

**A big thanks to RvnsDsks, Idalove2read, TheHazardsOfLove13, Bookcrazysongbird and our anonymous Guest for their reviews. So glad you guys enjoyed the chapter, and I'm glad to see I've set the speculation wheels in motion!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Seven ****—**** Hijacked**

**Morning, Day Ten**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Claire**

* * *

"_Forgiveness is the final form of love."_ – Reinhold Niebuhr

"_Never forget the three powerful resources you always have available to you: love, prayer, and forgiveness._"

– H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

* * *

The morning after their battle with Cletus, Kurt woke with the rising sun. Peter had the dawn guard shift and was leaning against a rock several yards away. His face was tilted to catch the first few golden shafts of light peeking over the treetops.

Kurt was unused to waking up outside, but the little group had elected to stay in the huge park overnight. Steve had the idea of scouting around to see what other traps Cletus had laid for them **— **and deciding if any could still be used against other tributes. The idea had failed quickly, however, when they had attempted to spring one trap and had nearly been crushed by some of the maniac boy's logs.

After that, they decided that using any of Cletus' stuff was far too dangerous and unpredictable to work much in their favour. Not wanting to travel far at night, they'd settled in this small clearing.

He sat up, holding in a groan at the ache in his abdomen. Cletus' knee driving into Kurt's gut hadn't done any internal damage, as far as Kurt could tell, but it still hurt like hell. He tugged up his tank top, studying the impressive bruise that had formed overnight. Purple, blue, and yellow patched on his stomach like a child's finger painting. He let go of his shirt and zipped up his sweatshirt against the morning chill, noting with a bit of irritation the dew that had soaked into his clothes.

Ah well. It would dry in the sun soon.

Kurt stabbed his sword into the grass and used it to haul himself up, his ankle still a bit stiff from their entanglement inside one of Cletus' traps, before ambling over to join Peter. The other boy opened his eyes as Kurt drew closer. Peter was almost as hard to sneak up on as Logan — the boy had almost a sixth sense about things. Kurt wasn't complaining — it had helped them on more than one occasion in the last few days. Kurt leaned against the rock next to his friend.

"Hey," said Kurt simply, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Logan or Steve. "Enjoying the sunrise?"

Peter shrugged. "I guess. I just keep thinkin' about the fight. I mean, that's the first time we really…you know, _killed _someone." Peter shuddered slightly. "I mean, I definitely don't regret it; getting rid of Cletus was a relief, but at the same time, it still feels…weird."

Kurt nodded. He could still hear the sound that his blade had made when he'd shoved it into Cletus' stomach — a sort of wet _schnik_ — and remembered the way blood had leaked around it as he pulled it out. Some of it had spattered his ribbons, turning the blue fabric a deep mulberry colour. He studied the fabric, rubbing at the stains with his thumb as he spoke.

"I know. It felt…wrong. I mean, not taking out Cletus specifically, but just…it feels awful to watch someone get stabbed. To see the sword you're holding just…" Kurt stuck his hand forward, miming a sword blade, and curled his lip in disgust. "Especially when it's your hand holding the blade. Even finding Sin on the beach wasn't as real as this. It was…" Kurt took a deep, shuddered breath. "_Mein gott,_ Pete…we _killed_ someone. We just…he was awful, but we still…" Kurt buried his face in his hands. "I stabbed someone, Peter." His eyes stung. "What if the twins saw? I didn't want to do something like this." Kurt's next words came out choked with sobs. "I didn't want them to see me doing something like that. They look up to me so much. They're everything to me, and I feel like I let them down." He felt Peter's arm wrap around his shoulder and give him a light squeeze. Kurt rubbed his eyes and looked over at his friend.

"Kurt, they know what the Avenger Games are about. They know that for even the nicest people, it's gotta be a dog-eat-dog world. People don't win the Games with kindness — not even you, bud."

Kurt gave him a half-smile. "I figured I could at least give it a shot," he replied.

Peter gave his shoulder a light shove. "You would."

The boys snickered quietly. Off to the side, Logan snuffled in his sleep, and his snores were the only sound as the boys fell into an amicable silence by the rock. They watched the sky turn from grey to bright blue as the sun slowly drifted over the treetops, turning the clouds pink and gold. Birds twittered in the trees around them, and had it not been in the middle of a death-filled arena, it would have been an ideal picnic spot.

"Hey, who do you think they'll chalk up Cletus' death to?" asked Peter after a while.

"Hm?" Kurt looked over. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you know each tribute get a kill list, right? A list of all the deaths attributed to that tribute." Peter giggled at his wordplay. "Careers usually get the longest lists, and ours are probably pretty short, unless they count spiders. And you, you know…" Peter did the same stabbing motion that Kurt had done.

"But you were the one who knocked him underwater," Kurt finished, catching on. "And he didn't quite seem to be down when he came after you, so if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say he goes to you."

Peter nodded slowly. "That's something to think about," he said, almost to himself.

Eventually, as the sun began to warm the clearing, Peter and Kurt decided it was time to wake the other members in their party — rousing Logan with caution and remaining out of claw's reach. Once the four were alert, they gathered around the remains of last night's fire.

"So what's our next move?" Steve said. He stood tall, shoulders squared, a stark contrast to Logan's slouched posture. The difference in how the boys stood only emphasized the nearly a foot of height difference between them. "The Career pack is trashed. Cletus is gone. I don't know about you three, but I'm not really searching for anyone else to take down. I appreciate the two of you helping take out Cletus, but if you have another plan, I won't stop you from carrying it out."

"We need to find Kate," said Kurt immediately. "Or at least...I'm going to find her. I don't know what you guys want to do. As of last night, she's still alive."

"There's definitely a 'we' in that operation," said Peter, clapping a hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"Absolutely, Elf," said Logan in agreement.

Kurt glanced at Steve. "What about you, Steve? We could use you."

Steve crossed arms with muscles that rivalled Logan's tree-trunk biceps. "I think it's time we parted company. I don't want to kill any of you. I don't want to kill anyone. So I don't want to have be around you if it comes down to the wire and the Gamemakers try some kind of force play to get us to attack one another."

He hefted the round shield that sat on the ground near his feet and slung it over his shoulders. "I hope you find your friend. It seems like you care…about…" Steve trailed off, his eyes turning to the sky. Logan was acting similarly, his gaze darting across the treetops. Peter looked frightened.

"Something's coming," he said breathlessly. He turned in slow, nervous circles, trying to locate something. The others turned in opposite directions, and it was Kurt who first spotted the grey cloud appearing over the treeline. He couldn't make out the shapes inside, but the shape of the cloud was constantly shifting, fluidly, like water.

Then the buzzing reached his ears, and the words came to his mind.

_Tracker jackers._

"RUN!" Kurt yelled, grabbing Peter's arm to propel him along across the field in the direction of the lake where they'd fought Cletus. The others, he figured, would have the reflexes to get moving, but Peter was still recovering from the last few days. "Tracker jackers!" he cried as they ran. "We need to get to the lake! Underwater!"

Thankfully, the others understood and followed, Steve quickly outstripping Team Awesome with long, powerful strides. Logan passed Kurt and Peter next, but Peter was picking up speed as well, allowing Kurt to do the same. It was good that Steve had taken the lead, because Kurt's memory of the way from the lake was patchy, and without the small course adjustments that Steve made as they ran, they would have ended up far from the lake.

As they entered the woods, they tried to match Steve's path under branches and around brambles, but it was clear that Kurt and Peter were far more suited to the terrain. Where Peter and Kurt were lithe, agile, and smaller; Steve and Logan were faster, but bulky. Steve, with all his strength and fleet footwork, was having trouble navigating sharp turns and dodges around trees, and while Logan seemed naturally suited to the woods, he kept pausing to check their progress. Slowly, Kurt and Peter began overtaking the older boys. When Steve smacked his arm on a tree, the result of a too-slow dodge, he stumbled. Kurt slowed briefly, but only briefly.

"No! Keep going! Get to the lake!" Steve called out, and Kurt could see the trees thinning ahead, and something glittering even further out.

_The lake._ It was so close. He put on a burst of speed and broke out of the line of trees a few yards ahead of Peter. He could hear the wasps closer, the buzzing turning into a tremendous drone that drilled into his ears. His breathing was heavy and ragged, but he could see the lake. It couldn't have been more than fifty yards ahead. He pushed himself to go _faster, just a bit faster._ He was going to make it.

He heard a yelp from behind him. It sounded like Peter. Kurt spared a glance backwards to see the swarm descending on them. Peter was stumbling slightly, clutching his neck where he'd apparently been stung. Logan and Steve burst from the edge of the forest, swatting furiously at the insects. Logan slapped at his arm.

Something buzzed past Kurt's ear, and he swiped at it out of instinct. He felt a pinch on his palm and glanced down to see a pink welt blossoming. Another sting, on his shoulder, through the material of his jacket. A strange feeling started flowing through his body, something light, a little buzzy. His pace began to slow — why was he running? What was so important up ahead? He felt a third pinch on his collarbone but barely registered it.

He slowed to a jog, then to a staggered halt. Everything around his was hazy, the blades of grass smoothing into a green blur, the treetops a green fuzz. And it was shiny, too. Hazy and bright all at the same time. Something important was happening though, wasn't it? He was supposed to be doing something, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what. He could hear someone shouting — why were they shouting? Everything was so relaxed; they were really ruining it, but they sounded far away, so Kurt ignored them and turned in slow, lazy circles, gazing at the distorted world. On his third revolution, someone appeared in his field of vision, several yards away. No — two someones. Two small figures bounding across the field, laughing. Kurt squinted, meandering closer to them.

"Kurt! Kurt!" one called happily.

It couldn't be.

"A-Amanda? Stefan?" he called. "Wh-what are you doing here, _lieblings_?"

"We missed you, Kurt…" Amanda's voice seemed strangely echoey as it drifted across the grass. "We missed you…" Even in his hazy fugue, an uneasy feeling settled in Kurt's stomach.

"No…no, you can't be here. It's not safe."

"But we wanted to see you, Kurt," said Stefan. "We wanted to talk." The children were drawing close now; close enough to see Amanda's blond tresses swaying as she danced over. They bobbed just out of arm's reach, coming into sharp focus.

Suddenly, Amanda's bright grin turned into a pained, tear-filled grimace, like she was in the middle of one of her childhood tantrums. Usually caused by school, other kids, or Stefan, her tantrums had been hysterical and wild. Kurt was usually the first one she went to.

* * *

_Kurt was sprawled on his bed, working through the day's homework, when hurried footsteps came pattering down the hall and Amanda burst into his room, her face crumpling and a few tears leaking from her watering eyes. Kurt sat up and held out his arms. The little girl barrelled into them, and Kurt hoisted her up onto the bed to sit on his lap._

_"What happened this time?"_

_"Lasco was mean in class again. He pushed me when I was going on the slide and pulled me off the monkey bars. Miss Gwynn put him in time-out, but he doesn't stop. He made me cry in front of the other kids, and he laughed at me." She burst into a round of fresh tears. " I hate him! He's stupid!"_

_Kurt tucked a few locks of Amanda's hair behind her ears and wiped the tears from her cheeks, and she sniffled slightly._

_"Well, you know what I think? I think he's just scared. He's scared that he's not going to have any friends, so he's mean to other people to impress the kids around him. So you know what you have to do?"_

_Amanda tilted her head. "What?"_

_"You can't let him push you around. You have to show him that you're not afraid of him. But," he continued, tapping Amanda on the nose. "You can't be mean back to him. That's very important. You have to show him that you're not afraid, but you can't push him around, okay? If you do, that makes it just as bad as what he's doing." Kurt leaned back, holding his sister at arm's length. "Got all that?" Amanda nodded, sniffed, scrubbed her cheeks with chubby hands, and clambered down from Kurt's lap. She trotted out of the room, a small smile on her face._

* * *

"Why did you hurt him, Kurt?" Amanda looked betrayed behind her tears. "You said we shouldn't hurt people back. That's what you told me."

"I know, I know — Amanda, you know how the Avenger Games work," Kurt pleaded. "You know that people have to do mean things sometimes, even if we aren't supposed to." He reached for Amanda, but she and Stefan began to fade into the air. "Wait…" Kurt said, grasping for his sister's shoulder, but his hand closed on nothing.

"Kurt?" said another voice from behind him. Kurt spun to see Kitty Pride approaching, stepping lightly through the grass. She wore the yellow silky dress she'd worn on the day of the Reaping.

"Kitty?" Kurt said in disbelief. "What's happening?"

Kitty developed a pensive expression. "I'm not sure. I only know what you know, and you don't know anything right now, thanks to those tracker jacker stings."

Kurt closed his eyes shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "Tracker jackers…" he mumbled. When he opened his eyes, Kitty was gone, and two more figures were making their way across the grass, one from his left and one from his right.

The one on his right was his mother, hurrying towards him. The one on the right was a figure in a hooded cloak that obscured their face in shadow, walking with a tentative gait, like they were afraid to approach.

With a start, Kurt realized it was the mysterious figure from his childhood dreams — the one that might have been his birth mother.

Margali reached him first, a tearful smile on her face. She reached out as if to touch his cheek, but her hand melted into mist as it neared his face.

"My darling...my darling Kurt. I still believe in you, little one." Kurt's eyes were stinging with repressed tears. This wasn't real — he knew, somewhere in his mind — but his tracker jacker venom-addled brain could only focus on what was in front of him. The sound of footsteps made him glance away from his mother to see the hooded figure coming up to them. The person's hands were clasped in front of them, and even at this distance, Kurt couldn't make out their face. It was like there was a dark film at the front of the hood. They paused, tilted their head, and spoke.

"Kurt." The voice was feminine and dissonant, like two women speaking at slightly different times.

"You're her," said Kurt. The hooded woman inclined her head slightly. "You left me," Kurt said. "I have spent my whole life asking why. What made you give me up?"

"I can't tell you that, Kurt," the woman said. "You know that. But we can be together now. I'm here now." She extended her hand to Kurt. For a few heartbeats, Kurt was still. Then, he backed up toward his mother.

"No," he said. Then, a rush of uncharacteristic anger swept through him. "_No!_ You want me to just accept this, after thirteen years of wondering why I wasn't good enough for you, of wondering why you left me to die on the street. I have a family already—" He reached a hand back towards his mother. "—who loves me more than you did! We can't be together. We never can be together. You had your chance!" Kurt yelled. The hooded woman stiffened.

"Did I?" She began taking slow, measured steps towards him. Kurt backed up another few paces. He glanced behind him. His mother had vanished. He looked forward again to find the woman only a few paces from him. She reached out a hand, but it didn't melt away like Margali's had done. Her fingers danced lightly across his chest. Then, she lunged forward, her fingers turning to talons, and stabbed Kurt right over his breastbone.

Kurt's torso erupted in pain like he'd never felt before. He heard a sound, an awful cry of pain. He realized it had come from his own mouth. There was something inside his chest; he could feel it as he tried desperately to suck in lungfuls of air. And that was getting more difficult by the second — he felt as though no matter how deeply he breathed, he couldn't fill his lungs. The world around him was shifting, becoming less hazy, less bright. The hooded woman began to change too, her body shifting, becoming shorter, stockier. The fingers in his chest turned into metallic objects, attached to a muscular arm. Kurt's gaze travelled up the arm until he was looking into a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Logan's eyes.

The young man's eyes were wide with horror, the last traces of fog seeming to leave his face as the two stared at one another. Logan's mouth hung open with shock. Kurt was in shock too at what his friend had just done, yet he couldn't bring himself to feel resentment. All he knew was that whatever he'd just seen, Logan had probably seen something just as bad. Possibly worse.

Just as it had been the hooded woman stabbing him, Logan had probably attacked someone with whatever nightmares the tracker jackers had bestowed on him. Kurt could practically feel the guilt beginning to flood Logan's mind. Kurt couldn't let Logan live the rest of his life — however long or short it might be — feeling like he had killed one of the few people he considered a friend.

"It's all right, Logan," he said. "It's n-not your fault,_ mein F-freund._"

Kurt took in another shallow breath, and it caught in his throat. He coughed and tasted copper, felt something wet slosh around his tongue. Something trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he was acutely aware of it sliding down his chin. Logan's eyes locked on it, following the blood until the first drop fell from Kurt's chin. Logan was stammering something, but nothing coherent.

Kurt's limbs felt strange — weightless and leaden all at once, but he raised a shaking arm and laid his hand on Logan's forearm. The motion jarred the claws piercing his ribcage and sent new, white-hot flashes of pain streaking through his chest, but he left it there. Someone was yelling something — Kurt knew the voice, but he couldn't place it. The voice sounded angry — were they mad at Logan? Or Kurt?

Something was happening to Kurt's vision. Things were going fuzzy, and then coming back into focus. Logan gaze was still fixed on Kurt, jumping to the claws, the blood, back to his face.

"Elf…" Kurt heard Logan say, his voice choked to a hoarse whisper. Kurt managed to lift the corners of his mouth into a weak smile. Something in Logan's expression changed slightly.

"'S not your fault," Kurt whispered again. For a moment, there was stillness, but then it looked like someone large had come up behind Logan, pulling him back by the shoulders. Logan's claws slid out of Kurt's chest with barely a_ snikt,_ and Kurt fell backwards, landing heavily on the ground. The impact sent tiny droplets of blood flying from the puncture wounds in his chest, and Kurt watched the tiny scarlet globules until they flew out of his sight.

Each breath that Kurt took rattled in his chest. Each breath was shallower than the last. Darkness began to fuzz at the edges of Kurt's vision, and he turned his eyes skyward. He wished it were night-time. He wished he could see the stars once more; tell them how much he loved his mother.

There were so many people he didn't get to tell he loved. Margali, Amanda, Stefan, Kitty…

Kate…

_Kate! _Kate was still out there. Was she searching for them? What would she do if she found out what Logan had done? Kurt wouldn't be around to mediate between two of the most hot-headed people he knew. Would Logan explain? Would Kate believe him?

Suddenly, Kurt couldn't draw breath. He choked, struggling to pull air into his lungs.

_This is it._

_It can't end like this! Not without…not…without…_

Kurt's vision went dark.

_I'm sorry, Kate._

_I love you._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett**.


	89. Chapter 88: The Final Eight Interviews

**Hey guys, we're back with the promised very special update, as we do something a little different. abrokencastiel (writer of Peter Parker) was good enough to take this one on, as the interviews of the family and friends of the Final Eight take place, and what better time to do that than with Chapter Eight-Eight! Apologies for the delay with this one – my exams finished last week, but my grandad (who had been ill for quite a while) took a turn for the worse just after I finished, and he passed away last Saturday, and I just haven't been able to bring myself to getting this chapter up until now. If you'd take the time to spare a thought for him, I'd really appreciate it.**

**A big thanks to TheHazardsOfLove13, Idalove2read, Bookcrazysongbird and all of our anonymous Guests for their reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Eighty-Eight – The Final Eight Interviews**

**Patricia Walker**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

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"_I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers." _

― Mahatma Gandhi

"_Reporters trade in pain. It sells papers. Everyone knows that." _

― Jonathan Maberry, _Dead of Night_

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**Capitol Airfield - Day Eight**

* * *

Patricia Walker – AKA Patsy AKA Trish – blew gently across the intricately designed surface of her double-shot latte as she looked over the info sheets of the ten remaining tributes spread across the small table. The milk rippled ever so slightly under her breath but maintained its leafy shape.

"Only two girls," she mused to herself. "I was hoping for a better standing this year."

She checked her watch with a frown. They were due to take off soon, and her cameraman was still absent. She'd made sure to give herself plenty of time to get to the jet and settled before they were scheduled to take off. If she'd learned anything from her time in television show business, it was always be ready for the unexpected. All she needed was for something to happen and their trip to become more rushed than it already was. _He did get the message that the time frame got moved up, right?_

The death of the girl from Eleven had dwindled the field to ten tributes, meaning it was time to begin the circuit for the family interviews. It took time to conduct the interviews themselves, not to mention the editing that would need to be done before they could be aired. At first, the interviews had been done when there were eight tributes left, but that ended up backfiring when half the tributes were dead by the time the interviews were ready. After that, the families were visited when there were ten living tributes so they would have some lee-way.

After all, they could always cut the interviews with the dead tributes' families later.

The door to the jet slid open with a _whoosh,_ and Gary, the cameraman, entered with a large duffle and a small suitcase. He gave her a smile as he took a seat across from her, arranging his belongings around himself. "You excited?"

Trish grinned, her annoyance over his lateness evaporating instantly. "Am I ever!" She motioned to the stack of files excitedly. "Have you _looked_ at these? There's some good stuff here! An estranged grandpa, a tribute who volunteered for his best friend, and don't get me started on Odin's adopted son."

"Do you think we'll get to interview Odin for this?" Gary couldn't hide the glint of awe in his eyes.

"Don't bet on it." Trish laughed. "District Four isn't on the itinerary, and I don't think Odin will make a special trip out to District Twelve to meet us."

"I can always hope," her cameraman said, rubbing a hand over his new goatee that looked increasingly familiar the more Trish stared at him. "After all, he's still in the Capitol, even though Thor and Brunhilde are out – maybe the suits upstairs will let us schedule something when we get back?

"Got it!" She snapped her fingers, and pointed to the goatee, ignoring what Gary was saying. "The Stark kid."

Gary broke into another wide grin. "He's my pick to win this year, even with the whole shrapnel-to-the-chest incident. Do you have a favourite yet?"

The redhead rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You know better than anyone that I try not to pick a favourite until _after_ I do the interviews. Avoid bias and all that."

Gary squinted at her for a moment. "The hawkgirl, am I right?"

"I'm telling you, I haven't decided yet. Maybe I won't pick one."

"Wait, was it the redhead from Ten? The girl? Is that why you dyed your hair red again? You just don't want to admit you picked an early out?"

"No." Trish frowned. "It's a call back to my Patsy days."

"I thought you wanted to forget those days?"

She gritted her teeth. "Apparently the producers don't want me to."

"I see."

The cockpit door opened, and the pilot poked his head in. "Excuse me, Miss Walker, we're ready to take off."

"Thank you," she replied with a nod. She buckled her seatbelt and settled back into the cushioned seat.

"What's the schedule?" Gary asked as the jet began to move.

Trish took a moment to drink her cappuccino before pulling out the list of destinations. "We're going to start with One and loop our way around Marvel, ending with Nine. The higher-ups don't think Carnage is going to survive much longer with the whole killing the little girl and making an enemy of everyone else – if he does, we'll arrange something quick in Ten. I can't imagine he has all that many loved ones back there."

"Fine with me, since it means we only have to go to one prison if he kicks the bucket."

"Fingers crossed. Prison walls don't give quite the same homey feeling as a nice district home."

"I hear that."

The jet eased into the air and quickly climbed. Gary yawned and stretched, leaning back his seat in the process. "I'm going to get some shut eye if that's alright with you. Wake me up when we get to One."

"Will do." Trish leaned on the table between them and looked out the window at the gleaming city shrinking below her.

* * *

**District One - Evening, Day Eight**

* * *

"What do you mean we can't go to the prison? We're supposed to interview the Sentinel who helped her." Trish frowned and glanced at Gary, who gave an agreeing nod. The pair had been stopped just after disembarking by a Sentinel from Crossmore Penitentiary.

The Sentinel shrugged. "There was an issue, and we're on lockdown. Sorry, but there was a problem with some of the prisoners. Can't break protocol, sweetheart," he answered, unperturbed.

"Now you've done it," Gary said, seeing Trish's eyes narrow.

The redhead crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't you know who I work for?" She didn't give the man a chance to answer. "I work for President Thanos. And do you know what President Thanos enjoys? The Avenger Games. My job is to make the Games more enjoyable, give him the story he wants, and _you_ are getting in the way of that."

She leaned forward to read his nametag. "Now, Stanley Carter, do you want me to tell President Thanos _exactly_ who prevented me from getting the story of one of the best tributes in the arena? Or are you going to take us where we need to go?"

The poor guy was looking flushed under the threat. "You wouldn't do that. You aren't that close to him."

"Try me." Trish drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at the man.

For a moment, Carter seemed to consider arguing some more but eventually put his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay. Fine. I'll take you to Crossmore. Have it your way. But you'll have to answer for it later, I'm telling you."

They followed the man to his vehicle, Gary snickering the whole way.

The penitentiary wasn't too far from the station, and after the threat of Thanos' ire, the Sentinel was quick to deliver Trish and Gary there. After a thorough patting down, signing a dozen or so waivers, and having an argument about Gary being able to take his camera with him, they were finally led into the main building.

"Come on. Frank will meet with you in the lounge." Carter took them down an empty hallway and into a small room with a vending machine, a couch, and a muted television that was playing the Games. "Take a seat. You might be waiting for a while. Frank's shaking down a guy as we speak."

"As long as he doesn't take too long," Trish said, looking at her watch. "We have an appointment with the Seven lumberjacks after this."

The footage was focused on Stark messing with something metal. He threw it to the ground with apparent distaste, waking the previously snoozing Captain.

"Isn't he great?" Gary ran a hand over his matching goatee. "I wonder what he's working on now. Probably something amazing."

The door opened suddenly and an imposing man entered, tossing his helmet to the table with a loud clatter. A yellow-green bruise covered one cheek and spread under his dark beard. He took one look around the room before going to the vending machine.

"I thought I said no visitors today, Stanley," he grumbled.

Carter sighed and moved to the door, clapping Castle on the shoulder as he passed. "She's tougher than she looks, Frank."

"We'll see."

Trish waited for the door to close behind Carter before walking up to shake the newcomer's hand. "Hello, Mr. Castle."

"You can call me Frank." The dark haired man's gaze shifted to Trish and Gary in turn.

"Frank. My name's—."

"I know who you are. My wife loved your show. Patsy, right?" Castle interrupted.

Trish forced a smile. "Yes, that's right. Only now I do news work. Specifically, I'm in charge of the family and friends interviews for the top eight tributes."

The man turned back to examining the vending snacks. "Star to news correspondent? Sounds like a step back in your career."

She ignored his comment. "I'm here to interview you about Elektra Natchios. It won't take five minutes; I just need a few insights to her story. Could you do that for me?"

"Do you want anything?"

"Pardon?"

He motioned at the machine. "Do you want anything from the machine? I can't decide between the cheese chips and the crackers myself."

"I have the same problem," Gary commented.

"Well, what _I_ want is an interview so we can get out of your way." Trish shot Gary an angry look that made him quickly look down at his camera.

"Fine." Castle punched a button, and a packet of crackers fell out of the bottom. He jerked one of the chairs over to the couch, the legs grating across the floor. "Ask away," he ordered, dropping into the seat.

Trish sat on the couch and waited for Gary to give the signal before beginning. "Now, Frank Castle, I understand you are the one who we have to thank for getting Elektra into the Games this year, is that right?"

Frank shrugged. "Yep. I got her outta this place, walked her over there, and gave her a fuckin' kick in the pants when she about gave up."

Trish hid her surprise at the sudden curse with a smile. Most people knew to keep the language appropriate for television. "It seems like that kick has carried her quite far. She's already killed two, both of which were Careers. Is that surprising?"

The man leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs. "Guess not. She was in here for a reason."

"And what reason was that?"

"Fucking killed a man was a few years back. Can't remember exactly when, but point is the kid's got experience taking people out."

"I see. Have you been impressed with how far Elektra has made it?"

"Honestly? I haven't been watching too close. Been a little busy." He motioned to his healing bruise. "The prisoners have gotten a little rowdy recently on night shift."

"Well, you must have seen some of the Games." Trish indicated the television with a nod. "Do you expect her to make it much further?"

"Do I think she'll make it much farther?" The Sentinel slammed his chair to the ground suddenly, making Trish jump. "You know, I've been trying for a transfer out of this place for a long time, and I need a mayoral sign off. Only the mayor didn't appreciate me using his name to get a convicted felon into the Games instead of that fucking blonde, and he won't sign off on anything. So, this Elektra, she's my best chance of getting out of here. She better win, 'cause I stuck my neck out for her, and now I'm stuck in this shit-show. She better prove I made the right decision." He pushed himself up from the chair and retrieved his helmet. "Interview's over. Duty calls."

"Right. Well, thank you for your time, Frank." Trish rose from the couch to see him off.

Frank waved her away, ripping open the cracker package with his teeth and pulling one out. "Stay here," he said around his snack. "Stanley will come and take you guys back to your plane."

* * *

**District Seven - Nightfall, Day Eight**

* * *

"You sure this is right?" Gary peered up at the huge house with a frown. The sun was lowering, ticking down the time they had left before they needed to return to the jet.

Their Sentinel escort sighed. "Trust me. This is it." He rapped loudly on the door.

Trish took a moment to smooth her tight yellow dress and adjust her black belt while they waited for an answer. "Seems like a pretty fancy place for the Wolverine to have come from."

The door opened, and a woman smiled at them. "Mr Howlett is waiting for you. Please, come in."

"I'll wait out here." The Sentinel leaned against one of the porch pillars. "Take your time."

The interior of the house was beautiful. If Trish ever got around to redoing her own apartment, she would need to consider incorporating wood into the final design. Intricate carvings adorned the furniture, staircase, and picture frames of what Trish assumed were family members. The rough teenager was suspiciously absent from the portraits.

The maid opened a large door to a study where an older man sat at a large desk. He stood as the pair entered and extended a hand. "You must be Miss Walker."

"And you must be Mr Howlett." She shook his hand firmly, matching his grip. "We won't bother you long, sir. I can see you are busy."

The man looked down at his papers and shook his head. "This can wait. Sit. Please."

Their introductions had given Gary time to get set up, and he nodded at Trish to give her the go ahead.

"Now, just pretend you are talking to me. Ignore the camera." She smiled into the camera. "I'm here with Mister Howlett, the grandfather of the one and only Wolverine. Thank you for speaking with us today," she said as she shifted to face the old man. "May I just say that your grandson is quite the tribute."

"Yes, he is." The man frowned and looked down.

Trish waited a moment for him to say more, but he remained stalwart. "His tracking skills are unrivalled, and those claws of his are a work of genius ingenuity. Does he get any of this from you?"

"Firm, but fair," the man grunted in response, not looking from the spot on his desk.

Trish sighed and leaned forward. "Mr Howlett, I need you to actually talk. Three word answers don't make good television. Now, why don't you tell us a little something about Logan as a child? Let us really get to know him."

The old man looked up, his blue eyes glancing at the camera.

"Just talk to me, Mr Howlett."

"I can't tell you anything about the boy because I don't know him. I kicked him out long ago."

"Why was that?" Trish's motioned to Gary, and he moved to get a close up on the man.

"I blamed him for the loss of my son." He shook his head. "It wasn't his fault, though. I can see that now."

Trish waited a beat, allowing Gary to capture the old man's sorrow. "And if you could see your grandson now, Mr Howlett, what would you tell him?"

"I would tell him to come back. This is where he belongs. He is a Howlett."

"And what would you say to him, if he did come back?"

"I would tell him I'm sorry. I don't know if he'd forgive me, and if he's anything like me, he won't. But I'd tell him all the same."

Trish nodded and stood quietly. "Thank you for your time, Mr Howlett. I think that is all we need."

"You can show yourselves out." Old Man Howlett clasped his hands and leaned forward so his lips were pressed against them.

Gary kept the camera rolling and trained on the man until Trish eased the door closed. Gary replaced the lens cap and followed Trish back to the front door. "I have to admit, I didn't expect that."

"It'll make for great television, that's for sure."

They rejoined their guide outside the house, who hadn't moved from his post. "You get what you need?"

Gary nodded and patted his camera case. "Got it all right here. Seems like Mr Howlett feels more than a little guilty."

The Sentinel looked back with surprise. "Seriously? Well, that's something I never thought would happen. I'd love to see Logan's face when he hears that."

Trish frowned and picked up speed to walk beside their escort. "Do you know Logan?"

"Well, yeah, I mean. He was kind of a troublemaker around here. I got called to deal with him quite a bit. All the guys down at the camp respect him, though."

"Is that right? Well, we would love to talk to you about him. Get some insight to how he acted while he was here." Trish didn't give the Sentinel an option, instead steering him to a nearby bench and pushing him down onto it. She arranged herself next to him while Gary readied his camera. She squinted at the sun, judging the available rays. "There should be enough light left to get a decent shot as long as we hurry. Now, what's your name?"

"Mac Hudson."

"Alright, and how did you become acquainted with Logan, Mac?"

""Well, there was a bar fight and—"

"Wait, wait." Trish waved for Gary to stop recording. "This is no good. Take off the helmet so we can see your face." She fluffed the man's black hair and thoroughly doused it in the hairspray she produced from her bag. "There. Much better. Continue."

"Look." Mac gave a sigh. "All you really need to know about Logan is that he's strong, has a bad temper, and he'll do what it takes to survive."

"Sounds like a real victor." Trish smiled and pushed a stray red hair back into place. "You expect he'll win, then?"

Mac shrugged. "Maybe."

"Why the doubt?" Trish pushed.

"He has a soft spot for the little guys, if you couldn't tell." Mac smirked. "One time, this little orphan girl suckered him into saving her cat. This little black and white thing that was stuck in a tree. You should have seen him shimmying up that tree and cradling the furball in his shirt." Mac laughed and shook his head. "Not exactly the Wolverine the Games make you imagine."

"That's why we do these interviews, so we can get to know the real Logan Howlett."

"You really should have gone to the logging camp. Those guys know him better than I do."

"We just don't have time for that much of a field trip." Trish stood, and Gary repacked his camera.

Mac's brown eyes met Trish's blue ones, and his brows furrowed. "Right. I should take you back."

Trish flashed a thumbs up at Gary as the group headed for Mac's vehicle.

* * *

**District Five - Morning, Day Nine**

* * *

The room was simple, but carefully cleaned, just like the rest of the house. Susan Rogers had the same good looks as her son, with the blonde hair and blue eyes, just faded with age and hard labour. The girl sitting next to her was pretty as well, with her chocolate hair and eyes.

"Okay, so are all the people in Five really attractive, or is it just me?" Gary whispered as he finished setting up the camera.

"Hush," Trish hissed. She turned her attention back to the couple sitting across from them. "So, Mrs Rogers, your son appears to be doing very well in the Games."

"I'm very proud of him," the woman said with a smile. "He's doing everything he can. I just worry about his safety, being his ma and all."

"Understandable. And how about you, Peggy? Is Steve living up to your expectations?"

"Of course he is! He's doing great. I wish he was back here with me, but I'm right there with him in spirit. I'm cheering him on all the time." Peggy gave a small rah-rah fist pump. "I've always got the Games on, just in case he comes on."

"It appears that Steve has made quite a name for himself, first for protecting Ororo and then for playing a large role in the fight against the robot, Ultron. How do you think he will match this in the days to come?"

Another easy smile spread across Susan's face. "I know he'll do great. I know my son, and he'll do whatever it takes to come back to me. He's so brave."

"But there is the newest development we have yet to talk about. The eye Carnage left as a challenge just a little while ago. Do you believe he's going to answer the call?"

"Of course he is. That's who Steve _is_. He stands for what he knows is right. Just look at how he volunteered for Bucky! He's a hero. Ask anyone." The set of the girl's jaw seemed to beg Trish to challenge her opinion.

"We actually are going to go and interview the Barnes family after this," Trish assured her. "I have no doubt they'll agree. Now, is there anything you would like to tell Steve if he was here?"

Susan looked into the camera with her blue eyes. "Know that I love you and I'm anxiously waiting for you to come back. Don't worry about how I'm doing, just focus on what you need to do for yourself. I know you'll make me and your whole district proud."

"What your ma said," Peggy agreed, scooting closer to the woman and looking into the camera as well. "I'm waiting for you to get back. There's going to be a celebration when you come home, and I'm going to need a dance partner. So don't make me wait too long."

Trish thanked the women for their time before excusing herself and Gary. Despite their words of encouragement, Trish could sense something going on unsaid behind the scenes – a hint of grief, perhaps, even as the pair smiled for the camera. Maybe they didn't really think Steve could do it, but that didn't seem right to her, given what they had seen of Steve so far. Shrugging the thought aside, Trish noticed that the streetlights had come on and blinked past the car window as the Sentinel drove them to the Barnes household.

"Holy cow, you'd think that boy was perfect with how they talked about him. All 'brave this and brave that'. I could practically hear the Marvel anthem playing in the background." Gary laughed.

"Not the Marvel anthem," Trish corrected. "The America one, whatever that was. Remember? He's Captain America."

"Right, right. Captain Marvel got knocked out a while ago."

The car ride was short on the deserted streets. After curfew was Trish's favourite time to travel, if only because the normal traffic of the districts was non-existent. That meant they could get in, get out, and move on with minimal contact. The Barnes' house was dark aside from a single lit window and the light over the door.

"Alright, let's get this done so I can get back and sleep. The massage chair on the jet is calling my name." Gary took on a dreamy look at the thought.

Trish smiled back at him, not noticing the girl walking the road until they collided.

"Holy shit! Watch it!" The dark-haired girl jumped back, glaring at Trish with equally dark eyes.

"Excuse you?" Trish backed up a step to get a better look at the teenager. "You ran into me."

"Whatever." The girl straightened her jacket over her baggy shirt and crossed her arms.

"Something the matter?" The Sentinel had left the vehicle as well, "Jessica Jones? What are you doing out after curfew?"

The girl hesitated, seeming to try and come up with an excuse.

"Oh, Jessica's an old acquaintance of mine." Trish put an arm around the girl's shoulders in a half hug. "We haven't seen each other in years. I didn't know it would be such a big deal for her to be out. She'll go home right now. You can go back to the car," Trish dismissed him.

Gary waited until the Sentinel was out of earshot before raising an eyebrow at the two women. "Seriously, Trish?"

"What? I didn't want to waste time with a curfew arrest."

The teenager pulled herself away. "I didn't need your help."

"Sure you didn't. Listen, I don't have time to deal with this. Just pretend you know me and get out of here before he comes back to yell at us again."

The girl considered her for a minute before putting on a wide smile. "Well, Trish, I will see you later."

"Bye, Jess." Trish smiled and waved briefly as she continued her way to the Barnes' door.

"Are you and your new friend going to get together later? Braid each other's hair?"

"Shut up, Gary." Trish knocked on the door. "You didn't want to deal with that mess any more than I did."

The door opened, and a woman peeked her head out.

"Mrs Barnes?" Trish smiled. "We're sorry for the late call, but we have an appointment to meet with you about Steve Rogers."

"Yes." She slipped out, wrapping the robe she was wearing tighter and shutting the door behind her. "I remember."

There was a moment of silence while Trish waited to be invited inside, but when that didn't happen, she put on a smile and nudged Gary to have him get the camera ready. "Just a moment, Mrs. Barnes. We weren't prepared to do the interview outside."

"My daughter's asleep." The woman glanced back at the house. "I don't want her to wake up."

"Of course. Again, this was the only time we could get over here. We just have a few questions; we won't keep you long. First, can you tell us how it felt when Steve volunteered to take your son's place?"

"I was so relieved. Bucky was the glue to this family. I can't tell you how much he meant to Becca and me." She started suddenly. "Means. How much he means to us."

"Was it a surprise when Steve volunteered?"

Mrs. Barnes sighed. "I didn't know Steve that well. He was Bucky's best friend, but aside from that, I hardly knew him. He was always very nice, and after what he did for Bucky, I don't think I could ever say anything bad about him." She reached for the door handle and started to slip back inside. "It's getting late, and I should really be going to bed. I have work tomorrow."

"Of course, Mrs. Barnes."

"Well, that was interesting," Gary said as he packed up. "I don't know if any of the footage is usable, to tell you the truth."

"Oh well." Trish shrugged. "At least the girlfriend and mother were decent."

"Should have just interviewed the Jessica girl. And where was the Bucky kid? Too good to come out and interview about his friend that volunteered for him?"

"Seems that way." Trish sighed as she got into the car. "Some people just have no respect for what others do for them."

* * *

**District Six - Day Nine**

* * *

The School was probably the cleanest district area Trish had ever seen. Even the prison in One hadn't quite lived up to the level of cleanliness maintained. She had a strange desire to spill a bottle of nail polish on the floor. Gary was cleaning the lens of his camera while they waited for someone to come meet with them.

"Can you believe that his father refused an interview?" Trish plopped down onto a chair and crossed her arms. "What does the note say again?"

Gary unfolded the piece of paper and took on the voice of scientific nerd. "To whom it may concern: The work I am doing is far too important to our nation for me to waste time talking about my hopeless son. I'm amazed he isn't already dead. Find someone unimportant who can waste time with your superfluous discussions. Dr Banner."

A loud sigh escaped Trish. "Ridiculous."

The doors to the room slid open, drawing the pair's attention.

"My apologies for your wait." A man with a military air entered the room, and a young man and a young woman followed behind him. "I'm Prefect Ross. I understand that the father will not be attending, correct?"

"No he will not," Trish said, still upset about the blow off from the scientist.

"I can't say I fully blame him. I don't have long, but these two can entertain you for a while." He motioned to each of the teenagers in turn. "This is my daughter, Betsy, and Amadeus Cho, a student here."

"Before you leave, Prefect Ross, can you tell us about your feelings toward Bruce?"

"Mr. Banner was an excellent student, with good potential. He will be missed." With that short response, the prefect turned and walked away.

Cho cleared his throat. "Ah, Prefect Ross – he isn't dead yet."

Ross turned his head slowly. "As I said." The man turned around again and left without another word.

Gary peered over his camera at the young man. "Cho as in the one who helped send the stuff to save Tony Stark?"

"Uh, yeah." Cho looked uncomfortably at Ross.

"Oh, wow, like, you're the main reason Stark is still in the running and–"

"Gary, please. We are here to talk about Bruce." Trish glared at him until he bent to look through the viewfinder again. "Now, Betsy, you were close to Bruce?"

"Yes, he and I were close, for a while. I wish him the best." Her eyes glittered, although whether with tears of sadness or anger, Trish could not tell. Something about her tone seemed less than happy with the tribute, and Trish thought she knew what the problem was.

"Any comment on his designer, Jarella?" Trish asked with an innocent expression.

Betsy stared, her eyes growing colder. "No."

_Nail on the head_. "Of course. I only asked because she made quite the statement with the Sentinel Armor." Betsy looked at her hands, her jaw clenched, and remained silent. Trish turned to Cho. "As my cameraman already brought up, you prepared the battery for Bruce. I don't think he would have asked just anyone for help in that situation. He must have trusted you to know you'd be watching."

Amadeus Cho sat on the chair across from them and seemed to not even see the recording equipment that was focused on him. "'Ruse – I mean, Bruce, we just call him that, you know, here...anyway. Bruce is the best friend I have. He's always looked out for me. He's so smart, you know? But not just smart. He thinks. He cares about stuff."

"And how did you feel when you heard him calling out to you from the arena?"

Cho's eyes dropped to his hands that were wringing themselves between his knees. "I knew right away what battery he was talking about. He helped me with the schematics, I'm still working on drafting better, but he's careful at that sort of thing." He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "I haven't been sleeping much. I'm always watching the Games, waiting to see how he's going to do, so I heard him as soon as he called. I'll keep watching and helping if I can."

"It sounds like you are a great friend." Trish glanced at her watch. The time they had been waiting for Dr Banner had drained away quite a bit of their schedule.

"He's like a brother, you know? Like the big brother I never had. I hope…I hope he's okay. That he'll be okay."

"We all hope that. Is there anything you two would like to tell Bruce if he could hear you right now?"

A weary sigh escaped Cho's lips. "I would tell him to be careful and that I'm ready to help whenever he needs me, if I can. He's doing so well so far, and I'm so glad."

Gary turned the camera expectantly to the girl, who seemed uncomfortable. "Of course I would tell him to be careful. He needs to be careful. I just…." She shook her head and looked down. "I just want him to be careful."

"I'm sure he will be." Trish stood and nodded at the teenagers. "That's all we'll be needing. We can show ourselves out."

The teenagers said their goodbyes and left while Gary was packing up his camera.

"Who's next?" the man asked.

"District Three, like you don't already know." Trish laughed.

"I know; I just wanted to hear you say it." Gary grinned ear to ear, stroking his goatee as they headed for the exit.

* * *

**District Three - Evening, Day Nine**

* * *

Gary was practically giddy as they approached the Stark house. He always got unprofessional when he was going to interview the family of his top pick. Trish would have to keep an eye on him.

The door opened before they even knocked, a man with a moustache looking out at them. "Howard Stark." He stuck out a hand in greeting, which Trish took. "You must be Patricia Walker, and you are–" His brown eyes landed on Gary and widened slightly. "You are here to interview me."

The pair entered the house and were led to a kitchen. Howard kept glancing at Gary, who was too busy visually drinking in the Stark household to notice. They took seats around the kitchen table.

"It's an honour to meet you, Mr Stark. I'm a big fan of your son," Gary babbled as he unpacked his camera. "He's done great, in my opinion."

"Gary. Please." Trish shot an apologizing smile at the father. "He's very excited."

"I can see that."

"You ready?" she asked the cameraman with an icy glance. He took the hint and nodded soundlessly. "Tony has shown great ingenuity in the arena; is this a surprise to you?"

The man's lips twitched. "He always got the top scores in his classes, though he never took any initiative of his own. I'm not surprised; I'm just impressed he stopped acting like an idiot long enough to accomplish something."

"Can you describe the moment Tony got reaped to us? What was it you were feeling?"

"Anger." Howard's face took on a hardened expression. "I guessed it might happen, and I was proven right. His name was in so many times." His head dropped forward. "I don't understand why. We never needed anything. Why would he enter his name that many times? Was it just because he was bored?"

He shook his head and fell silent.

"What did you think when you saw Tony hit by that shrapnel?"

"What did I think? I thought what any reasonable parent would after seeing their only child die. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. I turned off the Games and drank myself numb. I thought he was dead. I couldn't deal with that. I promised his mother I would keep him safe. I promised her and I broke my promise." He seemed to get lost in thought.

"Do you think he'll manage to build something to get him out of the current stationary state he's in?" Trish waited, but the man didn't respond. "Mr Stark? Sir?"

The man stood, shaking off his thoughts. "Yes, I expect him to build something to let him move around. They've got a genius locked in a small house with nothing to do. I have no doubt he'll build his way out of it so he can get himself in even more danger."

He went to the counter and poured a glass of alcohol from a bottle. He drank half before returning to his seat.

Trish waited a moment for him to get settled. "So, big question, do you think he'll make it to the finale?"

A dubious look crossed Howard's features. "Do I think my son with a chest full of shrapnel is going to make it to the end and come back home?" He laughed mirthlessly. "You know, I used to really enjoy these Games. Probably just as much as your cameraman here. Getting my son in them has changed my opinion quite a bit. No. I don't think Tony is going to make it back home, but I hope he does."

The disappointment emitting from Gary was palpable, but he thankfully kept his mouth shut.

"Before we leave, is there anything you would like to say to your son if you could speak with him?"

"If I could see him," Howard mumbled. He drained his glass and turned the glass in his hands. "Tony, I just – I just want to say I'm sorry you're in this mess. Even though I don't think you'll ever hear this, I hope you do. You probably think I don't care or spend too much time working, but everything I've done was for more than just inventions. I wanted to make a better future for you. If you do survive, I know that you will change the world. What is, and always will be, my greatest creation – is you."

Gary was nodding in agreement, apparently back in favour of the older man now that he had given a semi-moving speech.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Stark. That is all we need." Trish stood.

The man led them out, running a hand through his greying hair. He didn't say a word in parting, just nodded good-bye before he closed the door.

* * *

**District Twelve - Night, Day Nine**

* * *

"Ugh, why the heck did we do to deserve getting sent to this place?" Gary sneered. "Why couldn't we go to District Four? That's where he grew up, right?"

"Yes." Trish sighed in exasperation. "But he's not representing District Four, so we have to come here."

"He doesn't even have a house," Gary grumbled.

"On the plus side, there's practically no one to interview, so we will be in and out fast." Trish knocked on the door

"Come in!" called a voice.

Trish eased open the door and followed the noises to the kitchen area. Unlike the quiet kitchen of the Stark house, the room was filled with clacking utensils and children. A woman was bustling about and alternating between keeping order and cleaning cookware. "Take a seat where you can."

"I think we'll just stand," Trish said after surveying the room.

"You just happened to catch us right at the end of dinner. You're here to interview about Loki, right?"

"That's right. If you have a moment, that is."

"Oh, no worries. I can make time." She clapped her hands twice, and a quiet fell over the crowded room. "All right children, time for bed. Everyone to your rooms. Except for you, Fenrir; these people are here to talk to you."

A small boy with dark hair remained behind after the room cleared. "Who are they, Mother?"

"My name is Trish." She smiled at the boy. "I'm here to interview you about Loki, who lived here for a little bit."

"Loki? Is he coming back? Did he win? I wasn't able to watch during dinner." Fenrir started looking excitedly between the three adults.

"No, sweetie, not yet." The woman sat on a chair and pulled Fenrir next to her. "I'm sorry, I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm Farbauti, the mother of the orphanage here."

"We just have a few questions to ask you about Loki, and then we'll let you get to bed, Fenrir. First of all, how long have you known Loki?"

"Well, let's see, just a couple years. He grew up in Four, as I'm sure you're aware. I didn't meet him until his first Reaping when he had to stay here, and he only stays a few weeks. But the short time doesn't mean we don't care for him, right Fenrir?"

The youth nodded. "He's so cool. I want to be just like him someday."

"He has done a great job so far in the arena, hasn't he? Do you think he's going to win?"

"Of course he is!"

Farbauti placed a hand on Fenrir's arm to calm him. "We certainly keep rooting for him here."

"Now there was the incident with Ororo the past couple days. Do you have any thoughts on that?"

The older woman glanced at Fenrir, who seemed oblivious to what Trish was referring to. "I'm sure that if there had been another option, he would have taken it. He must have felt he had no choice. We can't blame him for what he has to do to survive."

"Are you talking about what happened with his brother?" Fenrir frowned at the people around him. "Because I saw that. I don't think Loki meant to hurt Thor. And I don't think Thor wanted to hurt Loki. It was just that they were confused. It was storming."

"I'm sure that's what was wrong, Fenrir. But maybe we can talk about something more pleasant." Farbauti gave a look across the table that made Trish feel like a kid under her mother's control again. It was a look that dared either of the two adults to say anything that might upset the boy.

"We wouldn't want to upset anyone." Trish smiled, shaking off the desire to grimace at all the Patsy memories. "How about you tell us what you would say to Loki if he could hear you right now?"

"Can I go first?" The boy stood ceremoniously and looked into the camera. "Loki, I know you're mad at me because I didn't always do what you told me to, and I'm sorry. I promise that I won't bother you ever again when you come back. But please let me come live with you in the big house in the village. That would be really cool. And Mother will live with us, too. Right, Mother?"

"Of course, Fenrir." She pulled him into a hug. "Now, why don't you go up and get ready for bed, yes? Say goodnight to the visitors."

Fenrir nodded and waved. "Goodnight, everyone."

Farbauti waited until she heard the click of the door closing before letting the smile slip from her face. "Fenrir doesn't need to know all of what Loki's done, not yet. Maybe never."

"What would you like to tell Loki?"

"I would tell him to be careful. I don't mean just the tributes, but be careful to what he becomes. He's going to have to live with himself after this, and I worry about how he'll handle it. Of course, he always has a place here, and Fenrir will always look up to him, but he will have to live with himself. I just want him to remember that." She shook her head and stood. "I really should get back to taking care of the children. If I don't make sure they're in bed, they tend to stay up all night."

"We need to leave anyway," Trish assured her. "We have an appointment with Kate Bishop's family as well."

The sky was still light as they left the orphanage. They still had a few hours until nightfall to get to the Bishops' house as well as the clubhouse.

"I guess it was a good thing that there wasn't anyone to interview for the boy. Save us some time," Gary said as they made their way to the Sentinel vehicle waiting for them.

"And if we get through these fast, we'll be able to get back to the jet for a good night's sleep before the last two families."

"Oh my gosh, it's Patsy!" The woman about Trish's age excitedly threw open the front door and pulled the redhead inside with a firm grip on her hand. "I'm so excited to meet you. Like, this is a dream come true. Well, except for Kate being…." The smiling woman immediately broke down into tears, one hand rubbing at her watering eyes while the other kept a tight hold on Trish.

The reporter shot a pleading look at her cameraman, who was too busy capturing it all on film to help. Thankfully a gentleman emerged from within the house and removed the clinging crier. "My apologies. My name is Derek Bishop. This is my elder daughter, Susan. Please, join us in the sitting room." He half-supported his sobbing daughter to the couch.

"I can clearly see Kate's reaping has put a toll on your family." Trish took a seat on the loveseat across from the pair, putting on a caring expression.

"Oh, yes," Derek said. "It's not the same without her smile. She's such a wonderful daughter." His words seemed to reset Susan's cries into her father's shoulder.

"But it does seem that she is more than holding her own. She has the fighting and foraging skills to survive, from what we've seen."

Derek smiled widely, absently patting Susan's back. "Of course she does! I made sure that she knew everything she would need in order to take care of herself in life. I mean, I didn't expect her to ever end up in the Games, but I encouraged her to be prepared."

"She also seems to have made a habit of pairing up with the boys of the arena, namely her self-titled Team Awesome and her more recent partnership with the late Clint Barton. Is that another of your hints to her?"

"I always encouraged Kate to make friends." He nodded sagely. "Half the trouble with surviving is your ability to get along with others."

"Ohmigosh," Susan interrupted, pushing herself away from Derek's shoulder and facing Trish. "Have you seen some of those boys? Just the cutest. It's no wonder she teamed up with them. I would have personally loved the idea of a Hawkeye-Hawkeye relationship, because how adorable would that be? But Kurt is her best match. I mean, did you see them together? He braided her hair and they protected each other against the spiders. You can't tell me that's not the beginning of a great romance. I'm really hoping they meet back up before this whole thing is over. A sweet, romantic reunion." She sighed dreamily, her tears already drying on her face.

"But the most important thing is that she doesn't get too attached. I don't want someone taking advantage of her guard being down," Derek added.

"Of course. And what would you tell Kate if she could hear you right now?"

"I'd tell her I love her and I just want her to be safe." Susan cried, fresh tears streaming down her face. "I just want my sister back." The rest of her words were lost in her sobs.

"I'd tell her that she's doing great and that Daddy's so proud of her. Now she just needs to finish up and come back to me." He patted his remaining daughter's blonde hair.

A sniffling behind Trish informed her that Gary had lost his composure and it was time to leave before he got overly weepy. "It seems like you two miss her dearly, and hopefully, she will prove herself in the arena. Thank you for your time."

"Of course, let me show you out." Derek extracted himself from his daughter's clutches. "I apologize again for my daughter. She's very upset about this whole thing."

"It's no problem at all, have a nice day." Trish waited for the door to close before she turned to Gary with a frown. "Seriously? You cried?"

"You know I can't deal with pretty girls crying."

She just shook her head as they got back in the car.

The house, if it could be called a house, was practically in shambles. The rotted wood looked like it was barely holding up the structure, and Trish was pretty sure the roof had caved in. It was hard to believe it was the right place, but the sky had turned into sunset colours, so there was no time to double check.

Trish sceptically looked at steps leading to the door. "Okay, if I die, make sure to at least catch it on camera."

"Are you sure that's how you want to be known?" Gary asked from his spot safely far from any splintered wood.

"Good point." She experimentally took a step onto the first stair, which creaked loudly. "Maybe if I just yell, they'll come out."

"Who are you?" The sudden voice made Trish jump back. She looked around to find a young man standing next to a storm cellar entrance. "What do you want?" he demanded.

She regained her composure and smiled at the dark-skinned youth. "Hello, I'm hoping we can find America. We're from the Capitol to interview her about Kate Bishop."

"Oh. Great." He turned and yelled into the black hole of a storm cellar. "The Capitolites are here to talk to America." A mumbled voice echoed back to him. "What do you mean you can't find her?" Apparently, the reply was unsatisfactory, because he disappeared into the cellar with a loud sigh.

A beat passed before Gary cleared his throat. "So, do we follow him or just stand here?"

"I have no idea." She led the way to the entrance and peered into the darkness filled with yelling. "I think they're killing each other down there."

"In that case, I'm ready to record when the victor comes out,"

Suddenly, a boy with platinum blonde, nearly white hair popped out of the cellar. "Hey there. So, you are here to interview America?"

"Yes. If she's available."

The teen laughed, his green eyes crinkling. "Oh, don't worry, Eli will _make_ her available. Until then, I'm supposed to keep an eye on you two."

A large crash was followed by another bout of angry voices. "Alright, then what can you tell us about Kate?" Trish crossed her arms and cocked her head to one side.

"Well, the first time we met her was, uh, well, okay, the second time we met her was the important part. See, we're pretty exclusive. We don't let just _anyone_ in. So she found Eli one night and followed him home like a sad puppy. A sad puppy in pyjamas, mind you! It was so ridiculous. Imagine a little girl in these pink and purple pyjamas that make her look like a little spoiled brat. Kate just waltzes in." The boy demonstrated by strutting in a small circle, nose in the air, arms swinging, and hips swaying. "She was acting all high and mighty, but she was so hard to take seriously. So she walks in and demand that we let her into the group."

He laughed to himself at the memory. "You should have been there. And then there was this other time that I convinced her to drink this concoction I made. It was filled with all sorts of food and stuff I found all over the place, and I told her it was a type of really expensive drink. She didn't believe me at first, but I just kept bugging her and telling her it was awesome, and eventually, I got her to drink it."

There was another crash, which the boy ignored.

"She took one sip and immediately made this face like this." He puckered his lips, one eye squinted and the other wide. "And she kept it in for a few seconds before coughing it back up, and some of it came out her nose. Oh, man, it was so great."

Thankfully, the first teenager returned before the blonde could start on another story. He pulled a girl out by her arm and forcibly held her in place. A dark-haired boy that looked just like the blonde, just with opposite coloured hair, came out as well and blocked the entrance.

"Miss America, here for your interviewing pleasure," Eli said, panting slightly.

The girl glared at Eli before turning her angry gaze on the interviewers.

"Hello, America, I'm Trish and this is—"

"I don't care who you are." America wrenched her arm free from Eli and crossed both of them stubbornly across her chest.

"Right." Trish kept a smile on her face. "Well, we just want to know how you think Kate is doing in the Games so far."

"She's doing great, just like I knew she would."

"Of course. Do you think she has what it takes to make it to win? Technically, she has yet to kill a tribute."

America looked at Trish with a withering gaze. "I'm only going to say this once. I don't care who else is out there, or how good you or anyone thinks they are, Kate is going to be fine. She's going to win."

"Kate has been a strong competitor to make it this far," Trish agreed.

"No." The teenager shook her head. "She's not just a strong competitor, she's a victor. She's going to win and come back here, so that's it. Show's over. That is literally all that is going to happen. Kate wins, comes back here, and our clubhouse gets moved to Victor Village. End of story."

"I like this girl," Gary whispered, inspiring Trish to slap him in the arm.

"One last question: is there anything you would say to Kate if you had the opportunity to talk to her?"

"I'd just tell her to hurry up. I'm tired of being the only cool girl here."

The blonde kid snorted. "She's so much cooler than you."

America whipped around to face the boy. "What was that?"

"Uh, nothing." The boy shot a quick look at what had to be his brother before retreating quickly below ground.

"This interview's over," America announced. "I've gotta go teach a kid how to be respectful." She left before either interviewer could say another word, followed closely by the remaining boys. Eli gave a small wave in parting.

Trish and Gary stood still for a moment in the sudden silence. "So," Gary finally said. "That was interesting."

"Let's just get back to the jet. I think I've got a headache from that motor-mouth kid." Trish shook her head, leading the way back to their Sentinel transport.

* * *

**District Eight - Dawn, Day Ten**

* * *

The house of District Eight tribute, Peter Parker, was fairly close to the jet site, meaning they had to walk there. The early morning walk would have been fine if it wasn't for the heat.

"Glad I packed light," Gary grumbled as he adjusted the bag on his shoulder. The sun was bright, and the humid air was quickly soaking his shirt.

"We're almost there. The Sentinel at the station said it was just up this way. Third building on the left." Trish pulled her red hair up into a ponytail and increased her speed in desperation to escape the heat.

"If I die, go on without me. How do people live out here? This is disgusting." He pulled a face and wiped the sweat from his brow. "How is it this hot this early?"

"Don't be so dramatic. Look. It's right here." Trish walked up to the door and knocked briskly.

"Hope they have air conditioning," Gary mumbled as he joined Trish on the doorstep.

The door opened to reveal a pretty blonde girl. "Hello, can I help you?"

Trish looked down at her file with a frown. _Girl? I don't remember a sister on the list_. "I'm sorry, we must have the wrong house. We're looking for the Parker residence."

"Oh!" The young woman opened the door and stepped aside, ushering them in. "Yes, this is right. Sorry, we weren't expecting you to get here so soon. May's in the kitchen. Just have a seat in here, and I'll go get her."

The pair moved into the small sitting room. A small projector sat on top of the cabinet, the volume turned down to a low mumble. The cameraman immediately collapsed into one of the two faded paisley armchairs across from the flower-patterned sofa. "I'm never leaving air conditioning ever again."

The reporter dug out a compact and began reapplying foundation. "Next year, I'll put in for a pair of portable fanning units." She frowned at her small reflection in the compact's mirror. "Does my hair look okay up, or can you see my blonde roots when it's pulled up like this?"

Gary didn't get a chance to reply before the front door opened. "Knock, knock. May? Gwen? I brought the chocolate." A young man about the same age as the girl entered

"We're in the back, Harry!" The girl called. "We have visitors!"

Harry's eyes widened a bit in surprise when he saw the visitors, but he quickly changed to a small smile. "Hi. You two must be the interviewers."

"Patricia Walker." She gave a return smile. "I'm guessing you're Harry Osborn. You look just like your father."

His smile twitched downward. "Yeah. I'm just going to run this chocolate back to May." He disappeared into the backrooms of the small house.

Trish put her hands on her hips and frowned. "What in the world is going on back there? We have a schedule to keep."

"Don't rush them too much. I'm still cooling down. This chair is heavenly, by the way. You should take a seat."

"They look like they were stitched together from bits and pieces of fabric."

"Actually, they were." An older woman with pinned up grey hair entered quietly. Her simple red dress was covered by a light blue apron dusted with flour. "Ben actually put those together for my birthday the year after we got married. It took him months to save enough scraps from the factory to get enough fabric. He didn't give up, though. Once he decided on a project, he would work on it until he was done. Peter's a lot like him in that way."

The woman's eyes refocused on Trish, and she smiled as she took one of Trish's hands in both of hers. "Where are my manners? Hello, dear, I'm May Parker. You must be Miss Walker. And, I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name." She turned to the seated man and took his hand as well.

"Gary," he said, dropping the heatstroke act instantly and quickly setting up his camera.

"It's nice to meet you, Gary. I'm sorry to keep you two waiting. I misjudged the time. I hope I haven't ruined your schedule." She took a seat on the sofa, crossing her ankles and sitting up straight.

"Nonsense, Mrs Parker." Trish sat herself on the empty chair and put on an easy smile. "It looks like we've caught you in the middle of something. We just have a few questions for you, and we'll get out of your hair."

A clinking of glasses drew everyone's attention as Harry and Gwen entered, the latter carrying a tray of glasses with water.

"Oh, thank you Gwen dear. I don't know what I would do without these two," May said with an affectionate pat on Gwen's arm after the tray was set on the coffee table. "They keep me going under all this worry over Peter."

"She's just being nice," the blonde said, sitting on one side of May as Harry sat on the other. "May's really the one keeping us sane; she doesn't need us at all."

"Now, I'm aware who Harry is, but I don't think I've heard anything about you, Gwen." Trish nodded at the blonde.

"I'm another friend of Peter's."

"Friend?" Trish raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, no need to be modest, dear. Peter's not here to be embarrassed," May said with a laugh, turning to Trish in a confidential manner. "He had his eye on her for a long time. The day she agreed to go on a date with him was probably the happiest I've ever seen him."

"I see." Trish smiled and took a sip of the offered water. "Well, let's start with how he's done so far in the Games. Yesterday's close call with Carnage is not the first time Peter's almost reached the end of the road. There were also the spiders that very nearly did him in. Were you surprised to see him get caught in these dire situations?"

The wrinkled hands wrung themselves in May's lap. "I know he's doing all he can to come back to me. He's trying so hard." A stray tear ran down her cheek that she brushed away.

"We're just so happy he's still alive. That's what our main concern is." Gwen took the older woman's hands and gave them a squeeze. "As long as he keeps getting himself out of trouble, everything is okay."

"It wouldn't be Pete if he wasn't clumsily getting himself into trouble along the way," Harry added with a smile.

"And how about Peter achieving his first kill yesterday?"

"I was proud of him before that," May said, recovering herself. "There's nothing he could do, or not do, that would make me think less of him."

Gwen's hands tightened on May's. "We're happy he's alive."

"One final question, and then we'll leave you to your cooking. Is there anything you would like to tell Peter if you had the opportunity to talk to him now?"

Harry spoke first. "I'd just tell him to hurry up and get back. It's boring around here without his wisecracks."

"Exactly." Gwen nodded with a pretty smile. "And to remember that he made a promise to us all that he would come back. I'll never forgive him if he doesn't."

May hesitated. "Can I talk like he's here?"

"However you would like." Trish smiled.

"Peter, I know that it's been hard for you since Uncle Ben and that you're worried about me being alone, but you don't need to worry so much. You needs to focus on yourself. No matter what happens, we will always be here for you. The things you're going through, well, it's going to shape you into something better. If anyone's destined for greatness in life, it's you. Uncle Ben always told me so. So come home, Peter. You're my hero. And I love you." The white-haired woman smiled sadly.

"That should do it," Trish said, standing and glancing at her watch. "We still have to go and interview District Nine, so we should be going."

"Oh! Kurt is such a nice boy. He's been so good to Peter. But don't leave just yet. I made cookies for you." May stood and left before anyone could stop her.

"Did she say cookies?" Gary asked, camera still recording.

Trish ignored his question. "We really don't have long."

"She'll be right back," Gwen assured them. Her gaze moved to the video of the Games that was playing a highlight reel of the deaths so far. "I hope he's okay," she said quietly.

"Pack up the camera so we'll be ready to go," Trish ordered Gary.

The aunt returned with two small bags wafting a delicious smell. "I meant to have these done before you two got here. I do hope you like chocolate chip."

"Oh, you know I do!" Gary happily took the bags.

"Thank you, May." Trish ushered her cameraman out the door and back into the morning heat.

"Have safe travels," May called after them.

They were walking for only a few minutes, Gary munching on cookies, before Trish was feeling the sweat run down her back again.

"I don't know about this heat, but I do know these cookies are delicious. You should try one." Gary held out the bag invitingly.

"I'll wait and make sure you don't die from poisoning," she teased. "That old lady was way too nice."

* * *

**District Nine - Morning, Day Ten**

* * *

The sun had warmed District Nine to a much more reasonable temperature, and Trish had changed into a nice, yellow, sweat-free jumper before leaving the jet. She reapplied the red lipstick from earlier as the Sentinel drove them to their final interview.

"Last one," Gary said, stretching as much as he could in the cramped space.

"Then we just have to speed edit so we can get it ready for release."

"No worries. We've got time. Still nine tributes left."

"Thank goodness! Last year we barely got the interviews released before we were down to seven."

"Looks like this year the odds were ever in our favour." Gary giggled at his own joke.

"You're hilarious." Trish rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. The car slowed to a stop, and the pair exited, walking toward the house the Sentinel chaperone indicated. "Alright, show time."

A woman with curly black hair opened the door and smiled sadly. "You must be the interviewers. My name's Margali. Please, come in."

The woman led them to a couch where they could take a seat. Like the other families, they had their television on and the volume at a low mumble. A teenaged girl and two children sat on the floor playing with straw dolls. They had to be twins, judging by their appearance. The little boy looked up and frowned at the newcomers.

"Amanda, Stefan, these are the people I told you would be coming over to talk about Kurt." Margali sank to the floor beside her children before she turned to the interviewers. "Kitty here has been helping me with the twins when she can."

Kitty kept her eyes on the doll she was tying. "Hey."

"My name is Trish, and this is Gary." He gave a small wave. "We just want to know how you feel about how Kurt is doing." Trish smiled at the small family.

"Well," Margali said, looking down at the twins. "We are very pleased with how he's done, aren't we?"

The kids grinned and nodded adamantly, starting to babble over each other.

"Did you see the way he killed all those spiders?"

"And he made friends and sat at a campfire."

"He looks like he's having lots of fun."

On the television behind the, the footage had focused on the group Kurt was in. Trish had stopped paying attention to the children and was fully focused on the television behind them. Something was happening, if the terrified looks on their faces was anything to go by. Kitty noticed as well, her eyes widening as small insects flew into frame, stinging the tributes.

The kids were still talking.

"It's because I gave him my ribbon for good luck."

"I gave him my ribbon, too!"

"Yeah, but mine's luckier."

For a moment, the camera was switching between the four boys but abruptly stopped on Kurt as he was impaled by Logan.

Kitty made a strangled noise, and Trish sighed, the combination of noises causing the twins to look around. Their mother immediately grabbed them and tried to stop them from looking at the screen.

"It's time for us to go." Trish stood. Gary had already packed his camera and shouldered his bag.

"So, that's it?" Kitty asked, standing from where she had been sitting.

"Well, there goes the lead we had on the tribute deaths," Gary sighed. "We're going to have to work the whole ride back to get editing done."

Trish opened the door for him. "Look at it this way: if you get the editing done before we get back, you'll be free once we're back at the Capitol."

Kitty was almost yelling now, following them to the door. "You guys don't want an interview now that he's... now that Kurt's…." Loud crying had started back in the living room.

Trish looked back at her, suddenly annoyed. "No, we don't want an interview with you now. You know why? Because people only care about the winners. Face it, kid. Kurt wasn't a winner."

She shut the door in the girl's face and joined Gary at the car.

"Dammit, Trish, that was cold," Gary commented, and she glared at him.

"Shut it," she replied, and turned to the Sentinel in the driver's seat. "Get us out of here."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett**.


	90. Chapter 89: Old Man Logan

**(A/N) Thanks to all for the well wishes since the last chapter. The last week or so's been a tough time, but I've got a lot to be thankful for at the same time, including the amazing people I work with in this collaboration across all of our fics, and our wonderful readers. Now that the soppiness is out of the way, I'm gonna let you all return to the now-Kurt-less Games, as we visit Canuckle's Wolverine.**

**A big thanks to Idalove2read, TheHazardsOfLove13 and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews! And after TheHazardsOfLove13's recommendation, I've gone and added the time and day of each district visit in the last chapter, just to clear things up a little bit. We'll always listen to good criticism, so never be afraid to let us know what you think!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Nine **– **Old Man Logan**

**Night, Day Ten**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"You never kill anyone you want to kill in a war." – Ernest Hemingway._

* * *

Logan groaned as he rolled from his side halfway onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Everything hurt. His muscles ached. He cringed as his stomach twisted…and his head...his head hurt worse than he could remember it ever doing.

He wearily cracked open a tired eye and took a preliminary peek before he allowed himself to slowly look around in earnest.

The sun was low on the horizon, and the whole world seemed to be tinted red. _Again._

The line between dreams and reality was getting harder and harder to differentiate. Red in his nightmares, then the mess in his head from the damned hallucinations brought on by those blasted wasps. He narrowed his eyes at a nearby tree and noted that the edges of it were still moving like a heat mirage. Shifting. The venom was still in his system, screwing with his senses.

As he stretched, he realized a spot on his shoulder blade was particularly painful, and he arched his back to move away from the stinging sensation that pulsated there.

He sucked in a sharp breath and sat up quickly in a panic. A sting. He'd been stung enough to hallucinate. And that meant it couldn't have all been a dream. All of them had been stung – he thought all of them had been, anyhow. He knew he wasn't the only one.

"Elf?" he called out quietly. "Parker? How the hell'd I lose the both of you twice?" He took quick stock of himself – a second sting on his neck was hot, tender, and felt to him as if it was still pulsating. He gently touched the swollen lump, and an electric-like shock went straight down his spine.

With his hand shaking, he quickly undid the claws on his left hand and used one of them to try and find what had to be the stinger embedded at the centre of the sting, gently drawing the sharp edge across the swollen lump until the shock hit him, telling him exactly where it was.

"Where the flamin' hell are you, Elf? One time I could use a set of eyes, and no one's around," he grumbled to himself under his breath. "Gonna end up cuttin' my own damn throat." He tried to ignore the pain as he grit his teeth and carefully grasped the barb with a shaking hand.

As he wrenched it from the throbbing lump on his neck, his own cry of pain mingled with a remembered scream that echoed in his ears. He glanced around, eyes wide as he suddenly remembered flashes of the hallucinations he'd endured from the stings.

_Bamf!_ Shining pointed teeth…slashing with his claws…warm blood slipping between his fingers…

He shook his head hard as he tried to make sense of it. That couldn't have been real. No. That had to have been a nightmare, because if that was real…he might have done something horrible. His pulse had begun to speed at his worry of having done a friend harm.

The images were painfully vivid, and he was fully aware that they must've melded with reality. He just had to decipher what was real and what was the stuff of venom and nightmares.

He knew how potent it was – he'd seen its effects. Just…he never thought it would happen to him.

Steve, Parker, and the Elf…there was no sign of any of them, and he was beginning to honestly worry as to why.

With his heart hammering in his ears, he began to string together his nightmares, separating them from hallucinations. It didn't make any sense at first. It certainly didn't rush back to him either…but what he could remember was vivid. And fantastically surreal.

The fact that he was alone made him wonder what exactly he'd done. Kurt wouldn't have left him alone if he had any choice in the matter. The kid _should_ have left him – but … that wasn't how the Elf – or Parker or Kate, for that matter – worked. Logan took a few deep, centring breaths that for the first time in years did him absolutely no good. He knew something was wrong.

To accent his concerns, his head was positively throbbing. He stood up slowly and swayed as he got to his feet, his arms out for balance as he tried to get his bearings.

His hands clenched reflexively, and his stomach twisted at the sensation of something slimy between his fingers. Furrowing his brows, he looked down at his hands. For the first time, it started to sink in as the sick feeling in his stomach intensified on seeing they were covered in blood…far too much half-dried, thick, sticky blood. His heart fell.

_Brimstone. Blue Demons. Someone crying out in pain._

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, very unsure of how much of what he remembered was from the venom of the tracker jackers and how much was real. He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't stop fixating on it – not with the heavy feeling of dread rapidly building in his chest. As if he knew he'd done something unforgivable.

"No. No, it wasn't real. It was – those blasted wasps. Just got separated, that's all. I started swingin' and they kept back…they had to've kept back." He concentrated, trying to remember…something. Anything…but he just kept going back to the blood on his hands. And the fact that he was all alone.

But he _had been_ with Kurt. And Parker. And Cap. They'd killed someone – he remembered that clearly…Parker had taken down the psycho from Ten and then had to be calmed down as he panicked at the cold, stark reality that he'd killed another living, breathing person, even if it had been by sheer luck.

But if Parker had killed him…then why the blazes was _he_ the one with blood on his hands?

The back of his neck prickled as he realized that it had to have been after the wasps. The blood that stained his arms so accusingly had to be from someone else.

He leaned on a nearby tree as he rubbed his hands on his pants legs in a half-hearted attempt to get the blood off before he pressed the heel of his palm into the space between his eyes.

The pressure seemed to help him focus a bit, but it didn't ease the sense of panic that was making his stomach twist. He needed to remember what had to have happened – he just wasn't so sure that he really wanted to know.

A whiff of smoke on the breeze brought the scent of brimstone to the forefront of his memory and made his stomach clench hard, as if he'd been socked in the gut. It all came back to him in a rush.

* * *

_Fuzzy blue demons…Blue smoke that burned his nose with its acrid scent…Flashes of yellow eyes and red swaths mixed into the indigo haze …_

_"Mein gött!"_

_The words echoed around him in an odd tritone, and he spun in a vain attempt to find the source. The blue demons began to appear and reappear in puffs of blue smoke that smelled of fire laden with brimstone. They were almost cute. Not quite a foot tall, the furry blue imps cackled and snickered as they thickened the air with their indigo smoke. If that wasn't disorienting enough, each disappearance and reappearance was accompanied by a peculiar-sounding _bamf!

_It was like nothing Logan had ever heard…_

_The little demons didn't speak...they just tormented him as they conspired to take him down. They slashed at his limbs with their sharp little claws and pointed tails. They snapped their vicious-looking teeth in an attempt to bite him as Logan tried to put distance between himself and the little blue beasts that seemed intent on torturing him._

_And then the big one started in with 'em. The first time that one appeared, it set Logan back a few paces. Worse still…it was trying to confuse him by using Kurt's voice…just like Raven had done. He growled in the back of his throat as the blue perversion using Kurt's voice incensed him._

_He didn't fall for it when Raven tried it…he sure as hell wasn't going to let some mutt or demon or whatever the hell it was pull one over on him now. Not when he was trying to find the Elf._

_"Logan, mein Freund, calm down. You don't know what you're doing," taunted the big blue demon with the long swaying tail and yellow eyes. He coaxed Logan into standing still with a broad, pointy-toothed grin. He barely touched Logan's arm with an oddly shaped hand that only held three digits _–_ but it burned like fire. The burly tribute snarled in pain as he slashed out, but the apparition vanished in a puff of indigo smoke, and the remaining little imps began to chortle in unison._

_**Bamf!**_

_"Wolverine! Watch it with the claws! You're going to hurt yourself…or worse, me!" The voice was familiar…but he couldn't place its owner as it echoed from behind him. It sounded almost fake…contrived…another impostor. He spun on his heels as that bizarre noise echoed around him and slashed again only to watch his claws slice through more blue smoke._

_"Logan, stand down!" That altered voice held a tone of authority … but he couldn't trust its owner. Likely it was just another mutt or a shape-shifting demon that was trying to confuse him while more of the same attacked his friends. At any rate, it wasn't enough for him to believe it was them. _

_**Bamf**__! To his right. _

_**Bamf**__! The left._

_Each time the blue devils reappeared, Logan slashed or lunged, and each time, to his building frustration, he came up with nothing but smoke, cementing the feeling that it was someone playing with him._

_**Bamf**__!_

_With a roar, Logan savagely stabbed where he was sure the blue demon would appear…and that time, his claws made purchase with a sharp-sounding __**snikt**__!_

_The sound and the feel of the razor sharp claws as they pierced through flesh was much smoother and required far less effort than when he'd stabbed Raven. It was quicker. More satisfying. Yet he still felt the breast bone crunch as the pointed tips of the claws sliced their way through._

_A pained cry pulled him out of the indigo smoke. He blinked his eyes hard and shook the fog from his head when the face of the demon began to waver._

_"It's alright, Logan…it's not your fault, _mein Freund_," Kurt whispered as his blood slid down between Logan's knuckles and snapped him back into reality._

_For a horrifyingly long moment, Logan was frozen, eyes wide and mouth open at what had just happened. At what he'd done. He stammered to try and say something, gaping at the kind-hearted boy he'd just skewered, positively transfixed on the trickle of blood that slipped out of the corner of Kurt's mouth after he coughed._

_The Elf's hand floated up to rest on his forearm, attempting to ease his friend's suffering even as he was clearly dying. Logan's hearing seemed to fuzz out as his whole body went numb._

_"Logan! What did you do?!" Parker shouted, outraged and rightfully horrified at the murder as he stumbled away from the scene, but all Logan could do was stare blankly as his friend's life blood slipped through his fingers._

_"Elf..." Logan managed to barely choke out before Kurt forced a tiny smile, and his face morphed into the grinning blue demon again._

_"It's all your fault," the demon growled accusingly as familiar faces began to appear in the thickening smoke, only twisted into different variations of the blue demon _–_ not just Kurt, but the other kids at the campfire also began to crop up from poufs of indigo smoke. Kate. Pete. Cap and Banner…Stark with the blue glow under his chin._

_They were quickly joined by all those that he felt he'd failed in the past. All those he'd let down one way or another. Fox's father. His grandfather. His mother…all of them were glaring at him in pure hatred as black lips stretched over pointed teeth, dripping now with blood. He couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe._

_Then he felt large hands on his shoulders; with a grip that burned like hellfire as it pulled him backwards. His claws slid out of the demon effortlessly as he turned to slash at the tall, blonde-headed form in front of him. His eyes refused to focus right, but he knew he was surrounded._

_His lips pulled back into what could only be described as a snarl as he lashed out at his attackers. The overwhelming sensation of weight bearing down from the sky seemed to be pushing him to the ground._

_He simply fought harder._

_"Logan!" The owner of the authoritative voice dodged backward in alarm, out of reach as his claws glanced off metal…wait. The sound made him pause a moment. He lunged toward the voice blindly and roared as he felt his claws sink in once more._

_In a rage, he twisted his wrist and yanked back hard. He heard the heavy sound of a body crumpling to the ground and he could smell nothing but the brimstone of the bamfs and hot copper from the blood as he turned toward the last voice._

_"Easy does it, ya hairy midget – keep your claws to yourself!" _

_The voice on the lanky boy backing away from him sounded suspiciously like Parker … if not for the blue tint to his face and the yellow eyes. He lunged forward, but his foe dodged. "I don't want to hurt you, Logan – but I…I will if I have to!"_

_The voice shook the tiniest bit, and for a moment, Logan thought he could make himself stop. But only for a moment. _

_A heartbeat later, another __**bamf**__! made him spin again and lunge forward at the skinny figure with the smart mouth that had tried to draw his wrath from the blonde._

_Something felt very wrong though his rage, but he kept fighting until the little blue bamfs began to latch onto him. He screamed out as they sunk his teeth into him all over his body, every bite burning its way deeply into his flesh._

_He abandoned trying to focus his attacks as he frantically lashed out. The big one seemed to back off and grin wider as the little ones bamfed around his swipes and pulled at him. There seemed to be more of them coming in droves._

_Through his pain and panic, he was losing his mind completely, falling into a near berserk state. He couldn't see the other guys anywhere. He knew he was in it alone. It didn't matter, though. If they were nearby, they wouldn't be safe as he viciously swung and stabbed._

_In spite of all his efforts, the blue imps were making headway, and he couldn't let himself die at the hands of a pack of evil-looking cherubs._

_He could feel his limbs getting heavier as they piled onto him – it was harder to hold himself up. He had to run._

_He roared as he swung furiously in an attempt to throw them off. Their giddy laughter echoed in his ears as he finally stumbled into a run. His heart raced faster and faster like a runaway train as he tried to shake them._

_As he crashed through the underbrush, they seemed to pile on him, heavier and heavier until all he knew was pain from every inch of his body that brought him first to his knees…and then into blackness._

* * *

The birds were singing in the trees around him as he just stared at his bloodied hands and worked through the memory. The blood was proof that he had at the very least killed one person. His heart, pounding fast and hard, certainly wasn't letting his conscience rest easy either.

_Dammit_, Logan thought to himself._ It can't have been Kurt. Not him._ He needed to find a place to lay low…but before he could focus on that, he needed to follow the trail that was glaring at him in the waning light. The thought of a hunt with a purpose behind it was reassuring.

Drops of blood every twenty feet or so followed a helter-skelter path back through the trees. He knew he should forget it. Chances were, the transport had already picked up the body…he'd just have to wait for the light show to see who it was.

But…the light show wouldn't tell him who had killed who…if there were multiple casualties…he'd still have no idea who had died by his hand, or if all of them had. There was enough of a blood trail that he could easily believe that there might have been more than just one victim to his claws.

He thought he could live with having killed someone. But ultimately, the hope that it wasn't someone he trusted – and who trusted him – was far outweighed by the fear that it was; and the burning desire to know _who_ drew him on. He locked his jaw grimly and set out – not trying at all to be stealthy as he followed the trail quickly back toward the lake.

He didn't have to go far.

He stopped when he saw it.

The body was still there. The clothes didn't give him any indication of who it might be, of course, but the stature did. The body wasn't tall, bulky, and blonde…so that ruled out Steve.

Logan suddenly couldn't breathe, because that just meant that it was Parker…or the Elf, and the image of Kurt absolving him of the ultimate sin was far too real. A sense of failure and shame washed over him. It was all wrong. It had to be.

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breaths as he stepped forward. His heart was hammering in his ears as he slowly approached the very still body in front of him. Eyes wide, Logan didn't have to get too close to see the dark curls that caught the breeze.

A strangled noise escaped his throat as he took a few quick steps toward Kurt's body. He fell to his knees and quickly removed the claws strapped to his arms. He knew it was useless to even attempt to try and resuscitate him, as evidenced by the dark, wet stain in the centre of Kurt's chest…the three evenly-spaced holes left no doubt that it was his handiwork. Yet he still felt for a heartbeat at the Elf's neck.

Naive as it was, he still hoped for a miracle like Stark had gotten – but no silver parachutes laden with gifts were going to drift anywhere near him. Not now, after he knew what he'd done. Though he wouldn't put it past Creed to send him something now that he'd done something so low.

One hand drifted up to cover his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his face twisted into a pained grimace. With a dry sob, he turned his head away from Kurt's wide, unseeing eyes. His hand resting on Kurt's shoulder bunched up the fabric in a fist as the young man trembled.

Words failed him, which was just as well, because the lump in his throat threatened to strangle him. Nothing seemed to fit the aching grief and crippling guilt that was threatening to overwhelm him. Plenty ran through his mind, though, as he turned back to look at the peacefully blank expression on Kurt's face.

The Elf was too good. He was too pure – too honourable._ Too trusting. _

To add insult to injury, from what he saw in the dirt, Kurt had died alone – and all because of him. He had no idea what had become of the other two, and it didn't matter. The last person Logan had wanted to see hurt had died by his hand.

With a heavy conscience, he cleaned his hands off as well as he could and took a moment to allow himself to grieve. Chances were, it was the only opportunity he'd have.

Logan looked around them and spotted Kurt's sword not far from where he lay. He picked up the sword and held it reverently in his calloused, bloodstained hands. He thought of how Kurt had done his best impression of a swashbuckler at one of the campfires, showing off for the little Trickshot to laugh at joyfully as she joined in his lighthearted antics.

He inspected the sword carefully, and as he ran his hand over the hilt, he couldn't help but take note of the ribbons still tied there.

He studied them closely and thought of how often he'd seen Kurt make a point to touch them in a moment of self-doubt or fear. It was obvious they were his token – though who had given them to him, Logan simply didn't know. He looked to Kurt's face, then back to the sword, before he carefully untied the blue trimmings and ran their full length through his fingers. He thought for just a moment that he might keep one – but it felt too much like taking a trophy – like something Creed would have done.

Instead, he gently picked up Kurt's nearest hand and tied one of the long, dark blue satiny ribbons around his wrist. He was careful to be sure that the knot he made was neat and not likely to come undone. He repeated the gesture with Kurt's other wrist, and then he placed the sword on the Elf's body. He delicately arranged Kurt's limp hands to cover the hilt as the pointed tip of the sword lay near his feet.

With one hand resting over Kurt's cold, folded hands, Logan sighed heavily and steeled himself to his self-appointed task.

"I'm probably gonna screw this up, Elf…but I'll do my best," Logan said quietly as he gently reached over the still form and closed Kurt's eyes. He bowed his head before he began to recite the prayers that Kurt had taught him over their last campfire.

He stayed that way as the colour totally left the sky, and as the darkness around them deepened. He continued to pray, his hands resting on his knees, palms up. His claws lay on the ground well out of reach as he simply kept to his duty, kneeling and praying to whatever twisted God had allowed such a good soul to go through hell just to have the misfortune of ever befriending him.

To Logan, it was proof positive of how worthless and irredeemable he was as a human being. A few stupid stings, and he turned into a rabid animal. If he didn't before, he certainly hated himself now. Far more than he could _ever_ hate anyone else.

As he ran out of steam, he looked back to Kurt and was reminded again that there were no winners. Base survival was to be gifted to the victor, with a lifetime of bad dreams and worse neighbours. It changed people. He'd seen it over the years, but he'd never truly put it together until just then.

He thought of how badly Parker had reacted to killing Cletus in the lake. How shaken the young man had been even though the boy he'd killed had been a heartless psychopath that had undoubtedly deserved it. He'd done the right thing by killing him, but still…Parker was changed. Damaged from the killing.

The Elf was dead…but all that purity – the goodness that made Kurt who he was remained intact. He hadn't killed anyone. More importantly, he would never know the pain of having murdered a friend. He would never know how worthless and hopeless Logan felt in that moment of realization when he'd found Kurt's body.

But Logan wasn't the same person anymore. Something had broken in him, and he didn't think it could be fixed.

The distant hum of the transport made itself known, and he knew it was for Kurt. They'd left him there for Logan to find. He was sure of it. He laid his hand on Kurt's thin shoulder one last time in a silent apology before he stood up.

As he backed away from the broken body, he never took his eyes off of Kurt's face. He watched carefully as the large metal cage gently scooped him up, sword and all. He stood there in the blackness watching until the lights on the transport faded away. The hum of it was long gone when the sounds of the forest picked up around him.

In the stillness of the sprawling mess of a city, he realized yet again exactly how alone he was.

Their little alliance was dead. The heart of it had just been taken away on the transport because of him. The heavy feeling of shame and guilt hit him hard, and he knew he had a decision to make. In his shoes, no one could have been happy with the options he currently faced.

He could give up. It would be easy. Just…leave his claws behind and go find another liquor store to get totally irretrievably wasted and wait for the inevitable. One tribute or another would eventually stumble across him – or a mutt. He wouldn't even fight them. He'd just kneel down and let them do it.

He stared at the sharpened rebar on the ground. He'd failed to consider all the angles before he made those lethal tools. He locked his jaw, and his hands tightened into fists as he weighed out simply leaving the damn things where they lay. But a noise that sounded too much like a scream from deep in the city made his heart jump in alarm for the few that he still cared for…and that put an end to that line of thinking.

His mind went to all the kids he'd befriended, and he worried for them. Had they made it? Had some other tribute taken them down? He pictured Parker and Kate. Banner and Stark. Steve…any one of them could be hurt somewhere, helpless.

Rage as red as blood began to push the sorrow to the wayside. They didn't deserve this. He might…but they sure as hell didn't.

He picked up the claws to inspect them in the moonlight. As he turned them, light danced off the sharp edges – except of course where Kurt's blood had dried.

He'd be damned if he let all of them go through the torture he was dealing with now. He suddenly realized that it was exactly like he'd told Steve.

_...when it means somebody's gotta get blood on their hands – I'll try and make sure it's me._

It was time to hold himself to it. No one he wanted to kill was there in the arena. But if he wanted even a whisper of a chance of redeeming himself … he needed to survive to the end. He couldn't do that if he let himself fall apart. He could mourn later. Now, there was work to be done.

The anthem swelled in the dark sky as he strapped his claws back on. He pulled the leather straps tightly between his teeth as he watched the light show in the night sky. He'd been a murderer since the first day of the games. The only thing different now was that he'd killed someone he actually gave a damn about. Hallucination or not, he was responsible. There was no way to push that guilt on anyone else.

But he also felt responsible for the kids. Parker and Kate. He didn't want them to carry the burden of killing. He didn't want them to feel like they'd betrayed a friend by having to choose between their friendship and survival. The odds of them avoiding death – either dealing it out or receiving it themselves – were not in their favour. With that in mind, he made his decision…he just needed to know who was still in the game.

He glanced up each time the face changed as he carefully arranged his claws and tightened the straps. The faces remaining brought him no comfort for the first time. He held his breath as they approached the end of the show. As the light faded, he clenched his jaw in determination.

He could do this. He would.

They all had gone into the Games with the wrong frame of mind. They'd all expected it to be a struggle of good versus evil, but that was not the case. Logan no longer thought it was a matter of_ if_ he had to. It had finally, unmercifully, sunk in that it was more a matter of if no one else had, then he would _need_ to kill his friends and allies just to get to the real fight … and he had a list now of all those that were left. He was running through their weak points in his head as he started to move through the trees again, in full stealth mode.

He set off down a set of tracks – who they belonged to, he couldn't be sure, but it didn't really matter anymore.

There was killin' to be done. He sure as hell wasn't going to enjoy it…but if it meant that the others didn't have to live with the guilt and remorse hanging over their heads, then he would take on that burden for them. Whether he lived through the experience or not was of no concern to him.

He didn't plan beyond that, other than to simply keep out of sight as he hunted tributes. He knew that there were still plenty of dangers roaming the arena outside of the other kids there . It was likely that more of them would die without his assistance than with it, but even so, he no longer took the neutral stance of simply defending himself. He'd kill who he could find. Play the game the Capitol expected of him.

He no longer entertained the thought of simply giving up, either. That was a coward's way out. Whoever he came across would have a fight on their hands. Yet, he hoped that it wouldn't be one of his kids that would have to face him.

He told himself that if they did manage to end him…they'd at least be able to rest easy for having taken down the rabid animal that had coldly murdered one of the nicest kids the games had ever seen. No reason for them to have to carry the guilt if he could shoulder it for them.

His sorrow pushed firmly down, he was grim, determined to take that responsibility from as many as he could.

He came out of the woods near a clearing that was littered with debris from a toppled building, and something skyward caught his eye in the moonlight. He looked around cautiously before tracking the path of the little silver parachute as it made its descent.

With his guard up, he stalked toward it. He had stayed back a few yards as it fell the last twenty feet or so, and as it gently touched the ground, a tinny voice echoed from the box attached to the chute.

"**James Howlett?"**

He just stared at it for a moment before looking around him, checking for any sign this might be some kind of trap. Curiosity won out, and he silently padded his way to the mystery package.

Hunting could wait…just a bit longer.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett**.


	91. Chapter 90: Going Green

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry that this is coming a day or two later than intended, just was busy with work stuff (being out of college and having no long term plans is scary). Gonna keep this short and sweet, 'cos it's late over here and I'm ready to get some sleep. Let us know what you think!**

**A big thanks to cheshirecat9116, Bookcrazysongbird, GeekyComicBookGuy and KJAX89 for their reviews! Here's a new update for you to bite down on!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety – Going Green**

**Morning, Day Eleven**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

"_But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,_

_And he hath won what he would lose again:_

_This forced league doth force a further strife;_

_This momentary joy breeds months of pain;_

_This hot desire converts to cold disdain."_

– William Shakespeare, _The Rape of Lucrece_

* * *

_The sun was shining warm on his face as he sat on the ledge, his back pressed against the reassuring solidity of the stone. Breathing deeply of the green, moist air, he closed his eyes and relaxed. She would be here soon. She promised. He believed._

_A small sound – no more than a rustled leaf – made him look out into the trees._

_And there she was. A Cheshire cat smile gave her away, as her green skin blended with the spring foliage she peeked through. He stood as she stepped out into the clearing by the stones and walked toward him, moving like a soft breeze that barely ruffled the grass._

_"Have you been waiting long for me?"_

_He smiled, his brown eyes deep. "Only all my life."_

_A laugh like silver chimes tickled his ears as she came closer, her hands resting gently on his chest. "Ah, my champion…" Her lips met his, and his arms wound around her, bringing her closer still. "I knew you'd come back to me."_

_His head rested on her shoulder. "I'm trying, Ella. But I just…I just don't know how I can."_

_She pulled back with a frown. Then she paused, reached to her side, and lifted a painfully familiar baseball bat. "Use this, then. Do what you have to do. It's that simple. You do whatever you have to do." Without another word, the girl vanished from his sight._

_Bruce took the bat and turned it in his hands, noticing for the first time that it was covered in fresh blood, drying here and there into a crust of red rhinestones. Panic gripped him, and as his heart pounded, he looked around, searching for Ella once more _–_ but all he saw behind him was a stone statue. His rock, his comfort, had been carved into the threateningly proud A emblem of the Avenger Games._

_Suddenly furious, Bruce lifted the bat and charged at the statue with an animal roar, slamming the hardened wood against it over and over, breaking the solid stone with the power of his anger, the pounding insistence of his fury destroying the symbol of this atrocity…_

* * *

Bruce woke with a gasping cry.

He was lying in his usual spot behind the counter in the shoe shop, his knapsack and jacket acting as a pillow as he trembled in the backwash of adrenaline. He blinked several times in the dim light and sat up, his mind still sorting the reality of the room from the dream that woke him. _Whoa…that was weird._ Shaking his head, he listened for any sounds from the back of the shop. A muttered curse alerted him to his roommate's state of mind, and he shook his head once more before calling out quietly.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. This stupid…" The voice trailed off, and Bruce exhaled, still trying to steady himself. Tony at work was Tony distracted, and he seemed to be trying to distract himself as much as possible while the medicines from the sponsors worked their magic.

After a moment, the distracted voice spoke again. "Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. _You_ okay? You were breathing funny in your sleep. Making noises."

Bruce stretched carefully. "Yeah, yeah, just a weird dream."

"Good weird?"

"Not really. Weird weird."

There was another brief pause, where Bruce could hear random typing before Tony spoke again. "Weird, huh? Didja get the girl?"

Bruce frowned in the general direction of the back room. "Why would you – well…No. Not enough time."

There was a chortle before another muffled curse.

"Get around to food yet?"

"No…been trying to figure out this stupid – is there any more wire out there?"

Bruce stood and ran his fingers through his hair, making it only slightly less of a mess as he glanced around the room. "Don't see any. Hey, there's some leftover lily roots. And we still have a couple of those eggs I found yesterday…I could boil 'em."

"Won't make a very good conductor."

"I mean to eat, smartass."

"Oh, right. Sounds good."

Bruce went through the motions of getting food together almost automatically. _It's crazy, _he thought as he got the fire going. _You can get used to anything, I guess. Cooking inside an abandoned shoe store while waiting for some other kids to come and kill you…_

Shaking off the thought, he put water in his leather cauldron and added the roots and eggs. "I'm gonna cook all of them. Less likely to get broken." Then he stood from his ministrations and dusted off his hands on his thighs. "I'll be right back."

"Gotcha. Be careful out there."

Bruce opened the door cautiously and stepped out into the morning light. It was cool, but the sun was bright, and a playful breeze gave the leaves interesting things to do as they hung out. After finding a spot politely far off enough from their shop for morning duties, Bruce hunted around and found some mint. _Tea. That would be good. _

The route he took led him along a street he'd only seen during his round of night watches, so he hadn't noticed much about it…especially the diner. It was dilapidated, stripped of food, but he searched around until he found a couple of dusty mugs. _Why didn't I think of this before?_ By the time he got back to the shop, Tony was sitting in the main room. They nodded a greeting to each other as Bruce wiped down the mugs.

"How're you feeling?"

"Still better, but still feelin' it. I used the stuff again."

"Good."

"Yeah, I figured by now you were tired of being my nurse."

"It's not my favourite occupation," Bruce replied sardonically, but a grin softened the sentiment. _I'm glad he's doing better…we can't stay here forever. We're sitting ducks. I only wonder why the Gamemakers haven't sent someone to get us already…Unless they don't have time for us…I wonder what that means for the rest of the tributes._

Tony interrupted his train of thought. "You think they'll come back?"

Bruce blinked in momentary confusion. "Who, the guys? Logan, Cap?" Tony nodded, and Bruce looked thoughtful. "…I don't know."

"We know they got the psycho. At least, we can make an educated guess that it was them."

"Right. And we can back that up with the fact that we haven't seen _them_ in the show."

"No, we haven't." Tony was staring at the fire for a good while before he spoke again. "But don't you think if they were coming, they'd be back by now?" When he finished, his eyes lifted to look at Bruce.

The eye contact seemed to communicate more tension than their words would admit. "Maybe. Maybe they got involved with something else. Maybe they got chased in another direction." Bruce tore some mint leaves into the mugs and scooped out some of the boiling water with each of them. "Here."

"Thanks." Tony swirled the mug and stared into the fragmented green whirlpool. "I know we're going to have to move on ourselves at some point."

Taking a deep breath of peppermint-scented steam, Bruce nodded. "Yeah. I figure that, too." Their eyes met again, and Bruce glanced at the softly glowing battery that powered the magnet harnessed to Tony's chest. "You feel up to being out there again?"

"I dunno. I guess it doesn't make much difference if I do or not."

The quiet comment grew into a lengthy silence before Bruce cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Okay, here's a thought – we'll take a hike around today, see how you do. If we can gauge what your stamina is like, then we can actually make a plan. No point in trying to decide without knowing the variables."

Tony gave an amused grunt as he lifted his tea. "Once again, scientific method for the win."

They clinked mugs and sipped quietly as they waited for the eggs to finish.

* * *

The day had warmed a bit by the time they headed out. Bruce checked the immediate area before coming back to help Tony into his pack. "You sure you're up to wearing this?"

"Look. If I'm going to be up to travel, I better be able to carry it. And besides, if we run into anything, or anyone…" He winced slightly as he settled the straps on his shoulders and pulled at the magnet to settle it in place again. "What I'm saying is, if we need to make a run for it, I don't want to lose my stuff. I mean, I already lost my sword..." Tony gestured with his chin toward the weapon hanging at Bruce's waist.

Banner gave him a sarcastic glare. "You sure did. Good thing that now it's with someone who knows how to use it." They stared at each other for a moment, deadpan, until Bruce looked away to cover his grin. "We should get going."

"After you, big guy." They headed out, deciding rather randomly to head east, welcoming the feel of sun on their faces.

After a bit, Bruce looked over at his cohort. "How you doing?"

"Fine, fine. Better if I don't think about it." Tony shrugged and then frowned. "So tell me more about this dream…"

Hesitating, Bruce glanced sideways._ I suppose it's best to keep him distracted. Besides…it would be nice to talk to someone about it…_

As it was, everything seemed, for the moment, to be relatively peaceful. Tony was hiking comfortably, and the time out of the closed-in shop was refreshing. They talked quietly as they walked, and Bruce told him about the dream. Twice, actually, before Tony was ready to comment on it.

"…So wait – she handed you a bat?"

"Yeah. I told you it was weird."

"But, seriously…a _baseball bat_?"

Bruce exhaled. "I understand that part. I get those a lot in dreams. Nightmares, usually. When I'm stressed out."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah. I mean…my mom…"

Tony stopped short, his eyes wide. "Oh, sorry, man. I totally…sorry."

Bruce looked back at him and nodded, and they went on.

"I figure the red crystals have something to do with Sin."

"Oh, that crazy skull pin of hers? Yeah, I can see that…but you didn't kill her."

"No, and I didn't kill anyone else, either. At least we've both managed to avoid that so far."

Tony got quiet for a while, until they reached an area that had a dry fountain in the middle of it. "Ah…how long have we been out?"

Bruce glanced up at the sun and squinted thoughtfully. "About an hour, maybe less. You ready for a break?"

"Probably a good idea." They walked over to the edge of the fountain and sat on the rim.

Bruce slipped his pack off and stretched. "I really wonder what this place looked like. You know. When it was alive."

Tony shrugged. "Probably not much different. Less broken. Less green."

Bruce smirked. "Hey, I like green, remember?"

They both laughed quietly and let the natural sounds surround them once more. Bruce quietly noted that even after their extended hike, Tony's breathing was calm and easy – it made him breathe a bit easier himself. Then, he heard a gasp.

"Holy _–_ can't be. Look over there."

Bruce followed his partner's gaze to a row of dilapidated shops, mostly overgrown by creeping vines. "What am I looking at?" But when he looked back, Tony was already on his feet, heading toward one of the stores.

"Hey. Be careful."

"Ease up, buttercup," Tony called behind him. "It's just a liquor store."

Bruce felt his stomach tighten. "Oh, great." A bit louder, he added, "When I said you should be drinking more, I meant water." Tony waved a hand over his head dismissively, not looking back. Bruce went on. "The store's probably been completely gutted, you know."

"Hope springs eternal, Ban-dito! And I'm thirsty!"

Rolling his eyes, Bruce grabbed his pack and ambled after him through the broken front window of the store. _And I thought 'Ruse' was a bad nickname._ By the time his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he heard, more than saw, Stark rummaging through an archway of fallen shelf units. He moved deeper in and saw wood shifting slightly.

"Careful in there. It's not stable."

"The main joists are solid. I'm not stupid, just thirsty."

"I'm just saying, there's no point in risking your life for–"

"Yes!" Tony's yell echoed in the ruins of the store.

"Hey, keep it down! We don't need to broadcast–"

But Tony was climbing over the broken remains of wooden shelving, holding two bottles out toward Bruce. "Grab these; there's more." Bruce barely had time to grasp the two before his cohort had turned back to the rickety-looking cave of boards.

"More? How much –"

"Would you look at this?" he said, emerging with two more of the dusty bottles. "I think there's even more back there. This is perfect."

"Tony." Stark looked up from the bottles, panting slightly. "Take it easy."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, I should sit down…" Tony promptly sat down among the wreckage and began dusting off one of the bottles. "What do we have here…gin? Fair enough." He unscrewed the top, ready to drink, when Bruce grabbed it from his hand.

"Idiot. Don't you realize they probably planted this here?" Bruce scanned the label, looking for some clue to its origin.

"Sure they did. I don't care." Tony grabbed the bottle back, took a swig, and started coughing. "Woo…" he choked out. "…smooth." Bruce manhandled it away from him.

"Come on! What if it's poisoned?"

Tony stared at him. "Don't care." He held out his hand. "Give it."

"Tony–"

Stark's voice grew hard. "Do you really think they're going to kill me by _poison_ if this didn't do it?" He gestured angrily toward his chest. "Don't care. I'm dead anyway. Give." When Bruce didn't move, Tony reached over and grabbed another of the bottles, dusting it off. "Oh, look. Even better. Whiskey." He made short work of opening it and took a long swig.

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, watching the soft glow of Cho's magnet moving as the boy took several gulps. "Okay, I suppose you have a point…"

"Of course I do. I'm Tony Stark." A giggle slightly more high-pitched than normal escaped him as Tony lifted the bottle in toast and drank again. "I have lots of points."

Bruce watched him swing his arm in a tipsy turn and felt an old, familiar emotion wrapping around his stomach. "I'm just saying –" _Oh, what the hell._ He stopped, looked at the bottle in his hand, shrugged, and took a hesitant sip.

The sharp, clear alcohol made his eyes water and his throat sting. "Holy crap." He coughed, and Tony chuckled. "_Smooth_ isn't quite the word I would use."

"I know, right?"

Bruce found an empty wooden crate and turned it over, sitting down heavily. "You know this probably isn't a good idea."

"Yup. We're kind of dehydrated already. Especially me. This'll probably just make it worse." Stark took another drink. "Don't care."

"What if we get found? Attacked?"

"Then I'll die happy. And if they give me an hour or so before they kill me, I won't even know it's happening."

Bruce rolled his eyes. Then he pulled off his knapsack and rooted around until he found some food: the remains of his jerky, a couple boiled eggs, and his water bottle. "At least we should eat something. And especially drink water."

"Right, _Mom._ What would I do without a mother here in the arena to keep an eye on me..."

The sarcastic comment hung in the air for a moment before it hit them both. Silently, they looked at each other, and in a mirror of movement, they both drank again.

* * *

"It's getting late." Bruce looked toward the front of the liquor store, squinting at the sky. "We should get going." He stood unsteadily, grabbing a fallen joist for support.

"Still light out."

"Yeah, but you don't move the quickest."

"Maybe we should just crash here. I don't know if I'm up to walking that far…"

"Great. Now you tell me."

"That is true. I did just tell you now."

"You know you're –" Abruptly Bruce stopped, blinking hard as he tried to concentrate. "Did you hear that?"

"Me? Of course. I always hear me. I listen very carefully to me, whenever me is talking…"

"No, you, you idiot," Banner hissed. "I heard something. Something outside."

Tony paused to listen, holding up a single finger. Then he belched loudly. "Nope."

Bruce shook his head – and realized it was an incredibly bad idea as soon as he did. "I'm gonna check. Just…just shut up for a while."

Tony giggled at him again. "Oooh. The big guy is drunk. Haaa…"

"I've had less than you, Wonderboy."

"Lightweight!" Tony whispered the yell as Bruce headed out into the softer light of afternoon.

In the still air, he heard it again. _Ding._ Frowning, he felt a rush of adrenaline sober him somewhat and looked up, his eyes searching the sky.

_Ding-ing._

_Two?_ This time, from ground level. Bruce started off in the direction he heard the sound, his steps becoming more steady as he sucked in fresh air, although his brain still felt like pudding.

_Ding-ing._

There. Near the fountain. Two small puddles of silvery fabric. He slowed and approached them cautiously. The packages they had received with Tony's medicine had been bigger than this, and he wondered what these tiny 'chutes could possibly have brought. Bending over, he picked them up by the fabric and saw a small cube dangling from each one.

"Okay." When he transferred them to his hands, metallic voices chimed almost in unison.

**"Bruce Banner." "Anthony Stark."**

His eyebrows lifted as he exhaled, staring at them. "Great." Turning back toward the store, he walked with one in each hand, the silvery fabric swinging at his sides as the voices repeated themselves at regular intervals.

"Hey, Tony," he called out when he reached the door. "We've got mail."

* * *

As soon as Tony held the cube in his hand, it spoke again, in the same metallic voice.

**"This video message is for Anthony Stark and regards other tributes participating in these Games. It may only be viewed in private, and only by Anthony Stark."**

"Huh. Same thing yours said."

"Yeah."

"How will it know if we're alone?"

Bruce waved a finger around near his head. "You think they're not watching?"

"Right, right."

They both looked around the dingy store, suddenly much less at ease. Tony spoke first. "I'm thinking… that maybe we should go back to the shoe shop. I mean…"

"I know exactly what you mean."

Bruce knew that among the gadgetry that Tony had been messing with at their former lair was an attempt at a scrambler, so they could talk in private. But even if he _didn't_ get that working, the other shop had a more secure feeling, largely because they knew the area around it better. The arrival of the cubes reinforced the nagging sensation in both of them that they were being watched, that the so-called Games were all around them, and that their lives were in danger.

Tony had already moved to the back with his pack, loading in as many bottles as he could carry. "You gonna help with these?"

Bruce dropped his shoulders as he stared at his cohort. "We can't live on that stuff. There's no reason to stock up –"

"Nope. But we can get dead drunk after we hear whatever it is they're deigning to tell us." Their eyes met for a long moment. "…or maybe before."

With a shrug, Bruce loaded a couple bottles into his knapsack, along with his cube. Then he helped Tony adjust his own pack, and they started back the way they had come.

They hiked in silence, making the trip as quickly as they could. Tony, who was clearly more inebriated than Bruce, had the odd ability of putting it to the side when he needed to do something. Besides, it seemed the alcohol had the added advantage of dulling his pain, which made travel easier. They got back to their lair in less than an hour, just as dusk was falling.

Closing the door and turning on the lights, they sat heavily on the floor. Bruce got them some water, and they drank it down before they both took out the shimmering, metallic cubes. Between the two of them, they got a small fire going for warmth in the cooling evening.

"The thing is," Bruce began, as if they had been talking constantly for the last hour and not working in silence, "whatever information they give us will be to throw us off. Put us in danger. You've seen the Games. You know what they do."

"I do." Tony got out his cube and placed it next to Bruce's on the counter. "Whatever it is will be totally manipulative."

"Right. Possibly not true –"

"But quite possibly true, and just things we wish we didn't see."

"I don't know, Tone." Bruce was feeling unsettled. More unsettled than he had since the Games began. The whole premise of the Games was abhorrent to him – but this level of manipulation… "Maybe we shouldn't watch them at all."

"We have to." Tony pulled out the whiskey he had been working on in the store and downed a few swallows. He held it out toward Bruce.

"No, we don't." Bruce barely hesitated before taking a generous swig himself. "We could just… I don't know. Throw them."

"Nope. We need to watch them."

"Look, it could be–"

"Anything. Right." Tony took back the bottle and drank, while Bruce got out one of his own. "Maybe it's some sponsor who wants to help. Give us insider info."

"What are the odds of that?" Bruce's voice was tinged with anger.

"Never tell me the odds."

When the fire was strong enough, they turned off the electric lights and sat in the flickering shadows, drinking and staring at the flames as their emotions smouldered.

Finally, Bruce said, "I guess we don't have to agree."

"No." Tony grabbed his cube and managed to get to his feet without letting go of his bottle. "I'll be in the back room. That should be 'private' enough."

Their eyes met, and even Bruce could see the uncertainty through Stark's bluster. "Fine." He snapped out the word a bit more stiffly than he would have liked. "And…good luck."

His stomach tightened as he watched Tony move to the back room and close the door behind him. A nagging little voice in his head taunted him.

_What are you afraid of, Brucey? You think something's going to scare you? You just afraid? You pathetic little nothing –_

And with a start, he realized he recognized the voice. A voice from his past. A voice that hated him, clearly, taunted him whenever it decided to actually spend time speaking to him.

It was his father's voice, his father's words.

Without thinking, he grasped the bottle and finished it, gasping for air when he was done. His heart was pounding as he grabbed another.

_You are worthless, you know that? You and your mother, feeding off of me like leeches. Yeah, you better be scared, you little baby. You're only alive because I let you be –_

Bruce pushed his fist against his forehead, trying to block out the memories, but it was useless. He could see his father's bloodshot eyes, hear his voice screaming as bits of spittle jumped from his maw of a mouth, landing on Bruce's face and shirt. He could smell the alcohol, the choking, sweet, decaying smell of death that always seemed to accompany the man–

With a cry, Bruce grabbed the cube and ripped the parachute from it. _Anything is better than this. Anything_. "Okay, show me something!" The cube hummed briefly and projected a video onto the wall.

Bruce didn't know what he expected to see, but he did know that he didn't expect the image to be the young man sitting in the next room. But there he was, Anthony Stark, strong and lithe before his injury.

Anthony Stark, drinking something and wiping his lips before moving over to where Sin was propped against a wall. Tony Stark, grabbing the arrow that pierced her shoulder and pulling it sideways as she cried out in pain, a strange grin on his face. Tony Stark, drinking again, stepping out into the sewer walkways, waiting with a feral brightness in his eyes as another tribute turned the corner. _Who is that? Wait…From District 9…Maximoff. Wanda. Right. She was –_ and before Bruce could finish the thought, there was Tony Stark, skewering the girl mercilessly, without warning, his eyes wide, near laughter.

"What?" Bruce's question came out as a bare whisper, disbelieving.

He was distracted as the video focused on Sin again, her shirt off and a fearful look in her eye as Stark turned back to her, laughing. The pictured darkened, and all he could hear was Sin crying out once more.

"No. No, this can't be right..." The pounding of his heart made an all too familiar sound in his ears. The alcohol joined with his anger to bubble forward unchecked. "Stark! What did you do? Why didn't you tell me?"

Rising unsteadily, he tore the door open on the back room so quickly that it nearly came off the hinges. "Stark!"

Tony Stark sat on the bed, his head hanging. In his lap, his hands limply held the metallic cube, as if they were paralyzed. The young inventor seemed oblivious to Banner's entrance.

"Tony. Did you – they said you – Tony!"

The lack of acknowledgement only served to fuel Bruce's anger. Stepping forward, he grabbed Tony by the harness straps he himself had sewn just days before, lifted him up and spun him around, slamming his back against the wall.

"Did you? Did you?" For a long moment, there was no sound but the hoarse, tortured breathing of two young men. "You_ did_! You murdered Nine. That wasn't a fight. That wasn't anything. You just _murdered_ her! Damn it, Tony, you _enjoyed_ it!"

Tony lifted dark, wet eyes, unseeing. In Bruce's slightly-blurred mind, the guilt and pain he saw brimming there verified everything he feared. He pulled the other boy away from the wall and slammed him back against it over and over, punctuating his words.

"You. Murdered. Her."

Tony's skull made a hollow sound as it bounced against the old plaster. Then Bruce's eyes grew hard as his mind replayed the end of the video. "And Sin! No wonder you didn't want to go find her! Did you kill her, too, and leave her down there to rot? Or just torture her for fun for a while? Or did you–"

His teeth ground together as he replayed the video in his mind's eye, saw the disbelieving, frightened look on Sin's face, her shirt crumpled next to her on the floor, the predatory leer on Stark's face – "My _God._ No wonder she handcuffed you there! You're a bastard. An animal!" He was panting now, his chest tight, his heart pounding in his ears. "Tell me! Tell me the truth! What did you _do_ to her? Or were you too drunk then to remember what happened?"

Tony stared over Bruce's shoulder, toward the cube that had fallen onto his bed. His voice seemed to come from miles away, small and distant. "She wanted me dead. They both did."

Something inside Bruce snapped at what seemed to be a pathetic excuse for what Tony had done. "And I _helped_ you!" Bruce slammed the boy back once more and released his hold on the straps, letting Tony slide to the floor limply. With an animal roar, he punched the wall where Tony's head had been, leaving a hole in the plaster tinged with blood.

"You _should_ have died there in the sewers. Why the hell didn't I believe you?"

For a moment, his strength failed him, and he braced himself against the doorframe. But stopping was bad. Stopping let him think, made him picture Sin's face in the video once more, let him imagine even more. It let him hear the man's voice, hard, cruel – _Wait. That's not Tony's voice_ –

_The boy stood in the hallway, not wanting to go forward, not wanting to go back to his room. He had heard his mother cry out in pain, sobbing. He opened his mouth to call to her when she spoke in a hushed voice. "Stop, Brian. Stop, please. The child is right in the next room, you'll wake him, he'll hear –" _

_"If you're so worried about him hearing, then shut up." _

_Then the voices stopped, and the boy only heard sounds of movement and the soft whimpering of his mother…_

Storming out into the main room, Bruce grabbed a bottle, stared at it, and smashed it into the fire, making the flames lick angrily across the floor. Then he snatched up his pack, shoving the cube and what little supplies were left into it. Turning, he kicked the door open and left it gaping to the colder night air. Almost without thinking, he picked up the sword and shoved it into his belt. He looked toward the back room. "I hope they find you, Stark. I hope you get exactly what you deserve!"

Banner hit the street running, doubling back over tracks they'd made earlier to confuse anyone trying to follow, and then headed toward the setting sun and the reddened, dusky darkness.

He walked hard to keep from thinking, fury keeping him warm and moving fast until he reached a hurricane fence that blocked his path and stretched out in both directions.

Clawing his fingers into the links, he shook it hard, making a guttural, harsh sound in his throat. A small opening near one of the posts caught his eye, and he grasped the edge of the opening, pulling with strength he didn't know he had. In moments, he was through the fence and moving fast.

In the darkness, he never noticed the tin warning sign that was wired onto it. The one that read:

**HELL'S KITCHEN**

**DO NOT ENTER**

He half ran, half walked through the dark streets until he found an open door. Exhausted, angry, feeling absolutely alone and betrayed, he curled up in a corner and did not so much fall asleep as pass out in the cold night.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	92. Chapter 91: Golden Syringes

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a new update for In the End, You Always Kneel**. **Apologies that this is coming a little later than expected - I had intended on uploading this two or three days ago, but things came up, as they're sadly wont to do. **

**Had a shock on my way to work this morning, when my dad told me that some former The Voice (US) contestant had been shot at a concert - "Something Grimmie," in his words. This set alarms bells ringing, and I found that, as I had feared, he had been referring to Christina Grimmie, one of the first YouTubers I had ever followed. While I had fallen off in the last few years, and wasn't aware that she had taken part in the Voice, reading about her murder - shot while signing autographs for fans after a concert - hit me harder than any of the celebrity deaths this year. The deaths of Prince, Muhammad Ali, David Bowie, Alan Rickman etc. all were tragic, but, to me, the death of a 22 year-old singer with her entire future ahead of her is even more so - hell, she was younger than I am. It just seems so needlessly cruel. So, if anyone needs me, I'm gonna go and watch her cover of CeeLo Green's "Forget You" a few times, as it's the one that's stcuk in my memory after ball this time - if anyone wants to check her music out, her YouTube username was zeldaxlove64.**

**On a lighter note, a big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird for their review, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as we return to the wonderful abrokencastiel's Peter Parker.**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-One **– **Golden Syringes, Plastic Cubes, and Stained Glass, Oh My**

**Day Eleven**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis," she said, "those who are the most themselves are the victims." _

_– _Gregory Maguire, _Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West,_

_"How about we never talk about what happened and why I feel the way I feel. We just pretend that everything is fine and I just scrub myself red every night, allowing my mind and body to retreat into oblivion. Yup sounds like the perfect plan." _

_ –_ Astrid Lee Miles

_"Oh, the fear of falling apart."_

– Panic! at the Disco, "This is Gospel"

* * *

_Water. He had to get to the water. He had to follow Kurt to the water to get away from the jackers that were closing in. But after the first sting Peter just wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground. More stings as he swatted at the bugs, but it didn't seem to deter them.__  
_

_The world swam into silvery shapes of Aunt May and Gwen. They looked back at him with opened mouths and wide eyes. Their screaming scrapped at his ears and he screamed back as their skin paled, their eyes became dull, and their jaws slack. Lifeless as blood poured from wounds in their chests._

"_No!" Peter started to move toward them, but stopped mid-step._

_The women staggered forward and fell on their faces. Behind them stood the blood red skin of Carnage, a cleaver in his hand. He grinned with his pointed teeth and licked the bloodied blade. "Guess who's back, Petey boy." He stalked forward, knife raised. The wounds in his stomach and neck still poured blood that matched his skin._

_Peter scrambled backward. The world was tilting and made his footing too unsteady to stand._

"_The itsy, bitsy spider, tried to run away," Carnage sang. "But Carnage wanted him to stay and play!" His eyes were silvery white and blazing._

"_You're not here!" Peter babbled, stumbling backwards. "You're dead. I-I-"_

"_You what? Killed me?" Cletus grinned widely, blood dripping from his teeth and bubbling with every word. "You really are funny. What a riot! YOU killing ME." Carnage let out a laugh, spraying droplets of blood. He gave a few slow claps and Peter was horrified to realize that his cleaver had been replaced with long, sharp fingernails soaked in blood. "I think a much better ending to this story is ME killing YOU. Isn't that right Mah-vel?" His laugh reverberated in Peter's head._

_A sharp stabbing pain erupted in Peter's stomach, making him fall to the ground. He looked down to see blood pouring from huge slices in his abdomen. Cletus was suddenly right in front of him, leaning down to grin in Peter's face with his sharp teeth and pupiless eyes. "See?" he whispered lowly. "Isn't this how it's supposed to go?"_

"_Peter." It was a familiar voice he hadn't heard for a long time. "I got you, Pete. You're okay."_

"_Uncle Ben?" A warm hand was placed on his shoulder and a feeling of calm came over him. The vision of Carnage wavered. The few seconds of clarity brought the memory of the syringe to mind. The amber coloring. That was why it looked so familiar. It was the same color as the tracker jacker venom he'd seen during training. Even if the liquid was more venom, it couldn't make things much worse. Peter dug the needle out of his pocket and stabbed it into his thigh without hesitation._

_The effect was almost immediate. The phantom of a grinning Cletus faded to a very real Steve running at full tilt, shield ready to swipe. Peter rolled and jumped to his feet, easily evading the confused Captain._

"_Steve, stop! Come on, Cap. Wake up."_

_The blonde teenager frowned and shook his head, but his eyes remained clouded over._

_Peter caught sight of Kurt and Logan near the water, both of them acting like they were under duress from whatever the venom had them seeing. Logan was slashing wildly at the air, but Kurt was staring ahead_

"_Kurt! Logan!" His cry only attracted another attack from Steve. "You know, Cap, I've always been a big fan with the whole awesome shield and all, so I'm really sorry about this." Peter positioned himself in front of a thick fallen tree and waited until the last second before dodging to the side. The shield struck the wood with a thunk and embedded itself, holding the Captain fast. Peter rammed his shoulder into Steve's side, sliding his arm out of the shield's straps and making him lose his balance. The older boy fell, hitting his head hard on the ground._

"_Really sorry about that." Peter rolled his shoulder as he moved away. "Man, you are sturdy."_

_Steve groaned and shook his head. "Parker?" His eyes seemed to unfocus momentarily, but he regained control._

"_You with me, Cap?"_

"_Yeah. I think so." He stood and retrieved his shield, blinking and frowning at his surroundings. "Aren't you seeing things?"_

"_I had an antidote. I'm fine." Peter made sure to maintain a distance between himself and the blonde in case he lost himself again. "Just ask me before attacking anything to make sure it's real."_

_A shout from Wolverine drew Peter's attention. He was slashing wildly at the air with his claws. If he wasn't stopped soon, he would hurt himself or one of their group. The District Eight teen headed for his dangerous friend, the Captain following behind._

"_Woah!" Peter ducked under the claws that swung his way, rolling to the other side of the shorter boy. "Wolverine! Watch it with the claws! You're going to hurt yourself." Another dodge back to avoid the sharp rebar. "Or worse, me!"_

"_Logan, stand down!" Steve had caught up, shield raised against Logan's strikes._

_There just needed to be one opening for Peter to jump in. He could knock him off balance or jump on his back._Come on, Logan, give me something.

_The older boy swung at Peter who dodged to the side with a roll. When he turned back, the boy had stilled with his claws buried in the chest of Kurt._

_Peter's blood ran cold. Kurt hadn't been that close. He was sure of it. He had been a safe distance away. The breath caught in his throat.. His eyes locked on his friends as the world went quiet from the blood pounding in his ears. For a moment the pair were locked together._

"_No! No, no, no. Not like this." Peter shook his head, willing for it to just be a nightmare from the venom. "Logan! What did you do?!" He stumbled backward, wide-eyes stuck on Kurt._

_Logan yanked his claws free and continued slashing at Steve or whatever he was seeing in the air. Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to forget the scene until he heard a cannon sound. A clang of metal echoed and Peter refocused, shakily approaching the deranged boy again._

"_I don't want to hurt you, Logan." He dodged around the lunge. "But I... I will if I have to!" Another attack drove Peter back. His eyes were watering now as he tried to ignore the body on the ground. He continued to dodge and roll, still wanting to wake his friend, but the tears accumulating in his eyes were making it difficult to see, no matter how often he wiped them away._

_Steve had already backed up, still shaking his head occasionally against his own strange visions. A final swipe by Logan caused Peter to fall beside Kurt's body, one hand brushing against Kurt's sleeve._

_Before Peter realized what he was doing, he was running. Sprinting from the area like he had run from the bloodbath. Behind him, he could hear Wolverine roar._

* * *

The building was a skeleton. It must have been constructed with glass all around the outside, but now there was practically nothing shielding the interior from the elements. Really, it was a careless place to have chosen for the night, but Peter hadn't been thinking clearly when he found the structure. He'd carefully made his way upwards, alternating between scaling the outside and running up the stairs when they weren't impossibly blocked by debris. The repetition of climbing and need to focus on hand holds let his mind go numb.

When his arms had started shaking from exhaustion, he'd finally stopped. He couldn't remember how high he had climbed, but by the time he'd finally let himself collapse to the floor it was well into the late afternoon. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of the Marvel anthem blaring into the night, inspiring him to reposition against a vertical support beam on the edge of the building. There were too many faces displayed, but he had to watch. Kurt's kind smile was flashed across the heavens right after Rouge. As soon as the final tribute had faded, he'd pulled the hood over his head and buried his face in his arms.

The night had passed with eerie silence and little sleep for the teen. The height made him feel fairly secure, but he'd fallen into the trap of thinking he was safe high up before. If an attack like the spiders happened again, there was no way someone would save him.

_Maybe I should have stayed. Just hidden until the venom completely wore off_. He knew it was stupid to think like that. It was better he had run. There were so few of them left that alliances were quickly become pointless. Besides, he couldn't have stayed there with the stronger boys unsure about reality.

_Not only that, but there's no way I could have faced Logan. Not with Kurt lying on the ground._ Bile rose in Peter's throat at the thought of his late friend. It wasn't Logan's fault, Peter knew that. But it was Wolverine's weapons. It would take time before he could ignore that fact. Of course, Logan couldn't take all the blame. Peter's inability to restrain his friend hadn't helped. If only he was stronger he could have taken Logan down and tied him to a tree or something. Then they could have all laughed about what happened before continuing on their quest to find Kate.

_Kate._ Did she know? Was she okay? _Of course she's not okay.__It was Kurt._ Peter groaned and let his head fall back against the beam. _If I'm not okay, she's at least ten times worse, and she didn't even see it happen. Thank goodness she didn't see it happen. She can just think it was a mutt or some other tribute._

A breeze picked up and he shivered against the chill, pulling his jacket tighter. He couldn't stay another night in the open with the wind. He'd have to find a new place. Preferably one well protected from elements, tributes, and mutts. Quite a tall order to fill. His stomach grumbled. _Right. And food._

He had to move. A quick check assured him that the knife Logan had given him was still securely under his belt. The syringe was still in his pocket and he left it there despite it's being empty. He owed whoever had sent it to him big time. Probably Norman, but without a note he couldn't be sure. Without it he could have ended up like Kurt. For the thousandth time, the thought that he shouldn't have used all of the antidote on himself crossed his mind. In the heat of the moment he hadn't thought about it, but looking back. . .

"Keep thinking like that, Pete, and you're going to drive yourself crazy," he mumbled as he stretched his hands over his head. The stings he'd gotten the day before were inflamed and the motion made the ones on his arms ache, but compared to the spider bite they weren't too bad. No doubt the amber liquid had helped keep the swelling under control.

"You know, that's twice I've been injected with bug juice," he announced to no one in particular. "I'm about tired of it." His words sounded hollow even to him. _I must really be tired. Can't even fake it._

He looked out over the city, actually appreciating the height he'd achieved. No buildings in Eight were this tall and he wasn't even at the top of this one. It was fairly close to the trees they'd been in and the lake was visible as well. Peter tore his eyes away from the glinting water and looked out to the rest of the city. The height made the destruction of certain areas even clearer. Streets and building were completely blown apart at sections and there was actually a line of circles from what must have been a string of aerial bombs. A dozen or so blocks away, a strange stone building with towers caught his eye. It looked fairly intact, and was easy to differentiate with its singularity. The distance would give him plenty of time to scavenge, but it was still close enough he could get situated before darkness fell.

With a destination in mind, he forced himself into a standing position. He spared a look directly below him, thankful that heights didn't give him vertigo. "That is a long drop." He whistled and shook his head. "I always hated the trip down. Never as easy as going up."

* * *

What felt like ages later, Peter finally put his feet back on solid ground. He sat on the steps, exhausted. His throat burned from breathing heavily during the climb down and he gingerly touched the finger shaped bruises along his neck. They were raised slightly and tender. No doubt they were turning a turning a nice shade of purple. The scars from the spiderbite were palpable as well as a particularly large bump from a sting on the back of his neck.

A involuntary shudder shook him. Peter zipped his jacket and pulled his hood up to cover the marks. He may not be able to see them himself, but he didn't want Aunt May to be reminded of his close encounters if the cameras ever turned on him.

"How in the world did I make it up that far last night?" he asked the general area, his voice scratchy. "Can I get a replay of the footage? Because I don't remember there being three levels of no floor and a stairwell with a family of angry raccoons." He snorted and stood. The exercise had improved his mood a little by keeping his mind busy. _Just need to keep focused. Focus on a few things to keep your mind off everything. Food, water, shelter. One, two, three._

The streets were fairly quiet, but every little noise had him on edge. Shadows seemed to flit at every corner, making his heart race. His imagination kept telling him spiders or tributes were haunting him, making him pick up speed on his journey.

A building with a D and R logo caught his eye and he entered, walking as quietly as he could. The interior was wrecked. It had probably been ransacked long before the city had been turned into an arena. Lighting cords dangled from the ceiling and empty shelves leaned at perilous angles.

"Alright, Pete. If I were a gamemaker, where would I hide food?" His eyes fell on an section of the store walled off by a counter. The top had at one point been covered by glass, but those panes had long been broken. "Secluded area with possibility of me slicing myself open? Sounds perfect."

Peter slipped off his hoodie and wrapped it around his hands so he could vault over the glass-shard covered counter. His boots crunched as he landed on the other side. Again, the shelves were empty, but in a cabinet Peter found a can of fruit. "Score." He half-smiled to himself. _Food: check._

The store itself didn't appear to hold anything else noteworthy, but Peter continued to explore the back area on the off chance there was something else. The drawers didn't yield anything, but he was able to use a counter to get to a few of the exposed wires from the ceiling. He carefully tapped one and, satisfied it wasn't going to electrocute him, carefully pulled it out as far as he could. His hand shook a bit as pulled out Logan's knife to cut it. He did the same thing with the next wire, looping both into pocket sized bunches. A yawn escaped him and he wobbled a bit on his counter as a wave of exhaustion rushed over him. "Keep it together, Parker. Just a little longer and then you can sleep all night."

He brushed the third wire with the back of his hand and received a literal shock. The surprise caused him to topple off the counter. With a grunt he landed on the ground, his head banging against a shelf and his vision immediately going dark.

* * *

"_THAT! IS! MINE!"_

_Peter's instinctive attack with his trusty sign did little to deter the advance of Carnage. The force of the impact sent his make-shift weapon skipping out of reach into the lake, but left the maniac's cleaver in his hand. The crazed youth grabbed Peter and dragged him into the water with surprising strength for the smaller body. The shock of being man-handled caused Peter to lose hold of the knife which slipped into the murky water._

_He fought as best he could, but the slickness of the water made it impossible to get a good grip on his attacker. Fingers wrapped around his neck, forcing him down as water rushed over his head._

_The world was muffled. He struggled to pry the long fingers off, but they only seemed to tighten. The water churned as he tried to kick Cletus away, but he had nothing to use against his attacker. His sign was gone. Logan's knife was uselessly stuck between his back and the muddy bottom, unreachable from his position. His chest burned. His breath escaped in betraying bubbles. His friends weren't going to get there fast enough._

_He was going to die._

_Then his hand brushed something hard and cool on the lake bottom. The cleaver. He latched onto the hilt with a death grip. Using all the strength he could muster, Peter thrust the blade upward. It hit home. Warm liquid ran onto his hand and the grip around his neck loosened._

* * *

Peter sat up, gasping for air. His chest burned and neck throbbed. Hot tears stained his cheeks and he wiped at them with shaking hands. After assuring himself he wasn't back in the lake, Peter leaned against the counter. He focused on slowing his breathing until the pain in his throat diminished.

Logan was the first to reach Peter after the incident. He'd pulled the younger boy onto solid ground where he collapsed to his hands and knees, water dripping from his hair and clothes. Kurt was by Peter's side in an instant, looking for injuries and asking if he was alright. Peter couldn't respond, partly because he felt like he couldn't breathe still and partly because he couldn't believe that the red spreading in the water was his own doing. It had taken a while for him to realize that he was mumbling under his breath, asking what happened. The three other boys had quite a time working to get him standing and walking.

_I killed him._ Yes, Cletus had been a terrible tribute. He had crazy bloodlust before entering the Games that marked him as psychotic. But still, he was a human being. And Peter had killed him. He hadn't meant to. Not really. The only thing he wanted to do was protect his allies and survive, not kill. He had never wanted to kill. No matter how much Norman had pushed the fact upon him that killing was the only option, Peter hadn't wanted to do it. And now he had blood on his hands. The only question was if he could do it again.

A shuddering sigh escaped Peter as he carefully stood. His head hurt, but thankfully wasn't bleeding and the back of his hand only had a small red welt from the shock. Tears were still leaking from his eyes and he angrily rubbed them away.

The boy from Eight collected his things from where they had scattered on the ground and wrapped his hoodie back around his hands to get over the counter. Shards clinked to the ground as Peter shook the hoodie out before slipping it on and zipping it up.

Once outside he popped the lid off the can with his knife, choosing to walk and eat instead of trying to find a place he felt safe enough to stay put. He still had to get to the new building and settle in before night fall. His impromptu nap had set him behind schedule and he didn't want to take any chances. Without the security of others watching his back he would need to wall himself in as best he could. He didn't want to risk an attack from anything during the night. He finished his can of fruit and drank the juice before tossing it into a dumpster.

A dozen or so blocks later, a sound reached Peter's ears that he had heard before. A light dinging sound.

"Christmas already?" he asked quietly as he began jogging toward the noise, carefully avoiding noisy rubble. It might be for him, but it could very well be for another tribute too close for comfort.

The small white box had landed softly on a pile of rubble just around the next corner. Peter cocked his head to either side, assuring himself that he was alone as he moved toward the box. Sure enough an '8' was embossed on it. "Another present? For me? How sweet." Peter gave a smile and wave, sure that some camera would see. "Someone is getting a big kiss on the cheek when I get back."

He popped open the lid to revealed a slightly smaller box. There was no obvious opening anywhere on the cube that Peter could see as he removed it. _Maybe I have to pry it open with my knife? Or it could be a-_

"**Peter Parker?"**

He almost dropped his new gift when the robotic voice clanged. He stared at it in shock for a moment, unsure if he'd actually heard it or imagined it.

"**Peter Parker?"**

"Yes?"

There was a slight pause followed by a beep. "**Voice signature accepted. Message from District Eight. Do you wish to play?"**

A lump caught in Peter's throat. "What?"

"**Message from District Eight. Do you wish to play?"**

He swallowed and looked around at the open area around him. "Uh, not now." He stuffed the cube into his pocket. By his calculations, he only had another couple blocks to his final destination. "Maybe later." He took the parachute with him as he continued on his way. Even if he couldn't use it, leaving it behind would be a clear sign to any other passing tribute someone was near. One lesson Logan had made sure to drill into their heads: never leave a trail.

_A message from home. Aunt May?_ Though he supposed it could be Harry with Norman being his mentor. Easy access. He wouldn't let the thought that it might be Gwen cross his mind. That would be too much to ask for. _Maybe the whole district turned out to give me a big hurrah. That'd be quite a morale booster._ On the other hand, there was no way to know who the cube had come from. There was no note, just like there was no note with the syringe. _Come on, Pete. Who else could it be besides Norman? Who else would care?_

The strange building Peter had been heading for came into view. It became even odder looking as he approached. The structure had tall spires on the corners of the building and the center came to a tall peak over the door. The stonework was intricate and in stark contrast with the surrounding buildings. A cross topped the entrance. _A church?_ He'd heard that they used to be ornate, but this was on a whole other level.

The large front doors creaked open at Peter's push. The inside was littered with leaves and old books. Colored light streamed in from a few of the windows with intact stained glass. The pews on either side were covered in a thick layer of dust and old books were scattered around. The ceiling was vaulted and towered over him impressively. His boots made too much noise for the quiet space as he walked down the aisle. A huge wooden cross seemed to have fallen from where it had been hung, leaning diagonally across the alcove.

"Whoa. Should have learned a few of those prayers from Kurt." He ignored the ache in his chest at the memory of his friend. Forgetting him would be the worst thing he could do. He'd lived through loss before, and this was only slightly different. He just needed to remember the good things.

He checked the doors, happy when quite a few were locked. The open rooms were quickly searched, but everything of worth had already been taken. Just more books and a few tall candle holders. Peter finished his search and returned to the large main room. "Okay. Food, shelter, and the fruit was in juice so I'll call that water. All check." A yawn escaped and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Now for a place to sleep."

Peter slid the large front doors closed and stuck one of the candlesticks through the handles to keep them securely shut. He made a quick round of the rest of the church, shoving the available candle stick holders through the unlocked door handles to jamb them and pushed pews in front of all the other doors, even if they were locked.

"That should stop most things." He glanced around at the large windows. "But those won't stop anything that climbs." He shuddered remembering how quickly and easily the spider had followed him up the building.

A set of stairs took Peter up into the largest tower of the church. The small windows offered a three-sixty view of the surrounding area without leaving a big enough gap for anything to get in easily. Really, the only way in aside from the stairs was from the top, which was open and housed a set of huge bells which would clag if anything tried to climb past them. Like his own personally burglar alarm.

"This should work well enough." He closed the entry to his tower, jamming the door shut with a slab of broken stone.

The slits of dying sunlight danced off the dust filling the room. With a yawn, he let himself slide down the stone wall. _Really should get some sleep while I can._

He emptied his pockets and set his supplies out in a nice line: Logan's knife, empty syringe, parachute, and the strange cube. _You're right, Kurt. I do have an increasingly odd collection of things._

He folded his hoodie and wadded it into a pillow as he laid on his back. "New list. When I get back, I'm going to shower, eat my weight in pancakes, and shower again. One, two, three." His lips twitched in a grim smile. "_Eins, zwei, drei_." He put an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the arena and finally get some sleep.

But the dang cube kept bugging him.

He winced as he sat up, his back still a bit sore from his tumble off the counter. "It can't make things worse, right? And if this means I get to see everyone one last time it'll be worth it." The plastic was oddly warm in his hand. "Um. Box? You awake?"

The cube hummed against his fingers. "**Peter Parker?"**

"Uh, yeah. We've been over this."

A beep. "**Voice signature accepted. Message from District Eight. Do you wish to play?"**

"Who's in the message?"

"**Command not recognized. Do you wish to play?"**

"Can you tell me who sent it?"

"**Command not recognized. Do you wish to play?"**

A moment of hesitation. "Yes."

The center of the box's far face lit up, projecting a hologram into the room. Peter's breath caught and tears stung his eyes as an image of Gwen materialized. She was sitting on the couch in Peter's house. He could recognize the old flower pattern Aunt May loved so much. "Gwen," he whispered. He hadn't said her name in weeks and it felt like honey. All he wanted to do was reach out and touch her hair. Her face. It felt like such a long time ago that he had kissed her after the Reaping. He just wanted to do that again. As Peter watched, Harry entered the frame.

"_She's finally asleep,"_Harry said as he sat next to the blonde.

_They must be talking about Aunt May._ Peter put a hand over his mouth.. _They really are taking care of her._

"_Good. She needs the rest. She's just been so upset ever since Peter. . ."_ Gwen shook her head and hugged herself.

Harry scooted over and put an arm around her shoulders. "_Hey, it's okay. We all miss him."_

"I miss you guys, too," Peter whispered, afraid to miss anything they said by talking too loud.

Gwen put her head on his shoulder and Harry ran a hand over her hair. "_It's just so hard. I mean, he made it so far. I really thought he had a chance._"

Peter frowned. "What do you mean? I'm still here." Peter looked between his two friends like they could see him. "I'm still in this."

"_I know. But we need to move on._" Harry lifted Gwen's chin so their eyes met. "_Dwelling on it won't bring him back. It will just make the hurt last longer._"

"But I'm not dead!" Peter stood and yelled at the hologram now. The words tore at his sore throat, but he didn't care. "Gwen! Harry! I'm right here! I'm still alive! Don't give up on me yet," his voice cracked.

Gwen nodded slightly. "_You're right. We have to move on for May."_

"_For us."_ Harry's lips met Gwen's. She didn't pull back. If anything, she leaned into it.

Peter's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he watched his best friends kiss. He couldn't look away. His knuckles were white with his grip on the cube. He was shaking so much the image was vibrating. He'd already lost Kurt, Logan, and Kate. He couldn't lose Gwen and Harry.

The image finally faded after an eternity. Peter still stared where it had once been projected. They had given up on him and moved on before he'd even died. In their minds, he'd already lost.

His legs gave out and he collapsed back against the wall, sliding to the floor. The cube tumbled from his limp fingers and rolled a few inches before stopping.

The robotic voice echoed through the room. "**Do you wish to replay?"**

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett**.


	93. Chapter 92: Letters from Home

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back again after a troubling week. As sad as I was after the last update, there was obviously an even bigger shooting only a day later, once again in Orlando, Florida. All I can say is that our thoughts are with the families of the victims. I know it's a heavy note to begin on, but I felt it should be noted – we're all part of the same world, after all! Hopefully nothing terrible will happen between now and the next update – in the Games as well as real life. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.**

**A big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird for their review!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Two – Letters From Home**

**Day Eleven**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"Bad news is always easier than good – since it is, after all, more familiar." _– Richard Ford

* * *

Consciousness came back to Steve in waves. As the oblivion of sleep faded, the aches of the day before slowly revealed themselves – in the throbbing of his hands and feet; the pulsing pain behind his eyes, and the irritated spots of inflammation all over his body where the tracker jackers had stung.

He groaned softly, head buried in the crook of his arm, and then slowly pushed himself onto his back. Pain flashed through his muscles – Steve's eyes widened, and he let out a slow hiss between his teeth_. Ouch._

Steve allowed himself a few minutes to let the ache fade and then pushed himself into a sitting position against the closest wall. It hurt, but he pushed the pain aside – his memories of the night before were hazy at best, and he needed to figure out where he was.

Blinking blearily, Steve struggled to focus on his surroundings. A tracker jacker must have stung him on his right eyelid – it was swollen across his vision and felt hot and tender to touch. He could feel similar stings all over his body – the backs of his hands, his neck, even his cheek. Steve probed them gently, trying to assess the extent of the damage – he knew the poison would already have passed through his system, but if any of the stingers remained inside the punctured skin, then it would increase the risk of infection.

Steve's mother hadn't had to deal with tracker jacker wounds often, but what she did know, she'd managed to pass on to her son. He checked all the bites that he could feel – most of the stingers had been removed, and Steve hazily remembered doing that the night before, but a few had been overlooked. He pulled them out quickly, allowing himself only a grimace as they tore from his skin.

After it was done, Steve let his head fall back against the wall and let out a sigh. He felt heavy with exhaustion, his eyes closing against his will, and Steve had far too little strength to fight against it. He felt them slide shut, his head throbbing, and let his mind slip sideways into darkness.

* * *

He remembered.

_Buzzing. The sound had swelled in the arena, filling Steve's head with noise. Then they'd seen a black cloud over the trees, one that hadn't been there before. The group had exploded into chaos._

_They'd run; Steve remembered that. Or at least they'd tried to. But the tracker jackers were too quick, too unstoppable. Within seconds, they were surrounded – and then stung. Bites had exploded over his skin, and Steve bolted, half-blind, towards the trees, trying unsuccessfully to fight them off._

_There was a dead body at the edge of the clearing. Steve remembered that clearly – the dark skin, the mess of hair cascading over the little girl's shoulders, the way her body slumped against the tree. And the dried blood on her cheek._

_"Ro?" Steve gasped. He stumbled forwards, falling to his knees next to the little girl. "Oh my God, Ro." His voice broke. "Ro, please–"_

_Her eyelids flew open, and Ro whipped her head to face him. Steve choked. "Your eye," he gasped. "Ro, I'm sorry, I'm so–"_

_It was a mess, blood-slicked and torn. Her eyelid was ripped – it fluttered uselessly over the socket. Nausea rose in Steve's stomach, but before he could say anything, Ro opened her mouth and screamed._

_Steve flinched violently, throwing himself backwards. He landed on his hands in the wet grass, and he swung around, his shield coming up with him as he readied himself to fight whatever had made Ro scream like that. _

_And there he was – Cletus. Standing there with an _eye _in his hand, grinning at Steve through pointed teeth. Steve felt the rage boiling just beneath his skin as he burst forward, slamming his shield into the maniac. The lithe little tribute crumpled for only a moment, but then he started to dance out of Steve's reach._

_"__Such a tasty morsel!" Cletus sang out as Steve swung again. The little tribute just grinned at him as Steve missed. "Steee-rike!"_

_Steve swung out again, and he seemed to pass right through Cletus, his shield hitting something sticky. Blood. There was so much – it stuck his shield fast…._

_He screamed out as Cletus seized him by the shoulders and pulled him back, and he spun to face the evil boy, but Cletus backed off – and he sounded like Peter._

_"__Parker?" He blinked hard, and Cletus' form shimmered, the sneer turning to a look of concern. _

_"__You with me, Cap?" Peter asked._

_Steve blinked hard. Peter kept shifting in his vision, turning red and then back to his normal color, but finally, he solidified. "Yeah, I think so," he said, struggling to his feet. "Aren't you seeing things?"_

_"__I had an antidote. I'm fine." Peter seemed to be keeping distance between them. "Just ask me before attacking anything to make sure it's real."_

_Steve nodded, but when he heard a roar further out, he couldn't help but to flinch defensively, holding up his shield. He spun to see the entire Career pack, Carol crumpled in front of them – Thor had his head tilted back as he shouted in triumph. _

_And Peter – Peter was running right for them. Steve had to protect him, so he ran with Peter, ready to fight, until he heard what Peter was shouting. _

_"__Wolverine! Watch it with the claws! You're going to hurt yourself. Or worse, me!" _

_Steve had lost sight of Peter now – he wasn't sure if his ally was, in his mind's eye, Carol or one of the Careers… "Logan, stand down!" he shouted, holding his shield up in defence. _

_He couldn't see Peter, but he could see Carol. No – no, it wasn't Carol. It was Ro. It was–_

_He turned, trying desperately to see where Peter was, but instead, he saw Logan as he pulled his claws free from Kurt's chest. Frozen, Steve could only watch as blood dripped from the blades and Kurt fell backwards. He didn't get back up again._

_Steve's eyes widened, and he scrambled backwards, away from the fight. _Oh, God,_ he thought weakly. _Logan just killed Kurt. _And Ro–_

_He looked back. Ro's body was gone._

_Something was roaring in his ears – his own voice, he realized, though he didn't know what he was saying – and Steve knew he had to move. What if, delirious from the tracker jacker venom, Logan came after him next? If Steve wanted to live, he had to leave. Now._

_He grabbed a low-hanging branch and hauled himself to his feet, clinging to it as his head spun. He heard something and turned instinctively, raising his shield as something struck it with a metallic clang. He scrambled backwards, away from the unseen attacker, and then he pushed off, staggering away from the other tributes. He didn't know where he was going. Steve just knew he had to get away, and quickly._

_He ran as fast as he could, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. His ribcage felt too small to contain it, and the pain was almost too much – but he kept going. Tracker jackers still clung to his skin, stinging at his arms and his face. Steve swatted at himself as he ran, desperate to get them off. But he didn't get them all; Steve could still feel them, like they were crawling under his skin._

_Each gasp was a stab of pain through his lungs, and soon, it was too much. Steve started to slow down, his head tilted back to bare his throat as he struggled for breath. He was tired, so tired, but the urgent pounding of his blood pushed him on. Steve wouldn't stop. He couldn't._

_His foot caught on something, and Steve was sent sprawling to the forest floor. The impact sent waves of pain reverberating through his body. He cried out, but there was no one to hear him._

_He couldn't summon the energy to move. Collapsed in the grass, his body seemed to have given up. Steve was so exhausted that he couldn't even raise his head to see what he had tripped on. He just lay there, his head pounding, and let the venom boil through his veins._

_Then, something cool touched his cheek._

_Steve lifted his head. It was– "Peggy?" he asked, his heart in his throat. She nodded, a soft smile spreading over her lips. "You're here?" Steve's voice broke. "Peggy." He struggled up to his elbows, leaning into the palm caressing his cheek._

_She looked exactly the way he remembered her. Peggy's brown hair was in soft curls over her shoulders, her lips painted bright red. She was still wearing the sharply cut olive-green dress that he'd last seen her in, too. "I'm here, Steve," she reassured him._

_Steve lifted his hand to cup hers, pressing his cheek into the warmth of her palm. "I've missed you so much," he told her, and Peggy gave him a warm smile. He didn't know why she was here, but it didn't matter. He was so, so grateful that she was with him._

_He turned his head to press his lips against the curve of her wrist – and froze. Peggy's skin was smeared by red handprints. Steve lifted his gaze, and his eyes widened. His hands were covered in blood._

_"Steve?" Her voice was so gentle. "Steve, what's wrong?"_

_He couldn't answer. Steve couldn't pull his gaze away – instead it travelled down her arm, to the rest of her body. There was a dark spot on her bodice, growing with every second. Instinctively, he knew it was blood. Steve covered his mouth with a shaking hand and tried not to gag. "Oh no. I'm so sorry – oh, Peggy, I'm–"_

_The blood was dripping onto the ground now. But Peggy didn't notice. Instead, she looked at something behind Steve and screamed in terror._

_The sound split the air, and Steve whirled, trying to see what had made her so panicked. There was another body in the grass. Steve stepped in front of her, his hands clenching into fists. He had his shield, he could fight – and if whatever had killed another tribute was still around, he'd need to._

_Except it wasn't another tribute._

_It was Bucky._

_Steve's breath caught, and he fell to his knees beside his friend. He knew, instinctively, that this was what he'd tripped on. How could he not have recognised his friend?_

_Bucky's face was covered in blood and dirt. His left hand was curled around a knife, its blade rusted, and his knuckles were bruised. Steve tried to find his pulse and failed. He was dead._

_"Bucky?" Steve pleaded. His voice broke. "Bucky, no, please. Don't do this. Bucky–"_

_Bucky's blue eyes flew open. "Run!" he roared, his face contorted in fury. "What are you still doing here, Steve? Run!"_

_"No!" Steve tried to search him for a wound. "I'm going to get you some help, Buck, you're going to be fine–"_

_Bucky's back arched, and Steve fell backwards, terrified that Bucky was having a seizure. But he was still yelling, anger spitting from his lips. "Run, Steve! Run!"_

_"I'm not–"_

_Bucky raised his hand, and Steve turned to see what he was pointing at. It was Carol – her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her face was covered in dirt and grime. Steve glanced down. Her grey shirt was covered in blood._

_She lifted a hand, and Steve didn't move. Where on earth had she gotten another spear?_

_Carol threw it._

_Pain exploded in Steve's chest, and he fell backwards. Carol had attacked him? But–_

_"Run, Steve! What are you waiting for?" Bucky roared._

_Steve looked down, expecting to see the shaft of the spear sticking out of his chest. But there was nothing. Just a small tracker jacker, its stinger buried in the centre of his chest._

_His eyes widened. Steve had been stung by a tracker jacker – no, by a whole horde of them. None of this was real._

_"Steve!" Bucky yelled. He was still writhing in pain, but his tone was becoming more and more pleading. "What are you doing? RUN!"_

_Steve ran._

* * *

He woke with a low, pained gasp. Steve curled forward and knew from the bone-deep ache in his shoulders that he'd been unconscious for a long time. He screwed his eyes shut and took a shaky breath, struggling to slow the rapid pace of his frightened heart.

"Damn it," he whispered quietly. The tracker jacker hallucinations had seemed so _real._ But Steve had been a fool to believe them.

The aches in his body had faded since he'd last been conscious, which Steve was grateful for. He inspected his wounds carefully; the inflammation had gone down slightly, and his skin was cooler to touch. He was healing, then, if slowly. Steeling himself, Steve climbed to his feet.

The room spun. Steve gritted his teeth and waited for the world to settle, straightening once it did. As much as he needed to lie down and let his exhausted body recover, Steve couldn't. He was in a vulnerable enough position already – and Steve had no desire to worsen it by sleeping yet another day away.

He had nothing but his shield. Steve slipped it onto his left forearm, trying to ignore the heaviness in his heart. He had so many questions, tumbling and spinning in his mind. And Steve's memories of his own terrified flight from the bloodbath in the clearing had only created more.

He remembered Ro's dead body and seeing Logan slaughter Kurt. Then there'd been Peggy, and Bucky, and finally, Carol.

Steve knew that they hadn't been real. Of course he knew that – despite how heavy it made his heart. Ro was dead, and so was Carol. By now, their bodies would have been returned to their grieving families. As for Bucky and Peggy, their presence in the arena was impossible.

He shook his head. No. They were both safe in District Five, and Steve knew that. They definitely hadn't been real.

But as for Logan and Kurt… Steve couldn't say. There was something different about his memory of their fight – it didn't feel soft around the edges, or too sharp in his mind's eye like the others. It felt _real._

At the time, Steve had believed it was the truth. He'd fled, terrified that one of his friends would attack him next under the influence of the tracker jacker venom. But looking back…how could he be sure? He'd literally been covered in the mutts – and his blood would have been thick with their hallucinogenic poison. Steve couldn't trust anything that he remembered.

If only he'd seen the recap the night before, Steve would know for sure. But he'd fallen unconscious shortly after stumbling into the first secure building that he'd found, long before the faces of dead tributes would have been shown in the sky.

Steve grimaced, pausing on the doorstep of his temporary base. That was a problem for tonight, when he could watch the recap again and determine the truth of his memories. But for now, he had bigger problems – like finding out where he was.

He shielded his eyes with one hand, scanning the area outside the building. The night before, even delirious from the venom, Steve had had the sense to find a good hiding place before collapsing – he'd been too exhausted to journey too far into the crumbling city but at least made the effort to make it beyond the first few streets.

Steve lowered his hand. There was nothing that he could see; no animals or other tributes. He stepped outside, glancing at the sun. It was dipping towards the west, which meant it was early afternoon. He didn't have much time then, not if he wanted to scout, find food and water, and then make a plan to reunite with Tony, Bruce, and Logan – all before the nightly death recap.

Of course, that raised questions too. Should Steve be aiming to reunite with his old allies? Or, as they'd decided with Kurt and Peter before the tracker jacker attack, was it too late in the Games to have such a big group of allies? Should he be striking out on his own?

Sighing, Steve shook his head. He didn't need to think about that right now. No, he needed to focus on where he was.

Moving carefully, Steve made his way down the street. A vague plan was forming in his mind: he'd examine the immediate area, establish and search an extended perimeter, and then branch out to study the neighbourhood for signs of other tributes.

With any luck, Steve could find water and food supplies during his scouting trip. If not, he could hole up for one more night and then make it a priority in the morning.

After that, he could make his decision about what path to take. But for now, Steve had more immediate concerns.

* * *

A few hours later, Steve had thoroughly searched the area and established a perimeter path. To his disappointment, he'd found precious little – a dirty glass bottle and some scraps of cloth. He'd left the former underneath a dripping faucet in one of the houses close to his base, hoping it would be full by the time he returned. As a water source, it was pitifully unreliable – he'd tried to twist it and open the pipe more, but it had rusted together. For the moment, though, it had been all that he could find.

Steve had finally chosen a direction to branch out in – the most abandoned looking street, leading south – when he heard a soft, gentle beeping from above.

His eyes widened. Steve recognized the sound immediately – it was a parachute. Turning quickly, he searched the sky for the distinctive silver gift. The last time he'd seen one, it had been sent to deliver life-saving medical care to Tony – and Steve could only guess at what Peter Quill had seen fit to send him now.

_There! _Finally, he spotted the sunlight glinting off the metal. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Steve stepped out further into the street, ready to catch the parachute as it landed. It could have been water or food – perhaps a compass, a symbol for Steve to return to his allies. The parachute could hold any number of things.

The gentle beeping cut off as soon as the parachute landed gently in Steve's cupped hands. He unclipped the parachute and examined the gift quickly, turning it over in his hands – it was a sleek, rectangular box. Its base was black, and its silver top was peppered with tiny holes. A reflective black screen covered one thin side, and Steve peered at it quizzically. What on earth had Quill sent him?

**"Steve Rogers."**

He started at the voice, nearly dropping the box in his surprise. Once his heart had stopped racing, Steve re-examined the little unit. The voice had clearly been synthetic and appeared to have come from the box. "Yes?" he tried, hesitantly.

**"Identity confirmed," **the voice accepted. There was a pause, and then the machine spoke again. **"This video communication system contains an important message. It holds information concerning District Five and one of your companions, Bucky Barnes."**

What was so urgent that Steve needed to receive a message in the arena, while fighting for his own life? It couldn't be anything good. Steve pulled his shaking hand away from his mouth, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Whatever it was, he needed to know. "Okay," he agreed, trying to keep his voice even. "Tell me."

**"Please retreat to a safe area before viewing,"** the voice requested.

_Damn._ In his fear, Steve had forgotten to be on his guard. He looked around, searching for signs of another presence – but there was no one. Perhaps the Capitol was simply concerned that the message, whatever it was, would draw attention.

He retreated quickly, taking the time only to retrieve his bottle of water. Before he left, Steve scrunched up the cloths that he'd collected and squeezed them into the sink as a makeshift plug. Depending on how long this message was, perhaps the sink would be full by the time he returned.

It took only a few minutes to return to his little base, though it felt like an hour. Steve's heart beat fast with anxiety, making his breath short. It felt remarkably like an asthma attack, though Steve knew it couldn't be. He was so afraid. What if something had happened to his mother? What if_–_

He forced the thoughts away from his mind, placing the box on the ground. "I'm safe," Steve told it firmly. "Now tell me everything."

Three blinking red dots appeared on the screen, as though the rectangle – which he assumed was some kind of computer – was starting up. But instead of speaking again, the box began to glow. Points of light gleamed from the holes in the box's surface, forming a screen on the nearest wall. Steve retreated until his back touched the opposite wall and slowly slid to the floor.

The black screen faded to a map of District Five. After a moment, the picture zoomed in, focusing on one of the district's many factories. Steve's eyes widened – he knew this one. It was the factory close to the school, where he'd often worked after school with Bucky. "Last night, at approximately 6:18pm, a fire started in the basement of Factory 7. Currently, the cause of this accident is unknown."

Steve watched as the video turned first to a blueprint of the factory and then surveillance footage. It had been sped up – the minutes in the timestamp ticked away as Steve watched the fire's progress. It began off-screen, no more than a glow across the floorboards, but turned quickly into a furious blaze. It devoured the room hungrily, until all Steve could see was flames.

The camera angles changed to show Steve the fire's progression. It didn't take long for the fire to spread, and the staircase caught alight within minutes. There was no alarm system, Steve knew. The money for those was saved for the more dangerous power plants. He pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to take a deep breath around the horror growing in his chest. He'd already seen the power of the blaze – he knew it would have been disastrous for his district.

The fire grew. The basement stairs collapsed within minutes, but by then, it had already spread to the walls. Steve watched, helpless, as the factory workers screamed and tried to run. But the fire was too strong, too merciless – the flames had already surged to cover the doors. There was nowhere to go.

And then he recognized two people in the crowd.

"No, no, no, no no no_–_" Steve begged, rising to his knees. But the two dark heads of hair were unmistakable.

Peggy stood shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, at the very edges of the crowd. Her arms were extended, and her back was to the fire – but Steve could see her mouth moving, her head turning. She was trying to calm them down, he realized.

_They must have been working there after school,_ he thought dazedly. _Damn it. _Last night, when Steve had been slipping in and out of consciousness, his friends had been fighting for their lives.

His eyes were wet, but Steve stared unblinkingly at the screen. Bucky's head was whipping from side to side, searching for a way out. But even Steve could see that the situation was hopeless.

The fire had surged up the walls, consuming the upper levels even as it spread towards Steve's friends. As he watched, the screen split in two – on one side, he could see inside the building as his friends faced certain death, while the other displayed the building from the outside. He watched as windows shattered and the fire surged from the windows. The blaze had reached the top of the building – he could see its orange glow between the gaps in the wallboards.

The disaster had drawn in a crowd. Steve watched as people surrounded the building, desperate to help those inside – but they saw, as he had seen, that the fire was too dangerous. There was nothing they could do.

And then, as suddenly as the fire had been their execution, it threw a lifeline towards Steve's friends. One of the support pillars, weakened by the flames, collapsed. It fell into one of the outer walls, breaking a large hole in its side.

They rushed towards it. But the hole was high in the wall, and the only way to reach it was by climbing over a burning pile of debris. They hesitated, and Steve's fists clenched in his lap. "Come on," he breathed.

Bucky acted first, rushing over to clear the way. Steve could see that it was heavy and surely burned him – but he didn't falter. Some of the other boys and girls rushed over to help him, Peggy included.

The debris was soon cleared, but the hole in the wall was still far too high for them to clamber out of. But they weren't defeated yet. Steve watched as the older children grouped together, lifting the smaller ones so that they could climb free of the burning building. On the other side of the screen, he could see the crowd outside gather to catch them safely.

People from the floors above were jumping out of the windows to escape the fire. Steve watched them anxiously in his peripheral vision, praying silently for their safety. But he couldn't take his eyes off of his friends.

Once the smaller children were safe, the older ones began their escape. But before they could all climb free, a section of the roof collapsed.

There was no audio, but Steve could imagine the chaos and the screaming. He blew out a shaky breath between his teeth, clenching his hands in front of his mouth. _Please be okay, _he begged his friends silently. Peggy had paused on the sill, looking back towards the fallen floorboards. Bucky, still inside the factory, turned around.

People, other factory workers, had fallen through – onto the pile of burning debris. Bucky abandoned the group, rushing over to help them. Peggy called out after him – Steve saw her mouth move, her eyes trained on his best friend – but he was deaf to her voice.

One of the other children pushed Peggy through, forcing her to make room for their own escape. Steve watched on the other camera as she landed, safely, amongst the crowd. Some of the tightness in his chest eased.

But Bucky was still in there.

Steve leaned forward. On the right side of the screen, the outside footage of the building split – on top, it was normal; but below, the footage from the factory basement had returned. He didn't know why – the screen was covered by images of the fire.

Bucky was moving floorboards and pillars, struggling to free the men, women, and children that had fallen through. The smoke was building, and Steve could see Bucky coughing, but he worked tirelessly to free the other workers.

God, Steve was so proud of him – but he was so afraid, too. _Just get out,_ he pleaded silently. _Save them and get out._

The building was unstable and could collapse completely any minute. Steve glanced at the timestamp – it had only been fifteen minutes since the fire had begun. Everything had moved so fast.

Finally, Bucky stopped. Steve couldn't see – or hear – what had given him pause, but he was thankful for it regardless. He took a deep breath as Bucky finally turned back towards the hole in the wall. Relief flooded his chest as Bucky started to move.

His gaze flickered to the other screens. The crowd outside the building had drawn back – why? Steve didn't understand.

Finally, through a flicker in the flames of the basement floor surveillance camera, Steve saw why. He'd forgotten that it was a storage area – used for the tanks of oil used to heat the building during winter.

"Oh, Bucky. No, no, please. No-"

The metal on those tanks was thick, he knew, for these exact situations. But even they couldn't withstand the heat from such a blaze for long.

His gaze flew to Bucky. His best friend had finally broken into a run, sprinting for his escape. Steve rose to his feet, his heart in his throat. He couldn't speak – but every single cell of his body was begging for Bucky to make it out in time.

Bucky leapt up, his hands clinging to the broken boards. He started to pull himself up, muscles straining.

The oil tanker exploded.

Two of the screens went black as the cameras were destroyed. The last one – the view of the factory from across the street – filled the screen once more, expanding until it was all that Steve could see. He was forced to watch, helpless, as the blast destroyed the entire first floor of the factory. In seconds, the entire building collapsed.

After a moment, the screen went black and then disappeared entirely. Steve didn't move. He couldn't even see through the unshed tears blurring his vision.

Bucky hadn't made it out alive. He couldn't have – the explosion was too big, too dangerous. He couldn't have survived.

Steve's best friend was dead.

He buried his head in his hands and wept.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	94. Chapter 93: Justice and Cowardice

**(A/N) Aaaaand we're back, with a spiffy new update for ITEYAK! After some very long notes over the past few updates, I'm gonna keep this brief, just taking the time to praise the wonderful robbiepoo2341 for this chapter, as we return to Kate Bishop.**

**And, of course, to thank Bookcrazysongbird and Lightening sparks for their reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Three **— **Justice and Cowardice**

**Day Eleven**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes."_

\- Lin-Manuel Miranda, "Wait for It," _Hamilton_

* * *

Three days.

Three days on her own. Three days after Clint. Three days as the only Hawkeye in the arena.

Kate splashed some water over her face and rinsed herself off in the remains of a birdbath. It was close to her nest, and she'd been using it as a bit of a bath for herself. ("Get it? Birdbath?" she'd asked Clint when his face appeared in the sky that first night after it happened. It helped, a little, to have a bird pun ready for him every night when she had to look up and see his face. She wasn't sure why, but it did. Maybe because he'd been Hawkeye. At the end. Like the name _meant _something.)

Nearby, she had a canteen, which she filled with water inside the building. Not running water — she wasn't that lucky — but some that had gathered in the remains of a bathtub inside. That storm the night she'd lost her boys had ripped right through the windows of her nest and filled up several crevices with water, and she'd rather stock up on the drinkable stuff in the tub than bathe in it, so she'd make do with the birdbath and with using her hoodie as a rag.

It was used to the abuse by then, anyway. Missing an entire sleeve after that mutt fight, shredded across the back where one of them had tried to claw her — it really wasn't much of a hoodie, at this point, but it still had its uses.

Kate closed her eyes, trying to push the memories out of her head. The screaming. The throbbing in her head as one mutt tried to clobber her from behind. (When it was all over, she found her headband, split in three pieces, on the ground nearby where they were first attacked. It had absorbed the blow—good old Noh Varr.) The horrific _noises _that the mutts made when they died. The even worse noises, the triumphant kind, as they bit and clawed and tore at Clint.

An hour of those noises. She thought she'd go insane listening to them, but she couldn't _leave_. Couldn't manage to remove herself from that door. She could still feel the scraping of the wood on her fingernails as she dug in, clinging desperately to the wall, the door, trying to find a support in the sea of screaming.

And then the silence, which was the worst noise of all.

Kate splashed her face again, wiping away the past day's dirt and grime. She rubbed down her arms next and slipped off her tank top, scrubbing the sweat away from her chest. She winced slightly as she rubbed her right arm, accidentally brushing the monkey paw-shaped bruise from the one that had grabbed her and tried to rip her arm off. She'd stabbed it in the head, and she could still hear the crunching of knife on bone.

She could hear other sounds, too. The desperate shrieks as a few of them tried to pound through the door she'd closed behind her. The rattling sound of the chair she had hastily pushed under the handle. And then the silence as they abandoned her for the easier prey.

And Clint. Always Clint. His screams echoing from the other side of the door. And she'd _tried_. She'd _wanted _to wait for him, but he was a million miles away when they got to him, and she'd known he wouldn't make it.

Couldn't make it.

He told her to get out of there. He'd said he would catch up to her. And he _lied_. He lied, and she lost him, and it wasn't _fair_.

And she'd just stood there. Let it happen. Waited inside her building. Safe.

_Coward_.

She should have stayed by his side. Fought with him. They'd been doing okay, hadn't they? They'd taken down a few of them together, and sure, Clint's arm didn't look like it was good for much archery after that ape was through with him, but she could have defended him, right?

Should have taken on that army and shown them who was boss. That's what she should have done. Forget what Clint said about getting out of there. Forget doing the sensible thing. The _right _thing was to protect her little lost Hawkeye, and she hadn't done it. She'd just let him give up, all so she could stay alive just a little while longer.

Three days. He'd bought her three days of _surviving_, and when she got out of the arena, she'd count those days, too.

Kate gasped, her throat raw, and fought back the tears, steadying herself against the birdbath.

Yesterday, she would have hummed to herself. That had always seemed to help when she was with Clint. He would smile at her as she hummed, and she would pretend she hadn't noticed. And then she would hum some more, because it was worth it. So she kept humming even after he was dead, because it helped. Helped to pretend she was still playing the game, the one that she and Clint would play where they would both pretend not to be on the verge of tears.

Kate had always been better at that game than he'd been. But not this morning.

This morning, Kate wasn't playing the game anymore. She couldn't, because she just couldn't _make _herself hum anymore. Couldn't pretend.

Not after last night.

* * *

_The Marvel anthem played, and Kate looked up from her meal. More pigeon, but this time, she'd found some preserved fruit, and somehow, the candied pears and the pigeon made it feel like she had her boys back — all of them._

_But then the music played, and Kate was alone, and she looked up at the sky._

_Clint's was always one of the first faces, so Kate made sure she was outside around the time of the anthem and the parade of the dead. She couldn't miss it. She owed him that much._

"_Hey, Clint," she said quietly when he appeared. She didn't have long to talk to him. "Found a nest this morning. The breakfast was eggs-ellent."_

_And then his picture faded away, and Kate felt her breath catch in her throat. He was gone again. Gone, and there was nothing she could do to change that._

_It was stupid, really. Talking to a dead person._

_She watched the rest of the parade with only half an interest. She knew most of it by heart already, anyway. Clint was up there. Lots of others that didn't deserve to be up there — a few who did._

_But then there was a new face, grinning and gorgeous and kind, even in just his picture._

_The can of pears clattered to the ground, and Kate felt all the breath leave her body._

"_Kurt," she whispered, staring up at the sky, her hands shaking, the tears hot and salty on her lips._

_A scream started somewhere in her throat, but it never made it out. She opened her mouth, but nothing happened — she didn't have enough air in her lungs to scream._

"_Kurt," she whispered again. And then again._

_Once more, because his name was warm and light on her tongue and tasted like laughter, and she wanted to remember it._

* * *

She gasped as the cold water hit her face and shook her head, trying to chase away the memory with a good shock.

She hadn't slept much last night. Couldn't close her eyes, not with Kurt's face just behind her eyelids, blue and lifeless in the sky. That was why she was crying. If she'd been more awake, she might have had a better handle on her emotions.

At least, that was the story she'd tell anyone who asked when she got out of the Games and they played back that moment.

She wouldn't let them have her pain, because it was _hers_, and it hurt, and that's how she knew it was real. So she would pretend she was okay, and when she got back home, back to Twelve, she would buy a coffee machine, and no one would know it was for Kurt, for the cup of coffee he was supposed to drink to remember _her_, not the other way around.

Kate slipped her tank top back on and pulled her boots over her jeans. She hadn't washed her jeans at all since she lost Clint, though she probably would have earlier in the Games, back when she cared about keeping herself clean, away from the carnage. But now? His blood clung to the jeans — sticky at first and then just a heavy stain, hardened and brown — from when she knelt beside Clint's body.

It had seeped into her skin, it seemed, the moment she knelt down. Into her boots and socks. But she didn't think about that. She only thought about how warm — and how cold — he felt when she threw her arms around him. About how he reached up for her, a _look _in his eyes as he said _her _name. The name that mattered to him. The only name that had ever mattered to him.

He'd been with her, with Natasha, at the end. Kate was glad for that small kindness.

After that, she wore the red stain on her jeans as a weird sort of badge. The boots and socks she cleaned off because she couldn't stand the squishy noises, because it was one thing to preserve and honour his memory and another thing to go insane — and she wasn't sure where the line was, but socks were on the other side of that line for sure. But the rest she left, because that was what she had left of Clint. The stains on her jeans, the bow in her hands, the canteen at her side, and the picture in the sky.

She had even less of Kurt. She had a scrap of fabric he once tied around her arm, even though this far into the Games, it was clearly no longer necessary. (She refused to take it off.) She had the knife, which she tucked into her belt. And she had a picture in the sky.

What was she going to say to him tonight? She didn't have bird puns for Kurt. She didn't have something that she could throw away in just a few seconds.

It wasn't _fair _to lose him like this. Separated. She should have _been _there. Should have saved him. That's what alliances were _for_.

Or at least maybe she could have been there when he died. She'd been there for Clint. Watched the hovercraft come and pick him up. Watched until she couldn't see him anymore, even with her binoculars. Because there was nothing left to do but mourn, and he deserved that much.

Had anyone done that for Kurt? Watched him being taken away? Felt his skin grow cold beneath theirs as the last life left him? Had Pete and Logan been enough to watch over him, or had he also been separated in the storm, away from the others, dying alone? Did he ask for her, at the end?

She liked to imagine that it had been peaceful. Quick. Merciful. That he left with a smile on his face and with his friends by his side, even if Kate wasn't there, too. She imagined that for him, because that was what he deserved.

But that was all she could do — imagine. She couldn't _know_. She'd never _know_, until she got out of the Games, and even then, she wasn't sure she wanted to know, because what if it turned out she could have prevented it? What if he was outnumbered, and her being there could have made a difference? What if he'd died alone and crying out for help?

But scenes like that would only push her over that line of insanity, and she had been careful not to cross it so far. So she imagined a good death and tried not to think of the other, very real, possibilities. Tried not to think of Kurt screaming the way Clint had. The sound was…unbearable.

She should have been there. Should have told Kurt all the things she meant to say. The things she couldn't say now, because he was dead, and he was just a picture in the sky. Like how his face was the best thing she'd ever seen when she found him that second day in the arena. Like how his laughter was the only thing keeping her sane after the spiders attacked, after they'd seen Pete so lifeless in that nest. Like how she liked the way he looked when he'd just woken up, when everything took him twice as long to process.

She wanted to tell him lots of things, but they would take longer than a few seconds of time in the sky, and so now she never would.

So, instead, she would promise him justice. That was what she would say tonight.

She pretended she wasn't crying for about the fifth time that morning and pulled on her hoodie. With only one sleeve, it wasn't exactly functional, but she couldn't tie it around her waist either, so she pushed up the other sleeve so that at least she wasn't dying of heat. "Okay," she said. "Time for a supply run."

She climbed up to the top of her nest and pulled out her binoculars, taking in the streets the way she always did. They'd been quiet for three days, and today was no exception as she scanned the still-empty cityscape.

Tucking away the binoculars, she shimmied back down to the ground and made her way a few buildings over, where the preservatives were. This time, she thought she might try some of the canned pasta. She was a little tired of pigeon.

"_I'm not eating pigeon every day for the rest of my life."_

Kate frowned and pushed away the memory of Clint's voice, reaching for her quiver without even thinking about it.

She was still doing that — reaching for the bow, for the quiver, like it was still Clint's. A part of her would always think that she was rebelling, using it without permission. And a part of her would always think that it would never be hers, that carrying it was like carrying Clint.

It had been hard, the first few times, shooting the bow. She kept imagining she could feel the warmth of his hands on it, like he was laying claim to it even when he was still dead.

* * *

"_You didn't have to do that."_

_Kate was shaking all over. She'd stopped crying now, but then the shaking set in, and while she could actually get some words out now that the sobbing had stopped, each breath was a shudder that made her voice sound raw._

"_You didn't have to do that. I could have helped you. We could have fought them off. You idiot." But he wouldn't answer her, because he was long dead. The cannon had long ago sounded. She'd closed his eyes herself._

_Her hands were shaking, but she knew she had to get herself together. There might be more danger around the corner. And Clint saved her — kept her alive. So she had to stay that way, and the only way to do that was to win._

_She _would _win. For him._

"_You idiot," she said again through clenched teeth as she reached down and grabbed the strap of his quiver. "You didn't have to do that," she said, because she didn't have any more words left, because it was hard enough to take the bow from him, to pry it out of his hands. He had a death grip on his weapon, had practically wrapped himself around it, and it wasn't _fair.

_It wasn't fair._

"_I told you not to give up," she whispered. "And then you went and did _this_."_

_She brushed back his hair again, the way she'd done when she first ran to him. Tried not to remember the way he had leaned in to the touch, the _name _he whispered as she cradled his head in her arms._

_He'd never come back from losing her. Not really. Kate had only been able to give him back his smile, but not his will to live._

"_This is not what I wanted," she whispered, her hands still shaking as she shouldered the quiver. _

_"This is not...I didn't ask for this." She gulped and turned her face to the sky. "This is not what I meant when I asked for a bow."_

* * *

She shook her head, pushing aside the memory. It had been three days. She had to move on, or she would lose what was left of herself to the Games. "Keep it together, Kate," she muttered, scooping a few more cans into her arms.

_Ding._

The noise was so soft and yet so unmistakable that Kate nearly dropped her cans.

_Ding._

There it was again. Kate could hardly believe it — what had she done to generate sponsor interest over the last three days, besides barely keep herself from falling apart?

"A parachute?"

Carefully, she poked her head out of the window of the building. Her keen gaze caught the flash of silver in an instant, and it was headed right for her.

Kate frowned, staring at the parachute as it got closer and closer. Her fingers reached for Clint's bow (no, it was _her _bow now), for her quiver, as it approached — just in case. Because something felt off about this parachute drop.

"I appreciate the thought," she said quietly to the falling silver canvas, "but what is it you think I _need_?" After all, she had plenty of weapons — her allies, both the dead and the not-yet-dead, had made sure of that. She had water, she had food. She had a tenuous grasp on sanity. That was everything she needed to survive, wasn't it?

In response, the parachute dinged at her and landed, with a light clatter, in the doorway.

She frowned at it and picked it up, examining the little plastic box at the bottom of the parachute. It didn't seem to have any hinges or any way to get inside….

"**Katherine Bishop?"**

"Ack!" Yep, that was the sound a victor would make. She really needed to get better at this sort of thing before she went on a victory tour and had to look the part of a winner. As it was, she nearly dropped the plastic cube in surprise, but she had good reflexes, and she caught it in a single movement.

"**Katherine Bishop?" **the box said again. It had a metallic kind of voice, the sort that sounded like it was filtered through an announcement system. It sounded like the voice that had counted down the beginning of the Games.

"Umm. Hi. I mean…" She frowned, shaking her head. "Right, yeah, I'm Kate Bishop."

The box whirred and chirped in her hands, and she took it further inside the building so that the noises wouldn't echo down the deserted streets. It would be no good if she attracted unwanted attention, and while she hadn't seen anything in her preliminary search, she knew from experience that didn't mean there was nothing out there.

She hadn't seen the mutts that killed Clint, after all. Not until it was too late.

"**This cube contains information for Katherine Bishop," **the box said.

She felt the grin split her lips. "Now _that _is something I can use," she said. "Point me in the direction of a good adventure, then. Tell me how to win this game, huh?"

"**The information concerns the friends of Katherine Bishop in the arena."**

Kate felt her stomach lurch, and she nearly dropped the box again. She reached out to steady herself with one hand, her mind whirling. "What kind of information?"

_Kurt. It's got to be talking about Kurt._

But no, Kurt was dead. The Gamemakers wouldn't waste their time on a dead tribute. It had to be Logan. Or Peter. Or both.

Maybe they were hurt. Maybe they needed her help. Maybe she'd missed all the action, missed the part where her boys tried to save Kurt.

Because that _had _to be what happened. She couldn't accept the idea that he'd died alone. Not Kurt. Not the boy who could make friends with _anyone_.

So yes, maybe Logan was out there with a knife in his shoulder, the one he tried to take for Kurt. Maybe Peter was bleeding out somewhere after the battle that took Kurt from them, and Logan was desperately trying to stop the bleeding. Maybe they needed her help. Maybe there was a chance she could save what was left of her boys.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked the cube, her eyes suddenly bright. "Is it a map? Can you take me to them?"

"**This information should be viewed in a safe location."**

With that, the box seemed to shut down, and the little whirring and chirping noises stopped. It felt cooler in her hands, and it seemed, somehow, more purple than blue.

She stared at the box for some time, the cans of pasta discarded at her feet, forgotten in the moment. With a heavy _thud_, she slid down the wall, her heart pounding in her ears.

"Kurt," she whispered. She hadn't meant to, but the name sat in the air before her like a ghost.

_I promised him justice. Or, at least, I'm going to_, she thought. _This could help me._

But something nagged at the back of her mind. Why send her this information at all? Why tell her where her friends were? Why spend the effort to send her a parachute that led her back to people she was expected to outlive?

_The Capitol twists everything. They lie, and they manipulate_. She knew these things. She'd seen kids in other Games being led into traps so obvious they might as well have had neon, glowing signs. She'd lived in the Capitol for only a few days, but it was long enough to recognize the double-talk and hidden agendas.

_But this could help me_.

She shook her head, tossing her hair angrily over her shoulder, before she went back to grabbing her cans of pasta. She would decide what to do about the box later. At the moment, she needed to focus on eating and running a quick patrol of the area around her nest.

The box seemed to be turning more and more purple the longer she left it alone, and it was a weird kind of shape that didn't fit into her torn-up hoodie pockets. It wasn't long before it became a nuisance to carry around, and Kate sighed, tucking her supplies in as best she could while still leaving herself space to manoeuvre for her bow at a moment's notice should she need it.

"Okay, fine. You win. Let's go back to my place, Cube of Secrets," she muttered after about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to pretend the cube wasn't consuming her every thought.

The trek seemed, somehow, longer as she made her way back to her nest. Her footsteps seemed louder. Or maybe it was just that she seemed suddenly able to hear everything, including her own breathing and heartbeat, much louder than normal.

She set down her supplies and climbed up to the top of the nest for one last look around.

It was deathly quiet.

_Either they've forgotten about me or they're keeping this space clear so I can play the message_, Kate thought with a frown. It didn't exactly make her want to trust the box any more than before.

She set the box on a table and knelt down, placing her chin on the table so that she was even with the cube thing. "Okay," she said quietly, "here's the thing. You definitely feel like a trap to me."

The cube, as expected, did not respond.

She sucked in a breath and let it all out at once, her cheeks puffing out as she did so. She let her head fall to one side so that her cheek was smooshed against the table, then sighed again. "Yeah, okay, no one ever accused me of being all that bright," she said at last, reaching out for the box so she could pull it closer.

"Cube of Wonders?" _This is probably a trap._

"**Katherine Bishop?"**

Kate frowned at the box. "Yeah. It's, umm, it's me." _If this explodes, I'll have the stupidest death in the whole Games. And Clint will never forgive me._

"**Do you wish to play the message for Katherine Bishop?"**

She took a deep breath. "Sure. Why not?"

Kate winced, preparing for the worst, but instead, the box whirred to life, turning bright blue like the Tesseract.

"**Katherine Bishop. You have requested information concerning your former allies in the arena."**

"Former allies?" Kate repeated, making a face. "I prefer temporarily misplaced…" But then she trailed off when she saw the video that played on the wall nearby.

There were her boys. All three of them. They looked a little bit shiny, like their colour was off, somehow, but Kate wondered if that was the Capitol trying to make them look less grimy for broadcasting. Still, it looked unnatural, and Susan would probably have had about five different criticisms for the film editors by now.

Her boys were in danger, though, so the shininess wasn't all that important at the moment.

The camera zoomed in on the action, and there was no mistaking the fear in Kurt's eyes, or the anger in Logan's. There was terror there, too, just behind Logan's expression, but he had always channelled it better. Kurt hadn't yet drawn his sword, but he seemed to be bobbing uncertainly, as if he was ducking some opponent. Logan had his claws out and swinging, and Kate squinted to see who, or what, they were fighting or running from.

Because it never would have occurred to her that they were fighting _each other_.

It shouldn't have been possible. Not the way Logan had always _looked _at Kurt when they were all around the campfire. Like he was something worth protecting. Like he was better than the rest of them. And Logan was right, of course. Kurt had been pure and kind and everything that the Games were supposed to stomp out of you. Kate had seen that, too, but not the way Logan had. He'd seemed to see something ... redemptive, almost. Like Kurt could _make _him good.

So Logan would never have done _this._.

Kate gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as the recorded message played on, and she wanted to shout, to scream, to step in and stop this, because she'd seen the face in the sky.

She knew how this ended.

The dance was all too short, and yet it was strangely unfamiliar. Before, when they had been at the nest, it had been effortless for them. Her boys. Kurt, light on his feet and quick to duck and dodge and weave; Logan, centred and barrelling through everything, leaving any strays for Kurt to pick off. Kate had slipped into that team so easily, but now, watching them turn on each other, they looked off-balance. The partnership turned in on itself; the two styles clashed. Logan's heavy swings could be dodged, yes, but they were inevitable. He wouldn't tire as quickly as Kurt would, and for some reason, Kurt kept getting closer ... closer.

And then…The _sound_.

It wasn't at all like the sound of the mutts tearing into Clint. It was so _final_. A dull and wet sound that mixed with a gasp.

Her eyes filled with tears, and it was hard to see the recording, but she wiped furiously at her eyes. She had to _know_. She had to _see_, because this was Kurt, and this was the only thing she could do for him. The only way she could be there for him. Not in person, but across a screen, and it wasn't _fair_.

And then there was Kurt — her beautiful, selfless, pure Kurt — dying on the screen. Pleading, telling Logan it wasn't his fault.

The camera angle changed. Where it had once been close, zoomed in so that Kate could see even the slight reflection of tears on Kurt's face during his final moments, now it was a wide shot. Kurt was on the ground. Logan was shouting. Kate spotted Peter, running from the bloodshed. Running from _Logan_. Running from Kurt, so that Kurt died alone with only the traitor for company.

And then, the video ended.

"_What_?" Kate managed to gasp, her voice raw, her eyes wide. She spun around, grasping the cube in both hands — it was already turning purple, powering down. "That can't be it. There _has _to be more." She shook the cube, but it seemed to be collapsing in on itself, shrinking away into nothing.

"Augh!" Kate pitched the cube as hard as she could across the room, and it bounced off the wall, coming to a rest at the foot of the table before promptly combusting in on itself, leaving only a thin wisp of smoke.

"No," she said out loud, bracing herself against the table, trying not to give in to the sensation somewhere around her knees that passing out would be a good idea right now. "No," she said, louder this time. "No, I don't believe it. It's not real. It _can't _be."

But she could still hear the sound of Logan's claws as they tore the life out of Kurt. They couldn't have faked it. Couldn't have faked Kurt's final words, because of _course _he would forgive Logan. Of course he would. He was too good for these Games.

He had always been too good for the Games. Not a _coward _like she was.

She felt the cry rip from her throat and reached out for something else to throw, heard the metallic _clank _of a metal tin of ravioli hitting the wall. "Well, you know what, Kurt?" she shrieked as she turned on her heels to stare accusingly at the still-smoky remains of the cube. "You may be a saint, but I'm _not. _I'm not too good for these Games." She looked up at the ceiling, where she imagined there had to be cameras, to catch her reaction to the video.

"Do you hear that?" she bellowed. "I'm going to _win_ these Games. And I'm going through Logan to do it!" She could feel her lips curling into a snarl and let them. Let Marvel see that she could be just as vicious. She wasn't the weak Hawkeye, the one that needed protecting. _Not a coward. _She wasn't some little girl hiding in the shadows of better fighters like Clint, or Kurt, or…or Logan.

No, her boys were the ones that had needed protecting. Her boys Kurt and Pete, because Logan wasn't worthy of that title anymore. And while she was out playing bird puns, she'd let them get betrayed.

She'd _known _Logan was bad news from the beginning. Hadn't she? Hadn't she been ready to take him on when they first met him? She'd pulled out her little knife, and Kurt hadn't been ready to attack, and his trust is what cost him his life.

Should have killed Logan right then and there. Would've saved them all a lot of trouble.

Maybe they wouldn't have been able to save Peter from the spiders, but at least then Peter would have died well — quiet and sleeping, the way they found him. Not whatever death Logan would inflict on the kid when he caught up to him. Or whatever death the Gamemakers had planned — a death like Clint's, like agony and terror.

She should have killed Logan, just threw her knife right into his side, where he'd been hurt. Or spread a little dirt in his bandage so he'd get infected.

But she hadn't killed him then. So she had to do it _now._

She'd stick him full of arrows to slow him down, keep him from turning on her as well. And then, when he was weak and dying, she'd throw Kurt's knife, right through his heart. Just so Kurt would be there when she killed him.

And she'd watch as he died. She'd be there for his last breaths, only she wouldn't mourn like she'd mourned Clint. She'd mourn for herself, for the line she knew she had to cross. But not for Logan. He didn't deserve her pity.

"I'll kill him," she said, because the words tasted good. Raw and golden, like revenge, and they burned hotter than the dull ache in her stomach when she thought about Clint. About Kurt.

_You don't know_, a voice like reason said in the back of her mind. It was warm and sounded like Kurt, but it felt like a different life, like pine trees and the freedom of going over the fence. Like something the old Kate would think, the one that wasn't in the Games. _You only saw what the Gamemakers wanted you to see. You don't know what happened._

"I know what I saw," she muttered to herself as she glanced at the wall, where only moments before, Kurt had been dying.

_Why would Logan attack Kurt? Kurt's the only one he ever really liked._

"I know what I saw," she muttered again, but she knew it sounded feeble, like an excuse.

_He must have been pushed._

Kate resisted the urge to laugh — it would look like she had come unhinged. But it was there, the urge to laugh, the way the smile had crept up on her the day she was Reaped. Pushed? _Of course_ Logan had been pushed into killing Kurt. They'd all been pushed into these Games. None of them _wanted _to court death this way … except maybe the Careers (barring Clint, of course).

Pushed? Sure, Logan had been pushed. Just like Kate knew she was being pushed now, prodded by the Gamemakers into going after Logan.

But it didn't really matter, did it? These were the Avenger Games, and people died in the Avenger Games. Kids who didn't deserve to die.

_Kurt. Clint._

And they were killed by kids who didn't want to be killers.

_Clint. The look on his face. After Natasha._

Kate waved her hand. It didn't matter. The Games turned kids into killers, and Logan was no exception. He was part of the Games now, and it was high time Kate stopped pretending that the Games were anything but death traps and terror.

No more singing campfire songs and braiding hair — that had died with Kurt. With Clint.

Kate had been saying all along that she would win the Avenger Games, but she'd been ignoring what that really meant. What sacrifices would have to be made. She'd start with Logan — make him suffer — and then she'd find Peter. Try to keep him safe from the worst of the Games, try to ease him gently out of this nightmare, because … well, she _had _to. To save Peter from this feeling, from _surviving_.

But she would be kind — he wouldn't feel a thing. Not like Clint. Not like Kurt. Peter deserved better.

And then Kate would be the winner. She'd be a killer. She'd be the girl she pretended not to be for Kurt's sake — because Kurt wasn't here anymore; she had no one left to pretend for. Because Kurt had been killed trying to be a friend to a wild animal.

But it didn't matter. She'd been pushed into this, pushed into the Games, and it was time she accepted that. Time to be the victor. Time to live up to the avenging part of the Avenger Games.

She hadn't been able to avenge Clint. The mutts were gone. But Kurt?

Kate hadn't realized that her hands were already around the staves Logan had made for her until she looked down, but when she did, her entire face broke out in a grimace of a grin. How fitting. She was probably the best-armed kid in the Games, and Logan had helped her get this way.

"Okay," she said out loud, shouldering her quiver and brushing herself off. "No more Miss Nice Hawkeye." She squared her shoulders and levelled her gaze at the little black mark on the floor that had once been the cube. "I'm going after Logan," she told the cube. "And heaven help anyone who gets in my way."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	95. Chapter 94: Thunderstruck

**(A/N) Hey everyone, it's that time again – new update time! I'm looking at our list of remaining updates, and to be honest, there's not a whole lot to go. Twelve, maybe thirteen more updates, and I'm really hoping that we'll be finished by the start of August. After that, I guess we'll be looking for writers for a sequel, should there be any demand for that. As you'll notice, Taila didn't write this chapter - unfortunately, it seems like she's dropped out, as she hasn't answered our PMs for a while now. Hopefully she's okay. Thankfully, Robbie, CC and Cas were all good enough to take some time out to work on the chapter, and I think they've done Taila's previous work justice.**

**A big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird, Idalove2read, Rip, GeekyComicBookGuy and our anonymous Guest for their reviews! Hope you'll all stick with us, as we get closer and closer to the end!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Four **_–_** Thunderstruck**

**Morning, Day Twelve**

**Tony Stark of District Three**

**Written by robbiepoo2341, Canucklehead Cowgirl &amp; abrokencastiel**

* * *

"_Forget the hearse 'cause I never die." _

– AC/DC, "Back in Black"

_Dead I am the life, dig into the skin  
Knuckle crack the bone, twenty-one to win  
Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry  
Devil on your back, I can never die_

– Rob Zombie, "Dragula"

* * *

"Oh," Tony said quietly as he blinked at the sunlight starting to peer in through the broken blinds of the building he'd holed up in. "It's morning."

It was that realization, and the sound of a bird chirping obnoxiously outside his window, that actually got Tony to look around at what he'd been working on. He hadn't actually paid it much attention yesterday _–_he had just…_needed _something to do with his hands. Something to occupy his mind. Now, looking at it, he realized it sort of looked like the beginnings of a boot. If… well, if that was what his sleep-deprived and coffee-deprived head thought a boot looked like.

He glared down at the offending _thing _in his hand and set it aside. He needed to duck into the bathroom next door, with the dripping faucet. Splash some water on his face and then drink some, too, because he knew he had to hydrate after the alcohol yesterday.

_Right. Because dehydration's definitely what'll do me in here. _He splashed the water over his face and shook it off, trying to force a little awareness back to his head without forcing the feeling back yet. Which… wasn't exactly possible, but he could hope.

He put his face under the tap again and took a long drink, which still tasted like whiskey. When he straightened up again, his mouth was still a bit fuzzy, and the standing up too fast hadn't exactly helped his case.

"Well, Tony," he told himself. "Time to see what you were drunk-creating back there."

It wouldn't be the first time he'd started to come out of a project half-conscious and wondering what he was doing, either. He was half-convinced his best projects happened that way, and when Tony made his way back to the dining table that he'd apparently made his desk last night, he had to wonder where he'd found the robotics parts that were strewn everywhere.

_Unless… _He shook his head. "Well." He looked down at the collection of odds and ends. "I'd like to congratulate myself on my own bravery. Stealing from Ultron. Pretty ballsy." He grinned for a second, but there was no one to appreciate it.

"Hope I get to see the recap of that later," he muttered to himself before he started picking through the debris. "Did I drag the whole thing back here?" He looked around himself before he decided to continue on _–_ deeper into the room _–_ past the scattered parts and wires. He noted several things right off the bat. The other boot for one, and a rigged up piece that looked as if it could slip over his head. He picked it up experimentally and looked into it before he very carefully tried to pull it on, though he stopped short of pulling it over his head immediately.

"I better not get stuck in this stupid thing," he breathed out. "Here goes nothing." He closed his eyes and pulled on the metal shell. He only had to turn his head a little bit to get his head through and then it was almost as if it had been hand forged just for him. "Not a bad fit." He tried to bend over _–_ but the bottom edges of the plate dug in a bit more than he liked, and the sound of it scraping against the battery was a little disconcerting.

"Okay, gonna have to pad that up _–_ but for a drunken start, not too shabby," he said with a little self-satisfied smile. "At least it'll protect the headlight." He slipped it back off his head with relative ease and gently set it down next to the boot before going back to his exploring.

Amid the bits and pieces of Ultron bits, leather, and wiring, he spotted something blue, and the pit of his stomach dropped as he recognized the sharp corner of a cube. "_Why _did I bring _that _with me?" he asked aloud as he crouched down to look at the cube. It looked like it had fallen from one of the tables nearby, and he could vaguely remember setting it down.

The weird part was that he was pretty sure Bruce's had combusted after it had played its message. At least, he _thought _that was what the strange popping, almost explosive sound had been after the big guy had just crashed out of the place. But then Tony saw that he'd set the thing down on some loose wiring, and he snorted out a disbelieving laugh.

"Right. Can't catch the drunk tribute on fire. Not this late. That's no fun unless he does it himself. They'll be crying foul in the Capitol otherwise," he muttered.

He wanted to move the cube somewhere…he didn't really know where, but just _out _of his workspace. That way, he didn't have to look at it, because just _looking _at it? It was setting his teeth on edge.

He frowned and tried to dig around in the mess he'd created for himself for something he could use as a tool. Maybe he could smooth out the edges of the helmet. Or…maybe he could work on something like protection for his arms? Like sports padding, but tougher. Or…he could set up…_something_.

He let out a frustrated shout and gave up entirely, instead turning back to the cube and pitching it as hard as he could through the glass window. Which was probably a stupid idea, now that he thought about it _– _drawing attention and making noise. Didn't make it any less satisfying, though.

He heard the light popping sound of the thing combusting on itself, and, despite himself, he felt his lips curling back into a sneer. "Good riddance," he said, jutting out his chin.

Now if only he could get rid of the cube's message as easily.

* * *

"_**This message is for Anthony Stark and regards other tributes participating in these Games. It may only be viewed in private, and only by Anthony Stark."**_

"_Yeah, yeah. This is just about as private as it's gonna get, my angular friend," Tony said, staring at the weird little box in his hands. "Just me and some cockroaches. If it helps, I'll name that one Anthony."_

"_**Anthony Stark?"**_

_He glared at the cube. "Yeah. Hello. You're stalling, I think."_

"_**Do you wish to play the message for Anthony Stark?"**_

"_Yes!" He took the cube in both hands. "That's what I've been – oh never mind. Do your thing, Cubert."_

_The box lit up with life in his hands and projected a message onto the nearby wall. It was slightly obscured by the overturned chairs, so he adjusted the angle a bit so he could see better. _Yeah, just…right there.

_He nearly dropped the thing in surprise, though, when he realized what he was looking at. Capitol surveillance feeds – it had to be. He could just see the angles in his head. This one was the really obvious one in the District Three quarters they'd been given in the Capitol. And this one looked like it was on the opposite wall…And Pepper was sitting on her bed, flipping through the feed on the television as the Capitol commentators were going over the tribute scores._

"_Pep?" He felt his voice crack the slightest and swallowed. He watched her scribbling notes down for a while and frowned. He looked up at the ceiling for a second. "What's the idea here? What's the game? She's dead! You can't just…" _

_He trailed off when he heard her voice. He missed what she'd said, but he saw now that the scene had changed. She had that little notebook clutched to her chest, and she was talking with Sinthea. The two of them had their heads together as they whispered, but the Capitol feeds had managed to pick it up loud and clear._

"_Are you sure you want to team up with _him_?" Sin asked, her nose wrinkling, and Tony felt his mouth go even drier than it had been before. They were talking about him. Had to be._

"_He's my district partner," Pepper replied. "And he's smart. We can use him."_

"_That's not exactly going to help you get revenge, you know," Sin pointed out. "I mean. If you want to team up with someone who can _really _make it worse…" She trailed off and grinned. "Well, you've got me for that part. But if you're desperate for a third, there are other ideas." _

_Pepper shook her head obstinately. "I need…I need to keep an eye on him. I don't want to lose him."_

_Sin raised an eyebrow. "Lose him like – lost in the halls in this crazy place? Or… _lose _him?"_

_For just a second, a smile lit up Pepper's face, but it was nothing like what Tony was used to seeing from her. "I just want to _see…_I want to be there when…" She trailed off, and the smile disappeared as she seemed to realize what she was saying, and she shook her head. "Who were you thinking if not Tony?"_

_Sin lit up with a grin. "I was thinking we could make it a trio. Dangerous redheads. We can't get the Career from Two, but that girl in Ten…she looks deadly."_

_Pepper bit her lip. "That sounds like an easy way to get _ourselves_ killed," she pointed out. "Let's just stick with us and Tony."_

_Sin shrugged easily. "If you say so," she said. "I still think there are better ways to get revenge."_

_The scene in front of him flickered out, and Tony was left staring at the blank wall as the pieces fell into place. _

_What was it Sin had said when she attacked him? She was "fulfilling someone's wish" or whatever high-and-mighty thing it had been right before he got _handcuffed to a pole_. He hadn't been paying all that much attention at the time, but now he wished he had. _

_He thought it was just…bravado. Figured she was trying to make herself seem like the hero. He hadn't thought… _

Pepper_._

_Out of all the people in the world, Pepper had been a constant. He hadn't…hadn't ever thought…He knew she was _angry_, but he hadn't thought she was _that _angry._

And I did that to her. I…Everything that's gone wrong in her life, that was my fault.

_He couldn't even make himself move as he just kept staring at the wall. He wasn't aware that he had started to cry until he had to sniff to get a breath, and that was about when he heard the explosion coming his way that was Bruce._

Pepper, _he thought blearily even as the door burst open. It was his fault she was in the Games, too. Wasn't it? It had to be his fault, too, if she volunteered for him. _

_He was a wreck by the time Bruce had picked him up, and he hadn't really felt it when his head hit the wall, because he deserved it, didn't he? He just dragged other people into his mess. Dragged Pepper into his life and left her without her dad, with her mom in that state…And then he'd dragged her into the Games, apparently. _

_Dragged Bruce into babysitting him and his stupid headlight. Dragged Steve into helping, too, and look where that got Ororo. If he'd just died like he was supposed to, the little shoe shop alliance wouldn't have been trapped together. _

_He heard Bruce shouting at him and hadn't really registered anything until Bruce got up to, "You murdered her!"_

_Tony looked up and tried to say something. That was true. He… he'd killed someone. That girl from Nine had died in the sewers, but that wasn't even the _half _of it. He'd killed _Pepper._ His Pepper. _

_He tried, he really tried, to tell Bruce to just get away from him. Not because he wanted Bruce to stop yelling, not really, because he _deserved _it. But because Bruce still had a shot. Hadn't killed anybody yet, right? Maybe if everyone just…stayed away from him, Tony couldn't drag anybody else into the hellhole he had apparently created around himself._

_There was more yelling. Lots more yelling, and Tony hit the wall so hard he saw stars for a second. But he heard Sin's name, and that brought him back for just a second. _

"_She wanted me dead. They both did," he tried to explain, tried to warn Bruce. _

And now Bruce wants me dead. That's like some God-awful superpower there, Stark, _he thought to himself for one insane moment before Bruce slammed him again. The stars didn't go away as quickly as they had before with that last hit, and he heard Bruce hit the wall over his head rather than seeing it. _

_By the time Tony had blinked back into something like the ability to see anything but very bright red, he was on his own, the sounds of Bruce's hasty retreat still echoing in his ears. His hair was slick with blood, and he reached up with a wince to find that his fingers came back bright red._

Couldn't even kill me, _he thought blankly. _I'm the unkillable black hole over here_._ Sucking everyone else down.

_He stayed where he was for a long time, and he might have slipped out of consciousness for a moment; he wasn't sure. But when he finally got up, he grabbed hold of the chest piece and just started working with one hand while the other reached for the nearest bottle._

* * *

Tony locked his jaw as he went back to finding bits to use for his patched together armour. Had to protect the important parts _–_ and the biggest areas were coming together, but what he really needed was a helmet.

The Ultron head was really only partly usable. And the most important part _–_ the crown of the thing _– _looked as if it would fit him pretty closely. He dug around until he found his tools and started tearing the robot's head apart. Once he popped off part of it, he had to frown a bit deeper.

Cameras. A speaker. Microphone. Nothing useful to him _–_ but the shell. He gutted the back half of the head and started tearing the connectors that held the cameras and audio equipment out. Just a matter of making sure there weren't any sharp parts to poke him in his genius head. The brackets that were welded in, he took his frustration out on _–_ pounding them flat as the worst parts of the message played on a loop in his head. It was just like getting kicked in the chest, thinking of that sweet smile with such ill intent.

"Damnit!" The hammer slipped, and he caught his finger. He stood up quickly, shaking his hand out, almost thankful for the distraction before he looked at the injury. "Always gotta tag myself like that at least once." He paced the room, absently looking around it for something to pull him out of his own head.

And there it was _–_ a shining piece of metal that looked as if it was once part of Ultron's hand, judging by the scorch marks near the edges. He picked it up and held it up over the lower half of his face _–_ it extended nearly down to his chest. "Well it'd cover my neck. That's probably good." He took it over to what would soon be his helmet and started fiddling with how to keep the piece in place.

He began to tut to himself as he looked around the room. He didn't have anything in the meagre tools he'd found to help him attach the whole thing together. He started rooting through the scraps and wires with his foot, his gaze trained on the ground as he kept a sharp eye out for something…

"What I need is an awl," he muttered to himself. "Probably had a few of those in the shoe shop." He got down on his hands and knees as he sorted through the debris more carefully until he found a sharper looking nail that had to have fallen from somewhere important. "Guess we'll see if this works."

He brought the faceplate and the nail to where the hammer still laid and he tried a few experimental taps that did next to nothing before he simply brought the hammer down hard in a moment of frustration.

A hollow thunk echoed the room, and when he tried to pull the nail free, he saw it was stuck. He wiggled it a bit until it came loose and picked the faceplate up to look at the hole closer. "Well _–_ that's one way to do it." He frowned at the small hole. There was no way he'd be able to get a strip of leather through there. He looked around himself and had to roll his eyes. Wire. That was one thing he seemed to have in spades. And it would fit through perfectly.

"Tony Stark: Professional seamstress," he muttered to himself as he gathered up the wiring. "When I get out of this place, I'll have my own sewing show."

But the repetition was just about exactly what he needed _–_ something to do with his hands, something to keep him occupied. And he had to actually concentrate to keep from tagging himself again, not to mention getting the wiring threaded through just right, and making sure he wasn't fraying it in the process. The last thing he needed was weak threads holding this thing together, or he'd have weak spots.

He laced up the bits that covered his legs in segments _–_ both around his legs and holding the pieces to each other. To his pleasant surprise, Ultron's feet were nearly a perfect fit over his boots.

As he pulled together more bits, he chuckled to himself "Oil, oil!" He smirked as he slipped the chest piece over his head _–_ thankfully, there wasn't anything to lace there; he doubted he could get the beat-up nail through that thick metal anyhow.

The helmet was the last part to go on, and when he finally plucked up the courage to do it, he was pleased with the work he'd done. All of his most vital areas were protected. _It's a little bit heavy, to be honest,_ he thought to himself. _But I guess I didn't build it for speed._

Moving in the suit was a workout, but it was balanced, so at least it wasn't pulling him one way or another. "Probably because I've been out of it for so long. Stupid field surgery."

After making a few laps around the room, he stepped out into the fresh air. He looked both ways down the street before he headed toward where he figured there had to be more tributes _–_ where it was green and the sounds of animals waking up and starting to roam were beginning to echo through the broken city streets.

Might as well test out the armour sooner than later, he figured. And the walk would do him some good, get him out and about and moving. He'd seen previous Games' tributes get shepherded around if they stayed in one place for too long, and he wasn't exactly built to run from whatever the Gamemakers this year would throw his way.

He was sure he looked strange, a pieced together metal-leather-wiring man roaming the arena, and he was already sweating even though the sun was getting lower in the sky.

_Guess we'll test out this unkillable theory of mine, _he thought to himself as he felt the first pull of tiredness and the emptiness of his stomach. _Worked right through lunch. Typical. _

He wandered for some time but didn't find anything that looked entirely edible, so at last he started to head off the beaten path. He'd been through those survival courses in the Capitol, and he had a memory for facts and numbers. A nice little list of edible plants and useful ones was easy enough to memorize, so long as he kept the pictures straight in his head. It didn't exactly help him if he could remember the names but not what they looked like.

He saw long, thorny arcs with black berries on it half-covering some of the old cobblestone paths that led into the wild little patch of woods. On closer inspection, he almost had to laugh at it. The ragged leaves should have been a dead give away, but the familiar bumpy berries …"Really? Raspberries? Are these some special genetically engineered evil poison raspberries?" He looked around himself with a bark of a laugh. "Probably need to poison 'em, since so far _–_ nothing else has worked."

He popped the helmet up enough so he could get to his mouth and gathered up the berries. It was enough to get his stomach to stop aching for a while, but it hardly made up for _–_ how long had it been since he'd last eaten? Still, he appreciated the energy; he'd definitely been running his tank on empty.

He started out again, deeper into a wooded area as he popped the last of the berries into his mouth. It was getting darker, but the shade was nice, and he figured he'd just wander for a while. See what came up.

Or _who_ came up.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	96. Chapter 95: A God Among Mere Mortals

**(A/N) Hey all, we're back with the latest update for In the End, You Always Kneel! Once again, we have someone taking on one of Taila's chapters since she dropped out, which means that you'll all get to enjoy my take on Loki - enjoy may be an optimistic word, but we'll just have to wait and see. This chapter is coming a few days later than I had planned, so apologies for that, but hopefully it'll be worth the wait. We've only got a handful of chapters left between now and the end, so all bets are off. Who do you think will be left standing?**

**Big thanks again to Bookcrazysongbird for their review, and we hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Five – A God Among Mere Mortals**

**Day Twelve**

**Loki Odinson of District Twelve**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."_

― _G_eorge R.R. Martin_, A Game of Thrones_

"_Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honourably. And Rhaegar died."_

― George R.R. Martin_, A Storm of Swords_

* * *

"_Loki," the shadows whispered, as he ran from tree to tree, trudging with effort over the snow-laden ground._

_Loki choked out a sob, trying to stifle it so that his pursuer wouldn't hear him, but he knew it to be a fruitless endeavour. As if it couldn't track Loki's progress through the snow. As if this hadn't all happened a dozen times before. No matter what he did, it would find him._

"_Here, Lokilokilokiloki…" the whispering echoed, mocking him with his own impotence. "Here, puss. You not gonna make me come lookin' for ya, are you?"_

_His heart hammering in his chest, Loki ducked behind a tree, leaning his back against it while he caught his breath, all while the whispering continued to grow closer and closer._

"_Are you upset about what I did to that little girl? What _you let me do _to her? That's in the paaaast, kiddo. You and me, we're two of a kind, my man. We're both monsters, out here." Loki could hear its footsteps now, but his own feet were suddenly numb, frozen in place and no longer reacting to his panicked commands. "Killers. Top o' the food chain, right? Brawn and the brains – you line 'em up, and I knock 'em down."_

_Loki let out another strangled sob, and he could feel it twist in his direction. He closed his eyes as the footsteps grew closer, awaiting the inevitable, but somehow his eyelids were forced open, against his will, as Cletus Kasady made his way through the snow towards him._

"_Now there you are, Loke-a-joke. I've bin lookin' for ya for ages. You ain't been hidin' on me, have ya?"_

_Cletus grinned, the moonlight glinting off his filed, pointed teeth. His lips were flecked with blood, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot, focused on Loki with the deranged stare of a true madman._

"_You're a joke, Loke – you know that, right? Little jokey-Loki, all alone. You're going to die soon. Defenceless, pathetic, cold. Oh, I'm going to _so _enjoy our time together. Who knows how long I'll make it last? After all, what are friends for?"_

_Loki shuddered as Cletus' hand, covered in gore, reached out and caressed the side of his face, leaving sticky strands of blood on his cheek. He braced himself, knowing what was to come, as the hand retreated and returned, now holding a knife._

_And then Cletus lunged forward._

* * *

Loki sat up and opened his eyes, sweat dripping from every pore in his body, his lungs pulling in heavy breaths of air. His reached up and wiped the moisture off his brow, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. His gaze darted around the room, probing into every shadow.

_No, not here. Just a dream, _he thought weakly, relief shooting through him just as it had each time he had woken up the past few nights. It was getting harder to force himself to go rest, even though he had originally thought it would get easier. But now he knew the dreams were waiting for him. After all, they had nothing else to do.

_It's no more than you deserve, _the accusing voice that would have been his conscience, had he not done away with such outmoded concepts long ago, informed him.

_Silence, _he said, growing angry. _What reason have I to feel guilt? I'm battling for my life in the Avenger Games, after all. Mercy, loyalty, kindness… they are weaknesses here. And she killed Thor. My brother._

Deep down, however, he knew that his arguments rang hollow, and was aware of the source of his guilt. Ororo had rescued him, for whatever reason her tiny little brain had fixed itself on, and he had left her to the wolves. No, worse, he had left her to _Cletus_.

No. He had _lured _her to Cletus, and then he hadn't just left her, he had locked her in with him.

Thor wouldn't have approved, Loki knew in his bones, and as much as he tried to dismiss that thought, it stuck with him. Odin wouldn't have either, even though he wasn't as soft a touch as Thor had been.

Ororo's death had not been honourable. Little that Loki had done in the Games had been. And while, at any other moment in the Games, this wouldn't have troubled him, something had changed over the last few days. Something had changed ever since he left Ororo Munroe to the mercy of Cletus Kasady.

_What would Fenrir have thought, looking on, as I did that to her? _he wondered suddenly, and a wave of nausea crashed over him. _What was he thinking when he saw me leave a kid only a little older than him to die? Did he wonder if he had been in Ororo's place instead, would I have left him? Would I have?_

Loki cut off that train of thought, because he was afraid he already knew the answer to that question.

He had avenged Thor's death, he told himself, but no matter how often he repeated that mantra, Ororo's words still echoed in his ears.

"_You think he'll stop with me? You're a fool, Loki Odinson."_

_What would she know? _he thought bitterly. Cletus was dead, and no one was after Loki. He wanted to laugh, but was half-afraid that if he started he might end up doing something far less dignified, like crying instead.

"_Loki Noonesson. Loki, the bastard."_

Well so what? Odin would have to recognise him, now that Thor was gone. Loki was his only remaining son and heir, even if mere biology was against him. Well, biology was against Thor now as well, Loki thought wryly. At least Loki's blood still pumped in his veins.

"_LOKI! Loki, come back! LOKI!"_

But he hadn't gone back. He hadn't stayed to watch Cletus take her to pieces. He had thought that would prove a small mercy, but instead his imagination has taken it upon itself to conjure worse images of the horrors Ororo had undergone, far more terrible than anything that Cletus could actually have performed.

_You don't know that, _his 'conscience' – even thinking the word left a sour taste in his mouth – rebutted. _All you know is that he was crazy, murderous, and resourceful. Where there's a will…_

Honour.

All his life he had run away from the term, sneering at Thor's posturing, mocking Odin's droning speeches when the All-Father was out of hearing range. Brunhilde had inherited it too – the family curse, he had thought it. Chivalry and justice and responsibility. Fit only for the midden, he had deemed it.

Then why did it prey on him so? Why could he not get over this one foolish girl's death?

Why did Cletus wait for him in his nightmares, when the threat he posed in real life had finally abated?

Why couldn't he sleep? Why did food taste like ash in his mouth? And if no one was chasing him, why had he not stopped running since Ororo's death? Not running from anything in particular, just…running _away._

_Am I the monster of this story? _he wondered. _The bastard who lured a young girl into the very mouth of Hel and then abandoned her to the monsters that lurked within. Is that to be my legacy? Loki, the trickster villain._

_Enough._

Thor wasn't around anymore, was he? And where was Brunhilde, their cousin? Both of them in boxes on their way back to District Four, if they hadn't arrived already.

So much for honour, he thought dismissively, hardening his heart.

He had survived, and that was the goal here, nothing else. If he had to be the villain to manage it, then he could make his peace with that. Anything was preferable to death.

And with that, and despite his lack of sleep, Loki got up to face the day ahead.

* * *

He continued to move aimlessly through the arena, wanting only to put as much distance between himself and any possible pursuers he might have, real or imaginary. The city was part of the problem, he finally realised, as once again the feeling of being watched settled over him, and he scanned the windows and doorways for any sign of possible watchers. It was an act of futility, he knew, glancing towards one of the half-ruined skyscrapers nearby. Out on the streets, he was the only thing moving, and could be picked out from a mile off - if someone _was_ watching him, he wouldn't be able to pick them out from this far, not unless they moved.

At one point, the street he had been travelling down was blocked off by a collapsed building, and he was forced to clamber over a giant pile of shingle which had, at one point, formed the roof of the building. While making his way over it, Loki lost his footing for a moment before catching himself, sending shards of shingle tumbling down the pile. He swore under his breath, holding himself in place, his ears straining for the faintest sound of movement.

When he had convinced himself that all was silent, he continued picking his way down the pile, taking great care in where he put his feet, so as not to disturb the heap any further.

However, Loki's nerves remained on tenterhooks after that stumble, and he walked slowly and quietly through the street. He had just about managed to convince himself that he was alone when a faint orange glow caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

A fire, probably. Worth investigating, as long as he remained quiet. Despite the fact that he was currently weaponless, hunger and thirst were taking the driver's seat on this decision.

With any luck, it'd be Kate. Loki was pretty sure his district partner wouldn't want his blood on her hands. And if it was someone else…well, he was the smallest tribute left. He was fairly confident he could sneak by them, unknown.

Of course, that was providing he spotted the other tribute before they spotted him, and when the gods cast their die on that decision, they did not come up in Loki's favour.

"Stop there," a voice growled in the darkness.

Loki's heart lurched, his eyes only now picking out the shape of another tribute in the gloom, outlined by the glow of a crackling fire somewhere behind the tribute. For a brief second, the voice twisted and hissed in his mind in the voice of Cletus Kasady, but he shook that thought aside and focused on the figure in front of him. Relief flowed through him when he recognised the tribute – the male from Six. The last name was Banner. And the first name… David?

He puffed his chest out and forced a patronising tone into his voice. "Why?" he asked, smiling. "Are you afraid of me, Six?"

The other tribute shook his head, and when his words came, they were laden down with weariness. "It's death over here. Back off. Just go back the way you came, and I won't hurt you."

"Hurt me?" Loki asked scornfully, laughing, and began to walk towards the other tribute. At this point, the worst thing he could do was show fear – if he turned and ran, as his legs were currently begging him to do, Banner would be on him in a second. Of that he had no doubt. "You? How? Will you bore me to death, Six?"

"I'm warning you, back off," Banner snarled, and Loki paused mid-step, surprised by the animalistic tone in the tribute's voice. Now that he had drawn closer, it was easier to make out the other tribute, and Loki could see that Banner had drawn a sword from his belt.

What's more, it looked like he was prepared to use it.

"And if I don't? Will you kill me, Banner? Become a killer like your father before you?" Loki asked, chuckling to cover up his sudden hesitation. He had gone out on a limb a bit there, talking about Banner's father, but Loki had seen men like him before. Big men who could smash someone like Loki to pieces but fought against their inner nature because of some trauma in their past. For such aggression and power to remain unused, more often than not, a father figure was involved. And Loki knew _all _about that.

He was drawing on his memories of nearly two weeks ago as he took in the Six tribute in front of him, trying to place not only his proper name but any other information he could draw from, landing at last on: "I think not, given how poorly you did at the rankings. I'm amazed you're still alive."

He had shaken Banner, he could see, but even Loki was a little surprised at the anger in the other tribute's voice when he replied.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're amazed your precious brother is dead, too," Banner almost snarled.

"Logical analysis proves that you're no better at predictions than he was at staying alive."

Loki felt his own anger begin to rise at the slight on Thor's name. "Watch your tongue, Six." _You didn't even know him. You have no right to speak of him. No right at all._

A moment passed by in silence, as the two glared, anger still boiling in Loki's veins, before Banner's shoulders suddenly sagged, and he shook his head tiredly.

"Look…Loki, right?" he asked, and Loki gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, still wary, confused by this sudden change of pace. "We don't have to do this. Not here, not now. Just get yourself away –"

"Why?" Loki interrupted, his interest piqued. _He's hiding something. _"What have you found here? Food? Weapons? Water?"

"I told you. There's nothing here but death, and you wouldn't understand more than that even if I tried to explain it to you," Bruce said, shaking his head wearily and running a hand through his hair. "Just… get out of here."

"I said, 'no'," Loki repeated, and began walking towards the bigger tribute once more. "I _will_ pass."

"I don't want to fight you," Banner warned.

_How fortuitous, _Loki thought to himself. _I've no desire to fight you to either, but whatever should happen, I'm getting past you._

Loki took another step forward, and Banner raised his sword, pointing it directly at the smaller tribute. "I'm not going to say it again," the tribute from Six stated, and this time his voice came out in a growl, anger rippling beneath the surface.

Loki threw up his hands in mock surrender and placed every last reserve of scorn he had left in him into his tone. "Fine. Your constant blather is enough to make me sick. You're almost as bad as that half-blind child from Eleven." He forced a grin he did not feel. _If I'm to be a villain in this story, then I shall be _the _villain._ "Although at least I'll never have to listen to her again."

Banner's brows knotted together as he struggled to work out Loki's meaning. _So much for the brain behind the brawn, _Loki thought dismissively. "Eleven? Wait – _Ororo_? What did you _do_?"

Loki smiled again, his shoulders twitching upwards in the slightest indication of a shrug. "Nothing that wouldn't have happened anyway," he replied easily. The lie came to him so quickly, as it was one he had told himself repeatedly since he betrayed the girl. "And this way, I stayed alive, as I obviously should. Outwitting that idiot, trading her for me, wasn't exactly the most difficult –"

Banner darted forward, hand raised and slapped Loki so hard that it knocked him to his knees. Loki raised a hand tenderly over the reddened portion of his face, and his features twisted into a grimace of hate.

"How _dare_ you," he spat, but Banner's rage was just as great as Loki's.

"_Me_?" the tribute from Six roared. "You brag about giving a twelve-year old girl to a madman just to save your own skin, and you say_ I _dare?" Before Loki could answer, Banner swapped his sword to his right hand and slammed the flat of the blade into Loki's face, knocking him onto his back. "Do you even know what he _did_ to her? What he _took_ from that child? Get _out_. Get away from me, now, while I still have some –"

Despite the pain in his face and the blood rushing from his nose, Loki struggled back to his feet, filled with impotent rage. "You _dare_ threaten me? You hulking, insolent _fool_. My family is more, so much more powerful! And now, with Thor and Brunhilde gone, I'm the last!"

For the first time since he began his time in the arena, Loki simply lost his carefully conditioned control, spittle flicking from his lips with each word. "The All-Father will protect me! He _has_ to! You'll see! I'll be a _god_ among the likes of you!" The force of his own anger drowned out the beat of desperation that rang through the words.

Banner had stood passively watching Loki as the younger tribute roared at him, before shaking his head and turning as if to walk away. As if Loki was not worth his attention, an impotent coward with no honour – or perhaps that was Loki's own 'conscience' again.

Outraged, Loki stepped forward with the intention of striking the other tribute down, as he could not strike the voice in his own head, before remembering that he was weaponless. He glanced around and spotted something that would have to do.

The tribute from Six had only just taken a step when the half-brick hit him in the shoulder. While it did stagger Banner for a moment, it only served to enrage him rather than cause him injury, and he leapt towards Loki, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. Banner then launched a well-placed fist into Loki's stomach, driving the wind out of him, before following it up with a second that had Loki's ears ringing and momentarily blinded him with dizziness so he could not see what was coming.

After that, Loki blacked out for a moment, and when he regained an awareness of his surroundings, he was now kneeling on the ground in a pile of debris, his clothes dirty and torn.

_Where's Banner? _he thought dully, wheezing and wincing at the same time from the flashing pains in his ribs at each breath, before he caught sight of the other tribute, standing on top of a small hill of debris that Loki must have rolled down.

"_Shut up!" _Banner roared before racing down the hill towards Loki, and all Loki could do in his addled state was to hold up his hands for mercy.

_I didn't say anything, _he thought, confused, aware in the back of his mind that he was probably suffering from a concussion of some sort.

"Listen," Loki rasped, heart thumping in his chest. "You, you're stronger than I gave you credit for, Banner." The tribute from Six was staring at him now, and Loki took the brief respite to prop himself up against a nearby wall, slowly struggling to his feet. He had nothing to offer except what he had given Cletus: a temporary partnership. "We could work together. I could make sure that you –"

Before he could finish, Banner had grabbed his arm and spun him around in a full circle, slamming him into the wall he had just been propped up against, and Loki blacked out for the second time.

* * *

_I guess I'm not dead, then, _Loki thought when he finally came to. Every inch of him hurt, and he felt as though someone had physically driven him several feet into the ground.

He slowly opened his eyes, wincing painfully at the light, and then groaning as the act of wincing lit a series of fires across his synapses. To his shock, his groans sounded more like a high-pitched keening, and he briefly wondered whether Banner had broken his windpipe, or at least damaged it.

Loki groaned again, his ribs aflame as he tried to pull himself up from the ground. He gave up, settling in to the position he had found himself in, wondering how long it would take before he was able to get back up. He turned his head to the side and spat and was relieved to see that his spit was only flecked with blood – likely from cuts in the inside of his mouth. His broken ribs probably hadn't punctured anything vital.

"_Loki…"_

Loki froze as he glimpsed a flash of red in the corner of his eye, and his breathing became hurried and panicked as he attempted to quash his fears. _It can't be him, _he thought even as terror overcame him. _He's dead. It can't be him. It _can't _be._

He shut his eyes, convincing himself that his recent concussion – or, more likely _concussions – _had caused him to hallucinate, and that when he opened them again he'd be alone once more.

And yet he still heard the lightest sounds of footsteps approaching, and he didn't know a way to shut off his ears.

_He's dead, _he reminded himself firmly, wondering if one could hallucinate sound on its own. He cringed as the footsteps stopped, the figure coming to a halt only feet away from where he lay.

Instead of the maniacal laugh he was expecting, he heard a soft, sultry chuckle, and his panic eased somewhat as he recognised the voice.

"Elektra," he whispered, and he felt almost relieved, even though he knew Elektra held probably no more love for him than Banner had. _But he didn't kill me, _he noted. _Maybe he even thought he had. Perhaps I am not meant to die today._

"Well, hello there," she replied, crouching down to look at him, wearing the red hat that she had brought into the Games as her token. "Looks like I'm not the first person you've met today."

Loki offered her a bitter smile, propping himself up on his elbows with a wince. "Sadly, I bumped into Banner from Six. I really think he's gone mad out here – seems like he's unable to process any form of thought higher than '_smash_'."

He nodded conspiratorially to the direction Elektra's back was turned. "You know, you could probably catch him. He's completely lost control – should be no challenge to someone with your talents."

Elektra smiled before her eyes flashed dangerously and she stamped down on Loki's left leg. He screamed as he felt something crack beneath the blow. Elektra hunkered down again and looked directly into his eyes, her smile still in place.

"Do you think I don't know what it is that you do?" she asked quietly as Loki groaned in agony. "Do you think I didn't see what you were doing when you turned the Careers against each other? Did you think you were playing me, when I killed Wade? _You _didn't make me do that. _I _did that on my own. He was dying, and I put him out of his misery."

She paused before drawing one of her sai. "It looks like I'll be doing that again."

Loki snorted, a bloody sort of affair, clamping down on the terror that threatened to overwhelm him in favour of his best defense, of his _only _defense left: his words.

"You're not going to kill me, Elektra. You're too smart for that. I'm an asset, I have value, and if you _do _kill me, you're all on your own."

"I've been on my own since the day I got here, Loki. But I'm still standing, which is more than can be said for you. And with that broken leg, you don't look like much of an asset to me. But you do look a lot like someone who needs to be put out of his misery to me."

"You don't have it in you," Loki spat through his teeth. "So you killed Wade – that was no achievement; he was as good as dead already. You're weak, Elektra, and yet you think you can threaten me, make me plead for my life? There is more blood on my hands than on yours, you mewling quim!"

Elektra punched him in the face with her free hand, and he felt his nose break. "I'll take it that meant something bad," she told him. "But you're wrong, you know that? I killed Brunhilde too – and no, not when Thor took you away and left Brunhilde to deal with me like you had planned. I killed her on my terms, not yours. And I killed her because she thought you and I had played them all – that you and I had pushed Clint and Natasha away, and that we conspired to kill Thor."

"You don't have to do this," he whispered weakly, but he had seen the look in Elektra's eyes and knew that he didn't believe that.

"They thought you had wormed your little way inside my head. Trickster of Twelve," she replied bitterly. "Maybe all of Marvel thought the same. So, yes, Loki – I _do _have to do this."

He tried to crawl away, but her free hand snapped out and clasped itself around his wrist.

"Elektra. Don't," he begged, a final desperate plea.

"Talk your way out of this," she spat back, and plunged her sai upwards through his chin.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	97. Chapter 96: Masquerade

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a brand new update for you all. I'd like to apologise for the delay on this one, which was totally on me as I realised I had some issues with the Capitol sub-plot, which was not worked out as thoroughly as I had thought. The path from A to B is now a lot clearer, and to make it up to you guys for the wait, I'm gonna try and do an update a day until the next Capitol chapter. So keep your eyes out for new updates over the next few days! So between that and all the Comic Con announcements this week, I hope there's plenty of excitement going around.**

**Shout-out to Idalove2read, Bookcrazysongbird, Purpleread and TheTzip for their reviews! We're getting really close to the end now – who do you think is going to win?**

**Enjoy!**

**.-. - .- . .-.**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Six – Masquerade**

**Agent Phil Coulson, Skye, Raina &amp; [Redacted]**

**Written by NicKenny &amp; Gumby1011**

* * *

"_The irony of life is that those who wear masks often tell us more truths than those with open faces." _

― Marie Lu, _The Rose Society_

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

"_Real integrity is doing the right thing, knowing that nobody's going to know whether you did it or not." _

― Oprah Winfrey

* * *

"They're called the Hand," Fury murmured, and Coulson found himself surprised to hear the weariness in the Director's voice as he stared at the image Coulson had sent him. "The official line is that they died out decades ago, towards the final days of the rebellion."

"And the _unofficial _line, sir?" Coulson asked, reading between the lines.

Fury sighed. "There have been rumours, here and there. Whispers that they simply went dormant – went underground – until the time was right for them to resurface. We've had reason to believe they might have been involved in some criminal activity in the city, but nothing tenuous. Nothing that would give us cause to launch a manhunt for supposedly inactive organisation."

"I think this photograph pretty clearly states that they're no longer inactive, Director."

Fury nodded slowly. "Yes. And that just makes it all the more worrying. When you looked at who they supported during the rebellion, you've got wonder what else may be lurking out there. What else might be hiding in the shadows?"

"You're talking about Hydra," Coulson said evenly, despite his sudden sense of unease. "After all this time, you're saying they might have survived?"

"I never say anything I don't know for a fact, Coulson. I merely have my suspicions, and my fears. This whole 'Clairvoyant' business just seems too…convenient, given where we are right now."

"So this is about the Undertaking," Coulson stated.

"We've renamed the department G.M.H. at the moment," Fury informed him.

"What does that stand for?"

"We haven't decided yet. We've been struggling with names for a while now," Fury admitted, with a wry smile. "On the positive side, the paper trail's so long and convoluted that even couldn't connect it all together at this point, so we should be in the clear."

Fury walked over to his desk, placing his data-pad on the table. "We're close, Coulson. We're so close. I've been moving men and resources for months now, and if we continue to remain on schedule we'll be ready to make our play in the coming weeks. There's so much riding on this that we can't afford to make a mistake, and the Clairvoyant and the Hand are complications that we can't tolerate."

"I understand, sir."

Fury turned to face him. "I wonder if you do. If you _truly _do. Duquesne's voiced his own concerns to me, and you know we need his continued assistance if we're going to secure the funding we need to pull this off."

"He didn't mention any concerns to me?" Coulson said cautiously.

"Of course he didn't. You know how he is – constantly pushing for more. This time he wants on-site access to the facility, on his own terms, not merely a tour like we got away with last time."

"You're worried that he has his own agenda?"

"_Of course he has his own agenda. _He's hardly aiding us because he believes it's the right thing to do. But we need him on our side, and so I need something to give him."

Coulson nodded, seeing where this was going. "So you want to turn Po over to him?"

"He has as much reason as we do to see the end of your Clairvoyant and the Hand. He's got as much invested in this as we do – more, maybe, given the manner in which he's secured our funds. Men like the Kingpin and all the others that he's got supporting him don't take failure lightly."

"Then I'll find him, sir. But I don't like this – we're meant to the law in this land, not Jacques Duquesne."

"And we will be, once we don't need him anymore. All great partnerships require compromise, Coulson. Remember that. I'll make sure he passes on any information Po gives up to you for your hunt for the Clairvoyant. It's simply…a symbol of good faith."

Coulson nodded once more, and Fury inclined his head in reply, but a bitter taste filled Coulson's mouth as he made his way over to the window, taking in the sight of the city skyline.

"I just don't understand why they'd have left this for you," Fury said suddenly, and Coulson turned to see him glancing down at the data-pad once more. "What were they trying to say?"

"You think this was meant as some kind of message?"

"Well, I don't think it was done to brighten up the room," Fury remarked drily. "But why would they declare themselves like this? What do they have to gain?"

"I can't imagine," Coulson confessed. "I don't even really know what they are, beyond a…secret crime society?"

"They were a…cult, I guess you'd call it," Fury replied wearily. "They practised blood magic and all kinds of occult bullshit, all the while searching for the secret to eternal life. They found a natural place within Hydra's ranks, taking on the most…zealous of their recruits."

"'The secret to eternal life.' So they _know_, then?" Coulson asked cautiously, and Fury stared into space thoughtfully for a moment before replying.

"I think it's too great a coincidence to think that they don't. Which is why I need you to get to the bottom of this, Coulson. Too much is at stake here for us to ignore this threat. The man you captured, has he talked?"

"Ian Quinn," Coulson helpfully supplied, and he shuffled awkwardly in the manner of someone who was bearing bad news. "The hard part was to stop him talking, actually, especially after spending some time alone with Garrett. He spilled everything he knew – which, unfortunately, wasn't a whole lot. Someone _did _find a way to get him to stop talking, though."

He passed Fury another picture, this one of a holding cell in one of the lower basements of the Triskelion. Quinn lay splayed on the floor, his throat slit, blood pooled around him. On the far wall was a bloody red handprint, encircled with a line of blood.

"Well, shit. It looks like we have a real problem."

"Indeed, sir."

"Did he give you anything useful before…before _they _got to him?"

"He knew very little – his job was to pass on information, not to receive it. But he did have something for us, something that I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear. He gave me the current location of Edison Po."

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

_"You think I'm a fool?" demanded Harry._

_"No, I think you're like James," said Lupin, "who would have regarded it as the height of dishonour to mistrust his friends." _

— J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

Not for the first time, Skye wondered why she continued to spend so much time with Raina, given that something about the woman made her uneasy. It felt almost like being constantly under scrutiny, as though at any moment you might suddenly reveal your true self in front of her. And yet, she actually _liked_ Raina, despite the other woman's whole _femme fatale_ vibe. And for some baffling reason, Skye could feel herself constantly battling the urge to impress her, as if she needed to justify herself for some reason.

Technically, Raina shouldn't be up here, given that Skye was carrying out some work for Coulson, but the computers did most of the work, and besides, she didn't think that he'd mind.

"So, had any luck with your Weapon X search?" Raina asked innocently, and Skye glanced around to make sure no one had overheard her, before glaring at the other woman. The last thing she needed was May or Ward getting wise to her, especially if they found out she had gone to Raina over it.

"No," she replied curtly. "I think I'm gonna step back from it for a while. I don't think it's something I need to get caught up in. Or at least, more caught up in than I already am."

Raina arched an eyebrow. "This isn't about what I told you, is it? Did I scare you off after our talk?"

Skye huffed, but Raina's words stung a little, because there was more than a grain of truth to them. "You told me all I had wanted to find out – what did you think I was going to try to do? S.H.I.E.L.D. took me in because I had poked my nose too far into their business to be ignored. I don't think they'd appreciate it if I kept doing that, though."

"But don't you fell, curious?" Raina asked, her eyes lighting up with an inner fervour. "To know _exactly _what it is you've stumbled across?"

"My curiosity's landed me in enough trouble for one lifetime, I'm happy enough to sit this out."

"And what about the man you saved in District Eleven?" Raina shot back.

"I don't even know if everything you've told me is the truth, Raina – hell, I don't even think _you're _one-hundred per cent sure you're right," Skye rebutted, rubbing her eyes in frustration. "But I'm happy here, and I'm not going to jeopardise that on a _hunch _that something weird is going on. Right now, I've got a job to do, and a team that needs me."

"Really?" Raina asked, sceptical. "And what's so important that you're up here by yourself?"

Skye hesitated before replying, feeling the need to justify her role in Coulson's team and also relief at the chance to change the topic of the conversation. "You know Quinn got arrested, right?"

"Of course I do, it's been the talk of the building for the last few days."

"You two were…friends, right?"

Raina laughed. "No, I'm afraid wouldn't put it _quite_ like that. I had to work with him, every now and again, but I definitely didn't consider him a friend. To be honest, I always found him more than a little repulsive."

"Well, that makes this part easier. He's dead."

Raina's hand shot to her mouth as she gasped. "What?!" she exclaimed. "He died in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody? How did it happen?"

"That's not important," Skye replied, avoiding the topic. "Before he died, he gave up one of the men he'd been working with – Coulson's got me surveilling his address as we speak, just to make sure the info's legit. He's prepping the team as we speak, we'll be moving out in an hour or so."

"Really?" Raina asked, sounding fascinated, and Skye felt a twinge of pride. "Who is it that you're going after?"

"Some former-Sentinel dirtbag named Edison Po. Coulson thinks he might be able to help us with some ongoing investigations," Skye told her, before noting that her friend had gone silent. "Raina, are you okay?"

Raina glanced up guiltily, and smiled. "I'm sorry, Skye – I think Quinn might have introduced me to him before. The name certainly sounds familiar. But you're right, that _does _sound important, and I should probably leave you to it. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Okay?" Skye replied, but Raina had regained her usual confidence, and smiled back at her.

"See you soon, though. Promise?" Raina said, glancing over her shoulder as she walked towards the door to their offices.

"Sure. Sounds good."

_Weird_, Skye thought, before turned back to her monitor. She might have pondered further on Raina's reaction, but her attention was seized by a hooded figure entering the apartment Quinn had told them Po was living in. She couldn't get a good look at his face, but the body-type looked about right.

Skye glanced back to make sure Raina had left, but the door had already swung shut. That particular mystery would have to wait for another day.

"Coulson, I think I might have him," Skye said, activating her earpiece. "Looks like Quinn's info was good."

* * *

**Symbiotic Experiment #002**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

_"The worst kind of evil – that recurring, unkillable evil – is the kind where hatred grows, takes root, and festers into an irreversible sickness_._" _

– Anonymous

* * *

Sticky. Everything was sticky. _Why_ was everything sticky? They looked out into the world, surrounded on all sides by…something clear. Why were they sticky? They looked at their hand. They looked at their hand without moving their head or raising their arm or opening their eyes. It was red. It was red, and viscous, and they came to realize its shape was not entirely solid. It seemed to be running. Running like ink, even.

Oh. Well, that was fine then. No need to worry about their hand being sticky, because it hadn't been made to be sticky, it was just supposed to be that way. That was passable, they supposed.

Then they looked outward. They looked outward around them, still remaining motionless, and saw shapes. Shapes with four limbs, striding about from light to light in an otherwise cold, blank world. What did they used to call these shapes, again? Food? Animals? Apes? No, wait, they called them people. So food, then? Right, yeah, they called them food.

They moved. They twitched a hand.

"Oh God."

Suddenly out in that cold space outside of their clear prison, every scrap of food trained their eyes on them. The eyes stared unblinking, unmoving, and the thought of so many eyes watching them stirred something deep, deep down within them. The thought of… eyes. Thousands of eyes. And pomp and noise and the rush of knowing that so much food was rooting for them. They had been about to do something. They were going to do something important. They were… they had been heading off to feed? Right, they'd been heading off to feed. They were going to make art out of their meals, as well, they remembered this. People were watching. But what happened then?

"-tor Fury, tell hi-"

They made to put their hand to the clear edge of their prison, but then they noticed…they noticed an unexpected resistance. They were… floating? They finally moved their head, looking down at their feet, which didn't touch the cold, metal base of their prison. Then they realized, even more than they were sticky, they were wet. Falling. They'd been falling, and they'd… they'd… A red hand moved to their gut, expecting to feel a hole but instead just finding more red sticky. They'd recovered? Perhaps they'd misremembered? But then, after they'd fallen, they'd… With a howl of panic, they threw themselves at the walls of their watery prison. They bashed their head on it, raked it with slimy, wicked claws and screamed a scream of the damned returned.

"-it him with the ultrason-"

The world exploded. A high-pitched wailing seared through their being, and they recoiled violently. They pressed their hands to their ears, red and black filaments of their body rippling through the water they were suspended in, and they curled up. They curled up like a ball. Like a life yet to be born. Then the wailing stopped.

"-ink you killed him."

"Ah, shit!"

"Still reading vit-"

They took a moment to recover. The eyes had called them "him." Was that their name? Was "Him" their name? No, that didn't sound right. No, "him" was what people scared of their name called them. The same went for "he." But then what was their name? They'd learned it not too terribly long ago, after they had clawed their way out of their last womb. Right, right, that had been a womb. So then this must also be a womb. But what was their name? Eddie? No. That was the other one. Cletus? That felt…that felt close? But not quite right.

Carnage.

Yes. Yes! That was his name! But if he was Carnage, then what else was this? What was this bound in there with him? What was the red stickiness, that clung to his skin and drifted through their tank and whispering sweet, sinful nothings into his mind? The strange being that had turned a "him" into a "they?" What could it want with him?

_To feed._

Huh. Well that's fortunate. He was awfully hungry...

_We need to fight. To win. To conquer. To feel the rush._

To rip and tear their flesh, and enjoy a feast of the fallen.

To bring Carnage everlasting.

_So when do we start?_

Then the corpse of the ginger child finally noticed the beeping and the flashing roaring to life outside of their prison. It looked out. He looked out. They looked out. He noticed the wires floating just in front of his face. It looked up, and saw the arcs of electricity in the top of the water. Saw the red, sharpened tendrils that had started carving away without anyone's notice, not even his own. The being that had once been known as Cletus Kasady finally embraced its new Other, stopped worrying about the hows and whys, and started to just be.

Carnage floated to the edge of its tank. It looked around the panicking room, full of scientists screaming things like "containment team," "Breach," "Evacuate" and more than a dozen useless little prayers. Then it bashed its head into what looked like glass. It didn't sound like glass. It wasn't brittle like glass. But it would break. Carnage smashed its head into the wall of the tank repeatedly, and he could hear the screaming and the running and the Futility Of It All. Then the tank's wall shattered, and Carnage was unleashed on the world.

Its shape was undefined at first, a mass of tendrils writhing about, skewering people too slow or too stunned to have already started running. Then the skewered were covered in the redness of the beast's mass, and were erased into nothing. It stood tall. It took form. It was like a man, a man of red and black covered with flailing tendrils. It had vicious claws and a hideous, gaping mouth that was at the same time its own teeth, and two huge, empty white blobs where the eyes should have gone. It warped its face into a cruel, vacantly cunning grin as the rest of the watching eyes escaped the room, screaming as they went.

After a silent moment the tendrils started flailing frantically, and Carnage took off after the fleeing meat. It slipped through the closing blast doors and let out a hollow laugh, an instinctive holdover from a past life, where laughter was simply What Was Done before a meal. Screaming grew softer, and then louder, and then was silenced for the feast, as desperate blades failed to cut and little hot metal things- bullets?- only provided temporary solace from it. It was fast. Faster than he whom it had been birthed from could ever have hoped. It was strong. Things that bruised flesh and broke bones in life were peeled apart easily by claws indistinguishable from a mass of blood they'd unbound.

The beautiful chorus of blood and gunfire and screams were unending, until an unexpected blast of a noise incomprehensible to the beast grew beneath his notice, until quite without warning it blotted out every noise, every sense, even every "thought" running through the revenant's primitive little mind.

Then all was quiet, and it found itself in a cage once more.

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"Empty," Coulson stated dully, glancing around the apartment Quinn had led them to.

"Could he have known we were coming?" May asked, arms folded, glancing around curiously as Fitz and Simmons ran forensics. Bits and pieces of the door lay strewn around the room, a testament to its decision to remain stubbornly locked in the face of Coulson's impatience, and Skye delicately picked her way through the room, doing her best not to interfere with the scene.

"If he cut and run, he must have done so in a hurry," Skye said to them, glancing around the room. "Doesn't look like he even stopped to pack: everything's still here – clothes, food, money. Could he have just…stepped out?"

"That'd just be our luck," Coulson replied, leaning back against the wall. "But that really would just be too convenient, and I'm still not ready to believe that our Clairvoyant can really see the future. Someone, somehow, must have tipped him off."

One of Fitz's dwarfs whizzed by, scanning the room intently. Skye glanced over at Fitz, who was standing at the far side of the room, focused on his data-pad.

"Find anything, Fitz?" she asked, but he only glanced up at her and shook his head.

"We've got fingerprints and DNA matching Po's, so he definitely was here – and recently, too – but nothing to suggest where he might have gone. I can't pick up any trace of electrical devices, so he's either got his communicator with him or else he doesn't have one. The latter _would_ explain why we couldn't trace him using voice-rec."

"So we've got nothing," Skye said, and Fitz nodded glumly.

"You know, I had plans for tonight," Coulson announced. "Taneleer Tivan is holding his annual masquerade for the final days of the Avenger Games, and he owes me a few favours. And then, when Quinn gave up Po, I had my concerns, but I was still _pretty sure_ we'd have this wrapped up in an hour or two. Now I've had to cancel my date with a _really _cute cellist, and the overtime will not make up for that. So we betterget this guy, you all hear me?"

"We all make sacrifices," May commented sourly, and Skye suppressed a grin.

"So where have you two been lately?" Skye asked Fitz and Simmons, as Coulson and May exchanged glares. "Seems like I haven't seen you in ages."

"Oh, top-secret stuff, Skye," Fitz replied, thrusting out his chest. "Very special work. I would tell you about it, but then, you see, I'd need to kill you. Director Fury himself–"

"We've been working on a new kind of muttation," Simmons cut across. "Well, not quite new – we've merely been attempting to replicate Dr Wyndham's famous 'Klyntar' experiment. So far, it's been a remarkable success."

"Depends on how you determine the meaning of the word 'success'," Fitz muttered, but Simmons ignored him.

"Ward, Garrett and Trip remained behind to head the security detail. For…reasons," Coulson added, butting in to the conversation. "But that's enough about that – Fury'll have your heads if he hears you've been discussing Games secrets. Get back to work."

Shaking her head, Skye made her way across the living room and entered the bathroom. She opened the toilet's cistern on the off chance Po had hidden something in it, but it was empty, as was the medicine cabinet.

Sighing, but not knowing what she expected, returned to the living room, knowing that if Fitz and Simmons couldn't find anything with their tech and experience, she wasn't going to either.

As she made her way over to the others, Skye felt something sticking to the heel of her boot, and stood on one leg to see what the problem was. She removed the offending piece of yellow paper, and then burst into a smile as she held it up into the light, chuckling to herself.

"We should have been thinking lower-tech," she commented, and the rest of the team glanced over at her, confused.

She passed the piece of paper over to Coulson, whose lips moved slightly as he read the eight words that had been hastily written down on its surface.

"**You're being watched. Meet me. Collector's Masquerade. Midnight."**

Coulson glanced over at Skye in disbelief, who grinned. "Well, Coulson, it looks like you _will _go to the ball!"

* * *

**Raina**

* * *

"_We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be." _

― Patrick Rothfuss, _The Name of the Wind_

* * *

Raina sat on one of the long benches in the main ballroom beneath the giant ivory clock face, drumming her fingers impatiently against the marble surface on which she sat, a champagne flute resting in her other hand. Getting an invitation hadn't been easy, but this was one of the few places she knew she'd be able to talk without S.H.I.E.L.D.'s detection, if rumours of the Collector's security measures were accurate.

She scanned her eyes across the mirthful partygoers, a hint of regret that her situation prevented her from being among them, mingling to the best of her ability. On another night, that's exactly what she'd be doing, and no one did it better than her – it was reason the Clairvoyant had brought her into S.H.I.E.L.D., right into the heart of the enemy.

Tonight, however, for the first time in a _long _time, she was acting not out of the Clairvoyant's interests but her own. Tivan's security measures would blind the Clairvoyant and much as they would S.H.I.E.L.D., or at least, that was what she hoped.

"Now, what _are _you hiding that pretty face of yours behind?" Po murmured, appearing from the midst of the crowd and sidling up next to her, his face obscured by a gaudy wolf mask. Raina forced a smile, despite the revulsion she felt crawling across her skin.

"It's a hedgehog," she said simply, tapping the side of her mask. "I thought it would be something different, and you know how I like to stand out in a crowd. Can I ask how you knew it was me?"

Po chuckled. "My dear Raina, your motif led me straight to you." Noticing her confused expression, he elaborated. "Your dress, my dear. No one else is wearing a flower dress. It seems that even you fall into conformity in some cases."

Raina glanced down at her dress, before meeting Po's eyes once more. "Who doesn't like flowers? And I've always felt a certain affinity to tulips."

"You didn't ask me to come here to talk about flowers," Po said, cutting through the conversation. "What was so urgent that you needed to speak to me in person? Have your heard from the Clairvoyant?"

"No," she replied, but took note that Po evidently hadn't been contacted either. The very fact that her was asking her when _he _had always been the point of contact hinted at a sense of desperation. Po mightn't have known that S.H.I.E.L.D. were coming for him, but he was smart enough to know that something was off. "I was afraid our communicators might have been bugged. S.H.I.E.L.D. took Quinn two days ago – and we both know that he would have spilled everything he knew at the slightest provocation."

"Quinn knew nothing," Po said shortly. "And from what I understand, the Clairvoyant has dealt with him. S.H.I.E.L.D. won't get anything from him now. Is that all you called me here for? To waste my time on information I already possessed?"

"No," Raina replied. "I called you here because S.H.I.E.L.D. already got something from Quinn before your little assassins did their work on him."

She paused, and drained the last of her champagne. "Quinn told them where they could find you. I'd advise that you run."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. know…" Po said, trailing off. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes," she replied simply, and as she said it she could see Po sag, ageing before her very eyes.

"Ah. Then thank you, Raina. You know the Clairvoyant won't be pleased by this warning."

"I know."

Confused, Po glanced over at her. "Then why did you do it? I know there's no love lost between us. What possible reason could you have to risk your own life for mine?"

"You know my name," she said, and he nodded slowly, understanding.

"I see. If they catch me unawares, they'll bring me in, and I might talk. But if I run, either S.H.I.E.L.D. will end up killing me, or the Clairvoyant win."

"Or you might escape them both," she added, and Po nodded once more.

"No matter what, you win. Very well then, my dear. It seems like I must be off."

He stood, fiddling with the buttons of his suit for a moment. Feeling a sudden rush of pity, Raina asked him where he would go.

Po grinned, and shook his head. "Oh, my dear, that's for me to know. I wouldn't want you tipping anyone off, would I?"

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd once more. Raina sat for a moment longer, wondering if she'd be the next – after Quinn and Po, it could only be a matter of time.

_What to do?_

* * *

**Coulson**

* * *

Coulson stopped as the hired security stepped forward, presenting his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge in place of a ticket to the event. Given how quickly they waved him and May through, it seemed that it had the desired effect.

He shouldered his way through the crowd of elegantly dressed people as they entered the building, feeling more than a little underdressed in his work-suit. Another man stopped them a moment after crossing the threshold – an Inhuman server, rather than a security official – but when Coulson produced his badge he merely continued to gesture to something to Coulson's left.

When he turned, he realised that all of the people walking in were making their way over to a huge, hundred-metre long display of masks, no doubt owned by Tivan himself. More Inhuman servers were manning the display, handing the masks out to the attendees.

"Ah," Coulson said, realising what the Inhuman had been trying to communicate, and he nodded his thanks before joining up in the queue. Even though it moved fairly rapidly, he felt his impatience rising, aware that with each passing second Po could be slipping through their grasp.

"Keep your cool," May murmured, evidently reading his unease. "He can't know we're coming for him, otherwise he would have done a better job covering his tracks."

"It could be trap," Coulson reminded her, but May cast a sceptical eye over the crowd around them.

"Pretty sure he could have thought of a better place for an ambush – unless you're suggesting that all these people here are somehow in on it?"

"That guy looks pretty suspicious," Coulson whispered, nodding towards the man in question.

"He's _blind, _Coulson," May said, unimpressed, but Coulson shrugged off her dismissal.

"So? That's discrimination against the visually impaired, May – he could be an evil murderer too!"

May rolled her eyes, and thanked the Inhuman who passed her a bat mask. Coulson glanced down at the mask another server had passed over to him, and put in on with bad grace.

"What's the matter?" May asked him, as they broke away from the queue and made their way into the main room.

"I look stupid," Coulson muttered glumly. "A cat mask, really?"

"You could have tried to change it."

"I didn't want to make a fuss. Garrett would label me 'The Puss Who Made a Fuss' for the rest of my life. He's a real asshole with nicknames."

"Well, way to stick with that goal. Not hearing any complaints there at all."

"Hey, that was– whoa," Coulson murmured, caught off-guard by the size of the room they were entering. Giant chandeliers lit up the room, some forty-feet overhead, and half the Capitol must have been invited to this thing, judging by the sheer amount of people in front of him.

"The Collector does put on a good show," May agreed, similarly surprised by the opulence on display. "It's not like he can't afford it. Finding Po in this place is going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack, though. You got any ideas?"

"Split up?" Coulson suggested, and May reluctantly nodded. "Okay. You take east wing, I'll take the left – sound good?"

"It sounds awful," May replied. "We should call in back-up. You could have a hundred Sentinels here in minutes."

"Fury wants us to play this close to the chest, May," Coulson reminded her. "And besides, we can't risk spooking him. Keep your eyes open and report anything in, comms are still good, right?"

"**Affirmative," **Fitz, Simmons and Skye said through their earpieces, and Coulson and May winced in unison.

"You three keep an eye out too," Coulson ordered. "You probably have a better view than we do."

He hesitated. "Have you guys been listening the whole time?"

"**We'll have a saucer of milk prepared for you when you get back, sir," **Fitz uttered solemnly, and Coulson could hear muffled laughter on the other end of the line.

Cutting the transmission, he made his way from one room to the next, nodding at people he thought he half-recognised, but the masks made it so difficult to be sure.

"This is a nightmare," he muttered to himself, as a man wearing some sort of badger mask shoved a devil-faced man into an Inhuman, sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing to the ground. A woman in a hawk mask tried to separate them, without much success, and Coulson could see the hired security moving in already. Something about the scene gave him pause, some kind of response pinging away in the back of his brain, but he couldn't quite make the connection.

He turned around to see another masked man suddenly glance away, though he had certainly been staring that way only a moment before. At the two men fighting or at something else?

The man, wearing a wolf mask, turned away, and Coulson stared at him, trying to judge his height.

"I think I've seen him," he whispered into his comms. "The man in the wolf mask. Fitz, Skye, you reading me? May, where are you? May?" No response, and Coulson grit his teeth in frustration. Either the building was interfering with the reception or Tivan had actively taken precautions to jam transmissions from inside the building, but S.H.I.E.L.D. should have been able to punch right through either way. There hadn't been any interference earlier, but they had been quite near the entrance.

Despite this complication, Coulson knew he couldn't risk letting Po escape, swearing under his breath before he began pushing his way through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible, keeping an eye on the wolf-masked man. He tried again to send a message through to the rest of his team, but once more had no luck.

The wolf-masked man ducked out through one of the back doors, thanking the Inhuman who opened it for him, and removed his mask before handing it over. Coulson's breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of Po's features for a moment, before losing sight of him.

He tore his own mask off and tossed it towards the Inhuman, barging out into the courtyard, pulling his icer from his holster. The ground was slick with recent rain – it had started to come down just as his team had left Po's apartment, but the night's sky was clear now – and his feet his cobblestone as he took off after the retreating figure.

"Edison Po, you're under arrest," Coulson yelled, raising his icer, and Po froze in place, a hundred metres or so from where Coulson stood. A second later, after a brief hesitation, the former Sentinel raised his hands and slowly turned around to face Coulson.

"Ah, Agent Coulson," he drawled. "I had heard that you were looking for me."

"And I bet you were right on your way to hand yourself in, am I right?" Coulson asked, which earned a wry chuckle from Po.

"Unfortunately, I must protest my innocence against the accusations levelled towards me – my relationship with Mr Quinn was strictly professional, and entirely legal."

"Cut the crap, Po," Coulson shot back. "We don't care how you knew Quinn – we're interested in another one of your friends. The Clairvoyant."

Po stiffened, and Coulson could see that he had struck a chord. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Coulson," he said levelly. "While I've made my acquaintance with a great number of people, I've never met anyone who claimed to have psychic abilities."

"Save the lies for later, I'm not interested in them. Get down on your knees."

"Normally I'd expect you to buy me dinner first, but given the circumstance, we can dispense with such formalities," Po replied. "If you're not interested in lies, Agent Coulson, perhaps you'd be interested in truths? I'd be prepared to pass on information, but I have certain demands which must first be met."

"This isn't a negotiation, Po. We're not going to haggle out the terms of your sentence."

"Then you'll never get what you're looking for," Po warned, holding out a hand. "I'm not Ian Quinn, you know. You won't be able to torture information out of me – nothing that you could trust, at least."

Coulson hesitated, and sensing an advantage, Po pressed on.

"You know, you should consider me a friend, Agent Coulson."

"A friend?" Coulson repeated, snorting. "Good one."

"Yes indeed - the best kind of friend, in fact. One who only wants the best for you. And I _do _want the best for you. Consider me a…messenger. From your future self. I have information that will make your life a lot easier, and I want to give it to you. You just need to promise me something in return."

"Promise you what?"

"I'll answer whatever questions you have, and then I want you to let me go. There was no way for the person who sent Quinn's killer after him to have known whether or not Quinn had broken, but they had him killed all the same. Now that you're here, speaking to me, they'll have sent someone after me, too. I'm not asking for you to spare my life, Agent Coulson. I'm just asking you to give me a _chance_ at surviving. Your future self will thank you for it."

"Whoever you're working for, S.H.I.E.L.D. will protect you from him," Coulson told him, but the words rang hollow in his own ears.

Po laughed viciously. "S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't protect Ian Quinn – why should I be any different. If you only knew who it was that you're looking for, the kind of _power _that they wield. S.H.I.E.L.D. can't protect me because _he owns S.H.I.E.L.D!"_

Coulson's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Are you trying to tell me that President Thanos is the Clairvoyant?"

"The President?" Po asked, before laughing once more. "You still don't understand – _he owns the President too_. Nothing happens without him knowing about it, without him pulling the strings. You're a ship on the edge of maelstrom, Agent Coulson. And you don't want to pulled in."

"Give me a _name, _Po!" Coulson yelled across the courtyard, but the man lowered his hands to his side and shook his head.

"Once you promise me that you'll let me go. I know you're a man of your word, Agent Coulson. This city simply isn't safe for me anymore."

The man looked serious, and Coulson could see the tell-tale sheen of sweat on his brow, hinting at his very sincere desperation. He paused, considering Po's offer, knowing that Fury would be furious but there was still a trace of the bitter taste in his mouth from his conversation with Fury earlier that day, which lit a spark of defiance in his soul.

However, his decision was made for him. Even from this distance, Coulson could see the bushes part behind Po, and he raised his icer, his lips already forming a warning, when Po's chest suddenly thrust forward. The former Sentinel looked confused, delicately testing the tip of the blade that protruded from his chest, before collapsing to the floor.

Behind him, and a man wearing full evening dress and an owl mask straightened up, blood still dripping from the long knife he held in his hands. Red tufts of hair sprouted up at either side of his head, and the mask failed to hide a trimmed red beard.

"Sir, drop your weapon and step away from the body, and then place your hands on your head," Coulson ordered, shaken by Po's sudden murder. "I won't ask this a second time."

A few tense seconds passed, but just as Coulson's patience waned, and his index finger crept towards the trigger, the knife slipped from between the owl-man's fingers. It glinted in the moonlight before clattering off the cobblestones, coming to a half right next to Po's unmoving body.

"Now move away from the body," Coulson commanded, and the owl-masked man took four theatrical steps to the left, exaggerating each one. After coming to a halt, the owl-man suddenly cocked his head, as if amused, and Coulson tightened his grip on his icer.

However, Coulson suddenly realised that the owl-man wasn't looking directly at him, but was instead staring at some point just over his right shoulder. The thought had barely registered before his ears picked up the slightest of sounds behind him – footsteps.

Coulson spun around, icer raised, but as he did his attacker tackled him to the ground, knocking the weapon from his hands. Coulson grunted, winded, as he crashed down on the ground, but managed to bring his elbows down on his attacker, stunning him before shrugging him off.

Getting back on his feet, Coulson glanced back at the owl-masked man, just in time to see him disappear into the crowd of people. Coulson swore under his breath, and raised a hand to his earpiece, only to find that it had come off during his struggle.

His attacker had by now also gotten back up, and to Coulson's sudden shock he realised that the man was wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. However, his face was hidden behind some sort of octopus mask – Taneleer Tivan certainly did have some strange ones in his collection – so Coulson couldn't glean anything further on the man's identity.

He briefly considered ordering the man to stand down, but knew that this was unlikely to achieve the desired affect – it wasn't like the man could have misread the situation, after all.

The two men circled each other cautiously, but even as he was doing this, Coulson had another goal in mind, seeing his icer on the cobblestones out of the corner of his eye, only a few feet away. He made his way over to it slowly, hoping that the masked man wouldn't realise his intent, until it was only a few feet away.

Coulson dove towards his icer, grabbing it as he rolled onto one knee, and raised it to fire. At that second, however, something whistled threw the night and embedded itself in Coulson's shoulder, causing him to let out a brief scream of pain.

The man in the octopus mask had gone for knife the owl-masked man had used to kill Po, and that was what had buried itself into Coulson.

_Impressive throw, _he thought weakly. He raised the icer and fired off three bursts, but his aim was off and the octopus-man easily evaded them, crouching behind the water fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

With his free hand, Coulson reached over and grasped the handle of the knife. He took a deep breath, grit his teeth, and pulled the knife out, hissing between his teeth as he did so.

The man in the octopus mask came out from behind the fountain, seeing Coulson preoccupied, but Coulson managed to squeeze off a shot before the man tackled him, catching the octopus-man in the stomach.

_Definitely S.H.I.E.L.D. if he can shrug off a shot like that, _Coulson noted, as he caught the man and tossed him aside, kneeing him in to stomach as he passed by for good measure. _That's got to have _hurt, _at least._

"Stand down, and I'll make sure you won't be executed," Coulson said, as the octopus-man got back to his feet. "You won't get a better deal anywhere else. I can only hope you're simply impersonating a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer, because you're in for a world of hurt if you actually are one."

He raised his icer, giving the man a moment to speak out, but when the masked man remained silent, he pulled the trigger. Rather than firing off a burst into his attacker's chest, the icer clicked mournfully, and Coulson glanced down to see the ammo counter flashing red.

_Damn._

The octopus-man shot forward, slamming into Coulson and knocking him to the ground, punching Coulson over and over again.

With the wound in his shoulder burning fiercely, Coulson couldn't mount up much of defence, and he could already tell that the other man, even having taken an icer round to the gut, was a much better fighter than he was.

However, while his icer had been knocked from his hand once more after the man had tackled him a second time, the knife that had killed Po had fallen only a yard away, and Coulson scrabbled for it with his free hand while trying to prise his attacker's grip off his throat with his other one.

His probing hand found metal, and clasped around the weapon's handle, before bringing it up in a wide arc and burying it into the octopus-masked man's side.

The man's grip slackened around Coulson's throat and he grunted in pain, and Coulson drew the knife out of from between his attacker's ribs, intending on plunging it in again.

His vision was beginning to blur, so he didn't see the man letting go of him, but Coulson did feel the sudden ability to breath, and he coughed and spluttered as his lungs began to pump themselves full with oxygen once more.

Coulson could hear the other man limp away, but between the flashing lights that were going off in front of his retinas, the ache in his chest and the stabbing pain in his shoulder wound, he felt little inclination to get up and try to follow him.

However, he shot upright when he heard gurgling coming from Po's direction, and he glanced over at the man, realising that he mightn't be as dead as Coulson had originally thought.

Crawling over to the other man, Coulson stomach churned as he got a better look at the damage the owl-masked assassin had done to Po, and marvelled at the fact the man had managed to hold on this long. Coulson had seen enough injuries in the line of duty to know that Po wasn't going to recover from this one – no one came back from being impaled through the heart.

"Beware," Po suddenly spluttered, blood-tinged spittle flying from his lips. "Beware…they watch…they watch…"

"Who watch?" Coulson asked, leaning over and gripping Po by the lapels of his suit jacket. "Who did this? Who did this?! Give me a name!"

"Who…who…" Po repeated, and Coulson saw with panic that his eyelids were beginning to flicker, and the strength behind his voice was dwindling. The last word that he spoke was hushed and slurred, and as a result was possibly unfinished.

"Owls-"

And with that, the last of the Po's strength left him, and his head dropped to the side. Coulson stared at the dead man for a moment, before reaching for his now-unfocused eyes, and drawing the man's eyelids down. He lay slumped next to Po, his own breathing turning ragged, and as his vision began to fade he heard the faint sound of someone calling his name in the distance.

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"He'll pull through," a voice said reassuringly behind Skye, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Ward leaning against her doorframe. "He's not the sort of guy to go out and leave a job unfinished, don't worry about him."

"He almost died tonight," she retorted, shaking her head. "It's miracle he's still with us – if May hadn't found him when she did, if Simmons hadn't-"

"But they did," Ward interjected. "And the doctors say he's going to be fine. There's no point worrying about what might have happened, we have to focus on what _did _happen."

Skye sagged in her chair, but she bowed her head, acknowledging that Ward had a point. "I just keep running it over and over in my head. I've gone through the security footage so many times that I've just about lost count. I just…I just _know _I've missed something."

"And have you found anything?" Ward asked curiously. "Anything on the Owl or the Octopus?"

"That sounds like the title of a children's picture book," Skye sourly commented. "And no, I haven't found anything. They must have known where the CCTV cameras were placed – I've got some clips of them entering the Collector's property, but their faces are always just out off-frame, or in shadow. Even with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s enhancement software, all I've got is a rough height and weight, and that they were both Caucasian males."

"So, what, we've narrowed it down to about ten per cent of the Capitol?"

"Eight. We'll just have to hope Coulson's able to give us more when he comes to, because I don't have high hopes right this minute."

Ward shrugged, moving away from the doorframe, but as he did he suddenly groaned, his hand falling to his side.

Skye stood up, concerned, but Ward held up a hand and she drew up short.

"Are _you_ okay?"

"You didn't hear?" Ward asked, a trace of pain in his voice. "Fitz sent for me the second you guys lost contact with Coulson and May. I was at the scene in minutes, and was coming up on Coulson's position when I was tackled by the perp in the owl mask – stabbed me in the side with a knife, just like the one Coulson took the shoulder."

"Damn, Ward, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Ward smiled. "Don't worry about it, Skye. You had enough to worry about with Coulson. I'm gonna go rest, but you need to stop beating yourself up over this, you hear me?"

"Roger that," she replied wryly, smiling as Ward left the room. However, despite her promise, she found herself returning to her desk and scanning through the CCTV footage once more, this time focusing on Edison Po's path through the event.

Something lit up in the back of her mind as she saw Po sit down at one point, but it was only when he turned his head slightly that she realised he had been speaking to the woman next to him – something that she hadn't noticed before, given that he was facing away from the camera.

Po left in the video, but Skye watched on as the woman lingered for a moment, her face hidden behind some kind of spiky-mouse mask. When the woman got up, Skye followed her as she made her way through the room, switching from camera to camera to keep track of her. Unfortunately, she left without removing the mask, and ducked into the back seat of a car which Skye soon lost sight of as it disappeared into the city.

Unperturbed, Skye rewound the footage, returning to the conversation between this mystery woman and Po, and then rewinding further, reversing the woman's progress through the ball. It took several minutes, watching with eagle eyes as the woman made her way from conversation to conversation, clearly apprehensive about the time – her meeting with Po must have been prearranged – but finally she returned to the entrance of building.

Skye slowed down the rewind time, and enhanced the screen further, waiting for the woman to remove her mask and place it back down among the range of options the Collector had provided, and when the moment came she let out a sudden hiss of surprised recognition.

She froze the screen, and stared at it numbly for a moment, processing the revelation.

"Oh Raina, what have you gotten yourself involved in," Skye whispered.

* * *

**(A/N) Yes, this is a second note, and it _is _the first time I've done this in the fic. Felt I had to give a big thanks to the always incredible Gumby1011 for that little segment there, something that he had wanted to write ever since taking on Cletus for the fic. So glad that I could find a way to make it happen!**

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	98. Chapter 97: Role Models

**(A/N) As promised, here's today's update, hot on the trail of yesterday's! If you haven't checked that one out yet, make sure to do so before reading on. This chapter returns us to the arena and to Lili-Hunter's Steve Rogers, as we enter the final dozen chapters. And there'll be another update tomorrow, so keep an eye out!**

**Big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird for their review, as always!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Seven – Role Models**

**Night, Day Twelve**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"The ordinary response to atrocities is to banish them from consciousness. Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word unspeakable._

_Atrocities, however, refuse to be buried." _

– Judith Herman

* * *

Steve looked around uneasily, pulling slightly at the straps of his backpack. The soft grass whispered underneath his feet, murmuring quiet reassurance, but he knew better than to think that he was safe. Protection was never assured in the arena – if he'd learned nothing else during his time in the Games, he'd learned that.

The sun was going down, he noticed grimly, watching the way the last light rays streaked across the canopy of leaves overhead. Once, the sight would have struck Steve as something beautiful – a stunning sight to be captured in the soft strokes of an artwork under his hand. Now, though, his mind just whispered _hurry_ and thrummed the first beats of fear under his skin.

Some time ago, he'd crossed the border into what a sign proclaimed as **"****Central Park"** – but Steve's search for shelter was taking longer than he'd thought it would, and a thread of anxiety was slowly starting to unravel underneath his skin. Coming here was risky; he'd known that, of course. With the number of kids left alive dwindling, Gamemakers and tributes alike had to be getting impatient. On top of that, the park was a resource-rich area filled with plants to be gathered and animals to be hunted. As other reserves were slowly dried up, it made sense that tributes would soon be congregating in the area.

But Steve didn't have a choice. His problems were those of likely every other tribute – he was running out of food, out of water. And even if he wasn't, Steve didn't think he could take one more night inside the suffocating walls of the arena's decrepit houses. There were too many places for other tributes to hide; too many places for Gamemakers to lay traps. As absurd as it sounded, the darkness inside an overgrown park felt infinitely safer.

To his left, a branch snapped.

Steve froze, his eyes flicking to the source of the sound. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but he couldn't make out anything in the growing dark. But that didn't guarantee that there wasn't anything there – a tribute, or worse, another mutt.

His mind was filled with visions of the horrors they'd already seen. The swarm of tracker-jackers, rising above the treetops with Steve's head threatening to split from the jarring noise of their flight. Or Ultron, his robotic maw opening wide with cruel laughter that threatened to swallow the tributes whole.

Steve set his jaw, determinedly blinking away the visions. That was in the past – he had more immediate problems. Slowly, careful not to make a sound, Steve stepped behind one of the trees to his right. His heart thumped against his ribs in warning, a breathless reminder to stay quiet.

After a minute of tense silence, a small voice called out from the trees. "Tony? Is that you?"

Steve let out a small breath. He'd been seen, even though they'd guessed wrong – but it was alright, because he recognized the voice. It was Peter, the boy from Eight. Quickly, Steve weighed the risk – but he doubted that either of them were eager to battle, and he'd briefly allied with Peter before, anyway. He looked small, but the kid could carry himself in a fight.

Unbidden, another image rose behind his eyes: Cletus, his eyes on fire and venom spitting from his lips as he roared insults, slowly bleeding out as they left him in the lake to die-

_Enough_, Steve told himself. He didn't want to make Peter wait any longer – especially because the kid was alone, and likely more scared than he was. He stepped around the tree.

"Actually, it's me," Steve said, at the same time as Tony Stark sighed loudly and declared, "Damn, I guess I've been made."

The trio stared at each other. Steve blinked at the other boys – Peter looked tired and dirty, like he had been run ragged. Steve probably appeared the same. And Tony…Tony was only recognizable after he removed the metallic helmet-thing and looked them over. It looked like he was covered in armour, like a crude approximation of a knight.

Tony was the first to speak, a small smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. "Well," he observed calmly, "this is awkward."

They were all tense, hands ready to pull weapons free at a moment's notice. Steve thought furiously – if one of them reached for something, his shield was free, and he could slide it onto his arm in just a second, maybe even less.

But even as he considered it, Steve realized he didn't want to fight. He was exhausted, all the way down to his bones. And not just physically – he was tired mentally, as well. Steve just didn't have the strength to fight, to _kill_ these two boys. Especially not when he'd fought at their side before; considered them friends, even.

He could feel their gazes on him, too, examining him. Steve wondered what they were thinking. Finally, when the silence stretched thin and he thought their moment of peace was about to break, Steve cleared his throat and determinedly straightened out of his instinctively defensive posture.

"I don't know about you two," he said carefully, testing them, "but I'm not really in the mood to fight anyone tonight."

Peter relaxed infinitesimally and flashed them both a small, trembling smile. But the hope on his face was uncertain when he spoke, "Truce?"

Steve nodded, trying not to show the instant, cool swell of relief inside his chest. "Truce," he agreed, lowering his hands. His gaze flickered to the left. "Tony?" he prompted.

"Put a hold on the killing of each other, you mean?" Tony asked, deceptively at ease. "Sure. Why not?"

All at once, the tension bled out of his body. Steve straightened, looking between them. "Okay," he said, "well, now that that's out of the way. The sun's going down." The warning was obvious.

"I don't know about you two, but I was looking for a place to sleep," Tony drawled, wrapping his arms around his stomach. From anyone else, it might have been a gesture of uncertainty. "This whole 'being out in the open' business doesn't really appeal to me, all precautions aside." He gestured at his armoured body.

Steve nodded. "I agree. I don't think we should be wandering around in the open for any longer than necessary."

They looked at each other for a moment before Peter offered, "I walked past a clearing a little ways back. I was going to go back after I got some food – maybe we could go there?"

Steve looked at Tony, who hooked a thumb at a bag hanging from wires at his hip. "No need, little man," he told him. "I've got some. Found some berry bushes a while back, and some other things I'm pretty sure are edible."

"So do I," Steve added, "though I'm running low. But I'm sure we can make a meal out of it all."

In all truth, he wasn't sure at all – Steve barely had enough to feed himself, let alone two others. He spared a moment to hope that Tony was far better stocked than he was before moving forward to fall into step at Peter's shoulder. He inclined his head, a silent _lead the way._

The other boy turned to flick him a smile, and Tony moved quickly to catch up with them. Steve returned the expression easily, squashing down the unease that spread through him after further examination of the other boy. Dark circles were stamped under Peter's eyes, and his hands kept moving in restless, meaningless gestures. He was uneasy, Steve noted, but as Peter's eyes darted around the surrounding trees, he knew that their presence wasn't the reason why.

In fact, they seemed to be having the opposite effect on the younger boy. Steve let his gaze travel over Peter's head as they walked, glancing at Tony on his opposite side. His hair was mussed; his face tired and dirty, but his shoulders were back and his stride even. The display of confidence seemed to be infecting Peter – his posture was straightening, the worry lines on his face disappearing.

Steve pressed his lips together, deciding to keep his observations to himself. It was obvious that Peter was finding the presence of the two older boys reassuring – but, despite how much he liked being seen as a comforting figure, Steve knew it was a dangerous habit to get into. Tribute numbers were dwindling, and not everyone would be eager to bind themselves into alliances with so little time to go. Peter's instant trust could easily be taken advantage of, and he made a mental note to warn him about that before their momentary alliance went separate ways.

That sombre thought led into another: how long would – _could_ – Steve stay with Peter and Tony?

Steve cast his gaze to the ground, unable to control the sudden surge of guilt in his chest. But the thought had to be addressed; he didn't want to kill these boys. Not now, not ever. He didn't want to kill anyone, and so far, Steve's hands had managed to remain relatively bloodless.

But…Steve wanted to get out of the arena alive. He wanted to go home; he wanted to _live._ And logically, he knew that sooner or later that desire would force him to rethink his approach to the arena.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

_Enough,_ he told himself again. Steve knew that he had to think about these things, but there was a time and a place. For now – surrounded by people he trusted, walking through a dangerous area – he could afford to let them rest.

"How much further?" he asked Peter quietly, lifting a branch out of his way. The shield was only barely larger than his shoulders, but it still had a tendency to snag on things.

The smaller boy shrugged. "Not far," he answered. "I was just kind of wandering around before I ran into you two. I didn't really have a plan in mind, so I wasn't moving fast."

Steve accepted the answer with a small hum, and the trio fell into silence as they picked their way through the overgrown park. Night had well and truly fallen – but this darkness, this total absence of light, was far too deep to be natural. He kept a watchful eye on the trees around them – which were rapidly disappearing in the growing darkness – and unconsciously drew closer to Tony and Peter.

A moment later, Tony made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. "I can't see anything in this," he said, sounding disgusted. "How the hell do you even know we're walking straight, Parker?"

"I ate a lot of carrots as a kid," the smaller boy joked and absentmindedly grabbed at Steve's shirt to keep him from smacking into a tree. Steve blinked, glancing at Peter.

"You still _are_ a kid," grumbled Tony. "Besides, I like vegetables. They just don't like _me_."

Steve swallowed past the reflexive, _we all are_, and spoke through gritted teeth. "The Gamemakers," he said, unease coiling inside his stomach. "It has to be."

Tony glanced at him. The ring of blue light glowing from his chest illuminated the grim set of his mouth as he nodded. For once, he didn't offer a sarcastic remark – and Steve wondered if he wasn't the only one starting to wonder what kind of horrors could creep up on them in this darkness.

Peter faltered. "Well, we can stay here, if you guys don't want to keep going. I can't really see, but – I think this is okay? There's, um, some bushes over there. We'll be out of the wind, at least."

"Good idea." Steve's eyes narrowed, but his sight couldn't penetrate the surrounding night any further than a few feet. He pulled his shield up higher on his arm, holding it ready.

Peter led them forward faithfully, and the trio settled down in a circle once the bushes safely surrounded them. At least, Steve thought, if anything tried to sneak up on them, the branches would rustle and give them away.

With that thought in mind, he pulled his shield in front of him and tried to relax. He was suddenly, infinitely glad that he'd run into the two other boys – Steve didn't want to imagine what he would have done if he'd still been alone.

Luckily, unlike the other alliances that Steve had been a part of, the other tributes didn't wait for an awkward silence to settle in before speaking. Both Peter and Tony were talkative, and Steve had barely settled in before the youngest boy started speaking. He and Peter hadn't seen each other for a long time, and Steve doubted that he and Tony had been part of an alliance at any point – so Peter took it as his own personal mission to update them on everything he'd seen and done inside the arena since then.

Steve didn't mind. He listened quietly as he and Tony sorted out their small rations, making sure that they still had enough food for the morning. With resources disappearing fast, none of them could afford to splurge.

As Peter talked, Steve paid more and more attention to his recount. As he got closer to the present, the hesitations and pauses in the story became more evident – Peter, he realized, was editing his own history as he went. Steve didn't know if it was because the younger boy didn't want to think about some of the darker aspects of the Games or if he was sparing the other boys unwanted detail.

Steve glanced down, brushing imaginary dirt off his shield as he tried to conceal the sudden surge of gratefulness in his throat. He didn't care why Peter was doing it, but he was glad. The Games were already full of death and fear – on nights like these, Steve would much rather just forget.

Plus, if Peter asked him about anything that Steve had done, he'd feel less guilty about avoiding the gruesome details. No one wanted to hear about the things Steve had seen, the things he'd done. The other boys had likely gone through their own tragedies – and, well, the Capitol had been watching them all since day one. The likelihood that they'd missed anything was a small one.

The thought made his fingers twitch, and Steve tensed before they turned into an involuntary fist. Images flashed through his mind – Ro's blind eye, dangling from the nerve in his hand; Cletus' expression of desperate, insane rage as he bled out into the lake; Tony's bloody chest pierced with shrapnel; Logan's twisted snarl as he ripped his claws free of Kurt's chest. But Steve took a deep breath, and pushed them away from his mind – _it's over_, he told himself firmly. _Focus on the present._ One of his legs had fallen asleep, and Steve forced himself to twitch his toes until sensation returned, in waves of pinpricking pain. If nothing else, it was an effective distraction from the awful memories in his head.

Between the three boys, they'd managed to pool together two half-eaten power bars, some nuts and fruits, a few strips of meat, and approximately two bottles of water. They'd divided the small stash into roughly even piles, but while Tony was distracted, Steve pushed a little more onto the other boy's portions before pulling his own towards him. Peter was a growing kid, after all, and perhaps if Tony had more to eat then it would take longer before he started running his mouth.

He started eating as Peter's story wound to a close – shuddering still at the images of the giant spiders that the other boy had faced – and Tony waited only a few moments before launching into his own. Steve was more than happy to listen – it was incredible to hear their experiences of the arena, and mentally align them with what he'd been doing at the time. From the sounds of it, Steve had had a relatively uneventful first couple days in the arena. Not everyone had been so lucky – even though, eventually, Steve's misfortune had caught up with him too.

By eating slowly, Steve had only just finished his meal by the time it was his turn to speak. The pain in his stomach had subsided, and he took the time to lick his fingers clean while he gathered his thoughts. He began slowly, telling them everything and being sure to include his first impressions of them both, which made the other boys snicker. Thankfully, Peter and Tony didn't press him when he chose to stick to the lighter topics – though sometimes, there was no avoiding the awful horrors that he'd endured. Tony, who'd skipped over the Ultron fight with the simple claim that he didn't really remember it, nodded sombrely as Steve described the burning adrenaline and racing terror as they'd faced down against the giant mutt – if the horrific robot could even be called such a thing.

Ro's death, too, was not something that could be avoided. Steve kept his gaze fixed on the centre of their little circle as he spoke about the creeping sensation of being followed, the crushing despair that had choked him as he'd realized what he'd found. As he spoke, Tony's hand lifted – as though he meant to comfort Steve with a surprisingly gentle touch – but he hesitated before pulling it back to his lap. Steve gave him a small smile anyway, recognizing the gesture.

He didn't need to describe the resultant fight with Cletus in much detail – Peter had been present, and Steve interpreted Tony's sick expression, clear even in the dim light, as a desire not to hear the entire thing. He focused instead on afterwards, when the small group had been attacked by tracker jackers – avoiding, of course, his own observations of Kurt's death out of respect for Peter's friendship with the other boy. He mentioned only briefly the hallucinations that he'd seen before Steve had run, waking up hours later still dazed from the stings.

It was only then that Steve hesitated. Neither of the other boys had mentioned getting messages from their home districts. After suffering through his own reaction of devastated grief, Steve had felt more and more uncertain about the event. Within the arena, he had no way to ascertain the truth – if the message had really been just out of courtesy, or a hidden weapon designed to tear him apart more effectively than any mutt or tribute could.

In the end, after a moment of deliberation, Steve cleared his throat and confessed, decisively. From the relief that burst onto Peter's face, he knew immediately that he wasn't alone – and Tony's own sudden expression of grief and pain likely meant that he had received one, too. With answers within reach, he didn't need to put himself through the emotional trauma of reliving that moment – Steve spoke quickly and ended his story, turning to Peter, who had been nodding avidly.

"I got one of those too!" he said, bright-eyed and excited. For a moment Steve thought that his message must have been a pleasant one, but it didn't take long for the light in Peter's expression to fade. His eyebrows drew together and he glanced at his hands, curled together in his lap. "Mine, ah, wasn't really a message, though? It was more like a, um, surveillance camera."

He swallowed, with more hurt in his eyes than Steve had ever seen, and the older boy's heart ached in sympathy. Whatever he'd witnessed, Steve was sure it had been some kind of betrayal – and Peter's next words confirmed it.

"I don't think they knew they were being filmed," he added, his voice small.

Tony reached out to squeeze his shoulder, patting him reassuringly before retreating. "Don't worry, Pete," he told him, with seemingly forced brightness. Steve glanced at his posture – shoulders curled, mouth tugged down at the corner – and confirmed it silently. Peter's experience had hit far more closely than Steve's had. "We've all been there."

Steve knew that he should respect the other boy's privacy, but his mouth opened before he knew what he was doing. "Have we?"

For a second, Steve regretted it. There was something about Tony that got under his skin, but he still liked the other boy – and there was no reason for Steve to push for answers that he didn't deserve. But Tony's eyes flashed to his, momentary anger flashing in their depths, and Steve couldn't find it within himself to take it back. Whatever could affect Tony and make him withdraw like that – insufferable, permanently talkative Tony – was something that Steve wanted to know about.

Tony steadied himself with a breath, though the anger he could direct at Steve seemed to be keeping him upright. "Remember my partner?" he asked. "My loveable, gorgeous partner? The one that I thought was the _love of my life_?" His voice had turned dark, mocking. Steve couldn't look away.

He remembered her name. "Pepper," he said, and Tony's eyes glittered. "She had red hair."

"I remember her, too," Peter added, sounding slightly disturbed. Steve glanced at him. "I saw her picture in the sky."

Tony lifted a finger-gun and popped it, smirking. "Bingo! Points for both of you."

He didn't seem as though he was going to go further, but they'd already heard the beginning. Steve couldn't stop himself. "So what did you see?" he asked.

"Geez, Rogers, ever heard of _boundaries_? I don't want to talk about this," Tony snapped. Steve put his hands up immediately, backing off. He wouldn't push him – at least, not further than he already had.

Steve could feel Peter's gaze on him and he knew that the other boy was curious as well. As soon as Tony looked away, Steve shifted his gaze and shook his head slightly. Tony wouldn't react well to being pushed from both sides, and Steve would much rather that he was yelled at than Peter.

The three settled into an awkward silence, with the heat of Tony's anger filling the air between them. But the older boy couldn't keep his silence for long – the matter must have been eating at him more than he'd let slip. Finally, he spoke again. "It was Pepper and Sin," he said. "My video. It was just them talking about me."

Steve hesitated as Tony stabbed a stick into the ground, twisting it viciously into the soil. He wondered, fleetingly, if he was picturing a knife going into Pepper's back, or maybe Sin's. "And?"

All the fight went out of him, and Tony hesitated before dropping the stick at his side. He brushed his hand off on his pants, the exhausted lines of his face suddenly more pronounced than before.

"She hated me," he confessed, "this whole time. She wanted to kill me from the beginning. It's why I'm here – I thought she'd forgiven me, but she just wanted _revenge_."

His voice was wet, and Tony scrubbed a hand across his face. Steve was stunned, instantly regretting the way that he'd pushed for answers. "That's…that's awful, Tony. I'm sorry."

Hesitantly, he reached forward and tried to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder – but Tony shrugged it off, burying his head in his hands. But the sign of weakness lasted only a moment, and Tony flung his head back up with a falsely bright smile.

"Well, now that we've all had a deliciously freeing heart-to-heart, shall we hold hands? I'm sure the Capitol would love that shot – _'broken boys brought together by tragedy'_ or something, I can imagine Tivan's reaction right now."

Steve broke in. "Tony-"

A savage hand gesture cut him off, and Tony's jaw worked for a moment before he could calm down enough to speak. "Whatever, Steve. I don't want to talk about it."

Steve nodded wordlessly, his stomach rolling unpleasantly with guilt. He shouldn't have pushed. He'd underestimated Tony, again, and acted thoughtlessly even when he should have known better. Peter was watching them both with wide eyes, frozen with a water bottle held to his lips.

The sight made Steve feel guilty all over again. They were both older than Peter, and it was pretty clear how much he idolized them. Seeing them fight – especially now, during an alliance where they'd declared a break to the violence – would definitely have shaken him. Steve hated that he'd let Peter down – of course, he should have known that that would have been an eventuality instead of a risk. But it still stung.

Again, the trio sat in silence for a while. But this awkwardness was Steve's fault, so he did his best to repair the situation. It was easy to draw Peter into conversation, and they murmured quietly as the night drew close around them. It was interrupted only by the nightly display of the fallen tributes, which they both fell silent for, Peter watching tensely all the way to the end, when a new face lit up the sky with another Career, the boy from Twelve.

It had fallen even more unnaturally dark, and the silence surrounding them had definitely been engineered – any other forest at night would be bursting with sound. It made Steve feel uneasy, but he also knew that the silence would make it easier to hear any other tributes creeping around in the dark.

Eventually, after almost a half-hour of tortured silence, Tony opened up again. He seemed determined to forget the incident, talking loudly and fast enough to make up for the missed time. When Steve met his eyes, Tony could only hold it for a few seconds – but there were no hidden reserves of anger or spite in his gaze, just exhaustion. Neither forgiven nor forgotten, then, but it wasn't unfixable.

Steve nodded at him silently, accepting the message. Time passed as the three boys spoke quietly, about anything and everything – inevitably, the conversation drifted to their lives at home, but it was too painful to discuss for long when they knew at least two would never return. But eventually, as Peter's every word was interrupted by a yawn and his own eyes started sliding shut, Steve decided that it was time for them to sleep. Neither of the others argued, though Tony did offer to take first watch.

He accepted gratefully, deciding to take second. But as Peter settled down, Steve hesitated. Then, before he could change his mind, he walked over to where Tony had sat and crouched next to him, Steve's hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Tony," he began quietly. The other boy didn't look at him. "I'm really sorry about before. It wasn't my place to push, and I shouldn't have forced you to say anything."

For a moment, Steve thought that Tony wouldn't even acknowledge his apology. But then his shoulder shuddered under his hand and he looked up. "It's fine, I know you didn't mean anything by it. I mean,_ I'm_ not fine, but…" Tony shrugged. "I think I needed to talk about it. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what I'm supposed to say here, right?"

The corner of Steve's mouth turned down, but he nodded and patted his shoulder once before standing. "Alright. Goodnight, Tony."

"Night, Steve."

With that taken care of, Steve settled down onto the grass with a much clearer mind. Peter seemed to have fallen asleep instantly, which made him smile. But as he rolled onto his back, staring at the empty blackness of the sky, Steve was filled with a silent melancholy. _I miss the stars_, he thought suddenly – and then sighed, because stargazing was something that he and Ro had done on the nights that they couldn't sleep. Both their districts had had different explanations for the different shapes that spilled out into the sky, and it had been both amusing and interesting to hear the little girl tell the stories as she knew them.

But the thought of Ro was, as ever, a double-edged sword. The soft glow of happiness at the memory of her smile, her mischievous laugh, turned quickly to bitter self-loathing at the thought of the fate he'd abandoned her to.

Speaking about his experiences in the arena had brought all of the horrors that he'd been through to the forefront of Steve's mind. Ro's death and the discovery of her eye was something that, no matter how much he wanted to, Steve couldn't push from his thoughts. He could still see it; still feel and experience that moment in all the detail his treacherous brain was capable of.

When he remembered it, Steve felt sick. Perhaps it could have been easier to bear if she'd died at the hand of someone, anyone, else. But Cletus…

Steve had seen the terrifying, insane cruelty that the other boy was capable of with his own eyes. He'd nearly died from it, and he'd been protected by the presence of the other boys and his own strength. Ro – the small, sweet girl that she had been – hadn't had any of those things. She'd been on her own.

The thought made Steve's eyes burn. He rolled on his side, pressing a shaking fist to his mouth to keep from making a sound. His throat ached from the effort.

_Oh, Ro._ Steve squeezed his eyes shut. _Whatever he did to you, I'm sorry. You're in a better place now._

And Cletus…if there was any justice to be had, then that monster was burning in a place that only he deserved. The thought of him made Steve's chest burn – he'd been so cruel, so monstrous, that it was impossible to think of him as a young boy just like himself. Steve didn't think he'd ever be capable of such horrors.

If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought that Cletus was a mutt – a Capitol-engineered creature, bred with hate and viciousness in his blood. The fact that he wasn't was, somehow, even more unsettling. The thought of him filled Steve with a fear and disgust that went bone-deep, affecting him much more than anything the Capitol created ever could.

With Cletus and Ro swimming at the forefront of his mind, it felt like hours until Steve could sleep – and even then, it was fitful and agitated, so that when Tony woke him up it barely felt as though he'd slept at all.

Then again, after the arena, Steve didn't know if he'd sleep properly ever again.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**


	99. Chapter 98: Greater Responsibility

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with the latest update of In the End, You Always Kneel – our third in three days! If you haven't read the past two chapter – one set in the Capitol, with our motley S.H.I.E.L.D. crew, and the other with Steve Rogers – please go back and read them before going ahead with this one, just so that you won't miss anything. There'll be another update for you all tomorrow, too, so watch this space!**

**Our thanks goes out to Eryniel Alasse, Rana Damolin and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews. Delighted to hear how much you've all enjoyed the fic so far, and having seen the remaining chapter, I can honestly say that I believe the best is yet to come – and given how much I've loved what we've done so far, that is a **_**very **_**big statement for me to make.**

**I just hope you'll all feel the same!**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Eight **_— _**Greater Responsibility**

**Morning, Day Thirteen**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"The thing about a hero, is even when it doesn't look like there's a light at the end of the tunnel, he's going to keep digging, he's going to keep trying to do right and make up for what's gone before, just because that's who he is." _

— Joss Whedon

_"One part brave, three parts fool!" _

— Chirstopher Paolini,_ Eragon_

_"His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do – the best ones. The ones who rise up and say 'I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.' Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places."_

— Markus Zusak,_ The Book Thief_

* * *

A hand gently shook Peter's shoulder. "Come on, sleepy head, time to wake up."

The boy jerked away from the touch and pushed back into the tree he was propped against, one hand instinctively going for the knife in his belt.

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down there, jumpy." Tony held up his hands in surrender, the blue glow on his chest illuminating the shadows under the tree and glinting off the armour that covered his chest. "Just me."

Peter took a shaky breath and forced a smile as he released his clutch on the knife. "Sorry. That bed-head looked like a wild animal."

"Ha ha. Very funny." Tony ran a hand through his greasy hair and glared at the other boy. "You're not looking too prime yourself, Sunshine." He stood and kicked at Peter's boots as he turned to walk to the campfire remains. "Time to move out, according to the good Captain."

A sigh escaped Peter as his head fell back against the bark of the tree. He let his eyes drift closed for a moment as everything came rushing back like it did every morning.

The spiders. The wasps. The syringe. The living. The dead. The box.

His dark eyes opened and he stared up at the leaves. _Time to go, Pete._ His muscles were stiff like they always seemed to be as he pushed himself up with a groan.

"I wondered if you'd gone back to sleep." Tony shot a smirk his direction. "I was really hoping you had; then I could have dumped water on your head."

"I wouldn't have refused the bath." Peter stretched his arms up over his head, cracking his back as he joined the pair at the remnants of the campfire.

"I'm not sure how much it would help without soap at this point." Steve held out a glass bottle with water. "Not enough for a bath, but I can offer you a drink."

"My hero." The water was still warm from being boiled, but Peter wasn't about to complain.

"Hey, I did the hard work. I found the water," the metal-clad boy argued.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "And I'm the one who made the fire and provided the bottle."

"Some people want all the credit," Tony stage-whispered.

Peter snorted and handed the bottle back. Yet again, company was proving to be way more fun than being on his own. Despite knowing that they had to part ways, he was hoping they could stay together at least a little longer.

"If you do want to splash some water on that fresh face of yours, the watering hole is just over there." Tony jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Can't miss it."

"Thanks." He walked in the indicated direction, calling back over his shoulder. "So, you guys got any plans for the day? I mean, I've got a rabbit dinner to pick up and a bingo game later, but until them I'm—" His feet froze and his heart skipped a beat. The breath caught in his throat as he got a clear look at his surroundings when he broke through the treeline.

"Peter? What's wrong?" Steve's voice reached him, but he couldn't quite find the ability to answer. He heard the two running up behind him. "Are you okay?"

"N-n-no. I mean. Yes. I'm fine. I think. It's just...I didn't know we were _here_." Peter gestured weakly at the lake in front of them. He would recognize the water anywhere. He couldn't simply forget the place he had almost drowned.

The place where he'd helped murder a boy.

Realization must have dawned on Steve as well. He was frowning at the placid water, his jaw clenching.

"Does someone want to clue me in?" Tony questioned. He had his helmet in his hands at the ready.

"This is where we fought Cletus," Steve answered when Peter remained silent. "Logan, Kurt, Peter, and I. We chased him here. He almost had us a few times with traps he'd set up, but we caught him off guard him with how many of us there were. He wasn't prepared for a four-on-one battle. We were fighting in the water when Kurt finally stabbed him. Even after getting a hole through his stomach, Carnage didn't go down easy. He almost drowned Peter." He glanced at the other boy, who was still rooted to his spot.

The dark-haired teen gulped. He realized that one hand had protectively moved to his throat.

"Luckily, Peter managed to use Cletus's own knife against him and finished the job," Steve concluded.

"Jeez." Tony frowned at the water like he was trying to see the fight. "You're one lucky son of a bitch, aren't you, Parker?"

"Language," Steve said reflexively.

"I just have that good old Parker luck. Spiders, wasps, blood-thirsty teenagers. I may get beat up, but I always manage to come out alive." He gave a genuine laugh, the tension leaving his body.

Steve put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

The younger boy nodded but still didn't turn. He couldn't look away from the water. It wasn't because he was reliving the battle, at least not anymore. There was something else. Something odd. The lake was too still. Not even the wind was rippling the water.

"You sure you're okay, Spider-Kid?" Tony asked.

"I'll be better when I'm not here anymore." He frowned and shivered slightly, his unease returning. "I really think we shouldn't be here."

Then, the red began seeping from the centre of the lake.

"Please tell me you guys see that, too," Peter whispered. His voice sounded higher than usual.

"You mean the blood in the water?" Tony was staring at the lake as well with wide eyes.

"Actually, please tell me you don't see it."

The red spread quickly across the surface until the entire lake was dyed. The image of the blood pouring from Cletus's neck into the lake came to Peter, and he shuddered._ It's not that. It can't be blood. It's just some sick Gamemaker joke. Of course...they _would_ be the ones able to get enough blood to fill a lake._ He wasn't doing a great of a job of convincing himself.

"What is that?" Steve pointed to ripples that were moving toward the shore.

"I've got a really bad feeling about this," Peter said, his wide eyes watching the ripples slowly advance and shift into boiling bubbles.

"I'm with the Spider on this one. We should get out of here," Tony agreed.

None of them moved. They were entranced by the mystery that was headed right for them. Slowly, a shape became visible, a darker red under the blood. _Not blood, _Peter reminded himself. The shadow broke the surface, and it took a moment for the humanoid figure to register with his brain.

It was massive, even with only the head and shoulders above the water. Huge muscles bulged from its neck and arms, pumping as the figure forced its way through the lake. Its chest was just as strong when it emerged. At first, Peter thought the water was still running in rivulets over the body, but he realized that it was actually the thing's skin, dyed a red and black mixture. The colours seemed to shift on their own, undulating across the skin, but that couldn't be right. The most unnerving aspect, though, was the face. The eyes were all white and took up too much of the head to be natural. They seemed to burn in the bald skull. There was no visible nose, and the large, lipless mouth that gaped with sharp teeth hung open, revealing a long, dripping tongue.

"What the hell is that?" Tony demanded, jamming the helmet over his head.

"Some new mutt." Steve moved to ready his weapon, and Tony and Peter quickly followed suit.

The six-foot-tall monster paused momentarily on the edge of the lake, dripping red and black onto the shore. No, not dripping. The tendrils coming off of the body weren't liquid. They were moving like extra arms, shaking off water and withering around the form. It was mumbling, hissing to itself with an oddly familiar voice.

"Who are they? Food, yes, but something else. Other things. We remember them. Yes. Yes! We _know_ you!"

With a start, it ran at them with surprising speed. Steve met it head on while Tony and Peter dodged out of the way, glancing the first strike off his shield. One of the tendrils wrapped around his arm, and Steve cut it off with the shield's edge. The creature let out a grating screech and stepped back to regroup. The sliced tendril fizzled on the ground, flopping listlessly. It drew itself up and held its clawed hands out to either side as it gave a roar that shook Peter's very bones.

Then the monster spoke. "Captain Rogers. So-o nice to see you again." It was Cletus's sing-song voice, Peter realized. It was modified with hissing and growls, but it was definitely the voice of Cletus coming from the monstrosity. "We see you've got Starky-warky with you this time around." The white fire that stood for the mutt's eyes turned to Peter. A tendril seemed to gesture in his direction. "And the itsy bitsy spider. We have a score to settle with you. You ruined our fun last time."

That_ was_ Cletus. Or at least that's what they were supposed to believe.

_But he's _dead_. I killed him. This isn't him. It can't be._

"Cletus?" Peter whispered, earning a confused look from Tony.

The beast shook its head, the tendrils whipping wildly. "No, we are _not_ Cletus. Cletus is dead. There is _only_ Carnage! _There will forever be CARNAGE!"_

Steve pushed Tony and Peter from where they were frozen. "Move! Get into the trees!"

There was no hesitation to following Steve's orders. The trio plummeted into the forest, dodging and weaving. They instinctively moved toward the denser areas, hoping the larger Carnage would be slowed.

"Yes, run, run, as fast as you can. I'll still catch you all," Cletus's voice sang from behind them. It wasn't nearly far enough away. The monster didn't seem to be slowed down by the foliage in the least.

Instead, Tony seemed to be struggling. His metal armour weighed him down and limited his flexibility as he tried to avoid trees and branches. No doubt he still wasn't fully recovered from his injuries, either. The battery Banner had rigged up was nothing short of astonishing, but it didn't mean Tony was as good as new.

A yelp interrupted the crunch of their boots and Peter glanced behind to see Tony on the ground. A tendril had shot forward and caught his foot, slowly pulling him back toward the approaching Carnage.

Peter spun and jumped at a branch. Using the momentum, he launched himself feet first at the side of Carnage's head. For a moment he could feel the tendrils on his skin, sticky and wet, but then he was rolling away on the forest floor. The impact had caused Carnage to recoil, his hands pressed to either side of his head as his form seemed to vibrate. The trajectory of Peter's attack had placed him on the far side of the mutt, separating him from his companions.

"Peter?" Steve called from where he was helping Tony stand.

"I'm good, just go!"

The pair took off running again as Peter started on his own route. Carnage let out a roar. Peter leaped over a downed log, skidding down a small incline. He caught sight of something shiny and sprinted to head it off. He grabbed a low hanging branch and swung himself over a thicket of shrubs, landing just in front of the other boys.

"Miss me?" He grinned as he started running again.

"Not gonna lie, but I was hoping he was chasing you," Tony gasped from under his helmet.

"Your honesty is honestly refreshing." A brief glance behind showed Carnage trampling through the vegetation. If anything, he was looking more energized. "Guys, we gotta go faster!"

Steve noticed, too, and for a brief moment Peter could see the fear in the young man's eyes. "This way!" He led them around a bend. The way opened a bit and let them pick up speed. "Come on!"

They could see light through the branches. The trio left the shadowed path and rushed forward. Steve stopped short and the others skidded to a stop beside him. They were back at the lake. Not the same part, but it was the same blood red water.

"Shit." Tony put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, the most hampered of all of them with the armour weighing him down, and it was obvious he was exhausted from it. "What now?"

"Swim for it?" Peter shrugged, looking back the way they had come, waiting for the appearance of the creature.

The boy from Five looked around and started for a rocky outcropping. "Up here."

Peter and Tony scrambled up beside him. The only noise was their ragged breathing while they waited, their weapons drawn. Peter flipped his knife nervously.

The monster must have known that they were trapped. Why else would it move so slowly into the open, its incredibly long tongue weaving through the air like it was tasting? Carnage's tendrils slithered through the air in a strange aura.

"Do you like our new look?" Carnage asked, stopping at the base of the outcropping. "We're finally able to expressssss our true ssssself," he hissed. His mouth didn't move with the words; it just sort of hung open with that constantly moving tongue. "Now the question is who wants to be pulled apart first."

The claws worked in the air like he was already ripping at their flesh. "Because we're going to pull you all apart. Nice. And. Slow." He giggled maniacally.

"Stay calm," Steve said despite the tremble in his voice. "We have the high ground."

"Why do I feel like in this case, that's not going to help at all?" Tony sounded strained.

There was a moment of stillness. Only the tendrils moved, straining toward the boys' perch.

Then, the mutt leaped.

Carnage moved faster than Peter thought possible. He was bee-lining straight for Steve. The clawed hands were magnified by the dozens of tendrils that suddenly looked razor sharp. There was no way the young man from Five could block all of the attack with just his shield. He was sure to be skewered.

Peter jumped straight at the red creature's side, his knife sliding into the monster's ribs as their bodies impacted. The force of impact sent the pair tumbling off the far side of the outcropping. Carnage was hissing and growling with snapping teeth dangerously close to Peter's face as the boy hung on as tight as he could during the fall. A clawed hand dug into Peter's back, causing him to cry out. At the same time, a tendril lodged itself in his shoulder. Peter gritted his teeth against the pain and pulled his knife free. He brought it down again into Carnage's neck.

"WE WILL TEAR YOU TO PIECES!" Carnage screamed. Claws ripped into his side. They landed on the rough ground, rocks biting into Peter's back and the mutt on top of him.

Hot blood splattered onto Peter's face as he plunged the knife into his opponent's neck again. His other hand was pushing away the snapping jaws. The tendrils slammed into the ground around him, some of them finding their mark in his body. One shot toward his head and he jerked out of the way as much as he could, the point of the tendril slicing along his cheek and grazing his ear.

He continued stabbing as well as he could. The stickiness of Carnage's skin clung to his hands and made removing his knife difficult. Every wound he made seemed to close up almost instantly. His movements were getting slower, weaker. He'd lost count of the number of stabs he'd sustained from the flailing tendrils.

Carnage pulled back and laughed as he raised a clawed hand and sliced across Peter's chest. The young man screamed and put all his strength into a last stab right into the middle of the thing's neck, but Carnage refused to fall. "It's all over, Spidey-Widey."

Peter closed his eyes in preparation for the final blow. He felt the hot breath on his face as Carnage leaned closer.

There was a clang and a grunt. A weight fell on Peter that made the air go out of his lungs. He opened his eyes and almost screamed at the close face of Carnage. The long tongue was on Peter's cheek, and he winced away from it.

"Peter? Peter! Are you okay?" Steve demanded as he and Tony pulled off Carnage's limp body.

Peter smiled weakly and coughed. "Totally." By the looks on the others' faces, he could tell he wasn't.

"Tony, put pressure on the wounds."

"Which ones?" Tony asked, taking off his metal helmet and staring wide-eyed down at Peter's mutilated torso. The young man dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to the slice down Peter's side.

The Captain knelt on Peter's other side and put pressure on the biggest cut across Peter's chest. His eyes were quickly calculating the situation, and Peter didn't need to be a mind reader to see what was written there. He could feel the blood pooling on his skin and soaking the ground.

"Steve." Tony's eyebrows knit together. "I don't think—"

"He's going to be fine."

Peter looked over at the body of Carnage. Steve must have broken its neck with the shield. Its mouth hung open, and the tongue stretched out on the ground. The tendrils were lying limp at the mutt's side, some of them twitching ever so slightly. The white eyes still looked like they were burning straight into his soul. He tore his gaze away, wishing someone would move the head.

"Come on, we've got to get him somewhere safer." Steve started to scoop up the smaller teen.

The pain of being moved made Peter cry out. "Stop, please! Just, just put me back down. Please," he whimpered.

The blonde relented and lowered him back. He resumed pressure on Peter's chest. "We can't stay here."

"It's okay." Peter lifted a hand put it on Steve's arm. "You guys don't have to stay. Who knows; he might come back to life. He seems to have a habit of doing that." His voice was wavering, and it bothered him. He didn't want to be scared.

Steve looked at the hand and frowned. "Why? Why did you do that?"

Peter's lips twitched upward. "Only one of us can get out, right?"

"Exactly. So why? Why stop him? You had no reason. You could have run. You could have run while we were in the trees. You would have at least had a chance."

"This was the right thing to do," Peter said without hesitation. "I couldn't have lived with myself if I let you get killed." _Not like Kurt and Rogue. Not again. _"Besides, I've done enough running."

"It wouldn't have been your fault!"

"But he was_ my_ responsibility. I'm the one who killed Cletus the first time. He was my problem. My nightmare." His hand had fallen from Steve's arm at some point. It was getting harder to breathe.

Tony shook his head. "That thing wasn't just your problem." He was still putting pressure on Peter's side. "You really are a web-head."

"Only now realizing it?" Peter laughed lightly. Something warm bubbled up in his mouth and he turned his head to cough up the blood. He groaned. "I was pretty low on the totem pole of tributes anyway. I knew the Parker luck had to run out eventually."

Steve swallowed. "You're probably the best of all of us."

Peter shook his head slightly, his head feeling groggy. "Too nice," he mumbled. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"He's losing a lot of blood, Steve." He tried to focus on Tony, but his vision blurred.

His eyes closed. The other boys were saying something, but he couldn't understand anymore. Everything was muffled. His breathing was shallow. "I'll tell Uncle Ben you said hi, Aunt May," he whispered too low for anyone to hear.

A sea of calm blackness enveloped him, and he let go.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**


	100. Chapter 99: Cry Havoc

**(A/N) And we're back with our fourth update in four days, so, once again, I'll urge our readers to make sure that they've read the previous chapters before starting this one! Now, I have a note or two about this chapter – Bruce has been up to a lot, so while the chapter brings us up to Day Thirteen, a good chunk of it occurs in the days before, since we've last seen Bruce. Since we left off, he was just entering Hell's Kitchen – I wonder what he got up to there? Part of this chapter will see his take on events with Loki, and I'd just like to state that this version was actually the original – Miran had this chapter done first, and I worked on Loki's off her account of the meeting, so all praise should go to her.**

**Also, just as I went to upload this chapter, I realised that this is our hundredth update for the fic (only on Chapter Ninety-Nine because of the prologue). That's one hell of an achievement, and I'd just like to thank all of our writers for making this happen. I really don't thank them enough for all that they've contributed over the course of the fic.**

**A big thanks to signupwithme, Eryniel Alasse and WolviesTigerLizzy-Howie (had to cut the full stop, or Fanfiction wouldn't let me post) for their reviews. However, I would urge people not to attempt to read all 600,000+ words of this fic in a single day, simply for their own safety – get some sleep, Wolvies, we'll still be here tomorrow! **

**Enjoy**

* * *

**Chapter Ninety-Nine ****–****Cry Havoc**

**Day Thirteen**

**Bruce Banner, District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"O, from this time forth,_

_My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!"_

– William Shakespeare, _Hamlet, Act 4.4_

* * *

Dawn trickled into the huge, deserted warehouse through a broken roof, not so much bringing light as pointing out in glowing fingers how decrepit the contents were. Debris was piled from wall to wall and seemed to separate the large space into smaller sections, each one in turn filled with odd mounds of old, rotted fabric, mouldering boxes, small piles of wood, and other, less easily identified things. A few narrow alleys through the centre of the warm, dry debris seemed like paths through a junkyard.

A huddled figure shifted with a quiet groan in a far corner of the building. As it did, dust filled an errant sunbeam with thousands of twinkling particles, and the figure sneezed, hitting his head against the concrete wall.

"Ow! _Dammit_..." Bruce Banner, tribute of Six, brought one hand up to rub his head, and his eyes opened slowly. He looked around the vast room, squinted at the light coming through the dilapidated struts of the roof, and shook his head. "Terrific."

His focus moved slowly down the heavy cinderblock walls to the oddly spaced junk covering the floor and finally to the corner he was lying against the wall in. Dust muffled everything in a thick layer, and Bruce drew a finger through it on the floor where he was lying. _The collapse in the roof must be pretty new_. He could see from where he sat that most of the huge room was greyed with dust except for the area beneath the hole. Over there, wind and rain had stirred the deathly stillness at least a bit. Even in his exhaustion, it tickled at his brain. Something about this place was off.

Most of the buildings he had seen in the arena were dirty, but this seemed different somehow. Almost as if it had been here longer, deserted longer. Almost as if it hadn't been part of any preparation by the Gamemakers. _Is that possible? Anything in the arena should have been…_

Bruce's eyebrows drew together as he shifted to sit against the wall, stirring up more dust. His scientific mind was trying to make sense of it all when abruptly, with the force of a morning-after hangover and the stealthy ease of a shark, the events of yesterday swam up in his consciousness. _Stark._

With a groan, he pushed his palms against his eyes, as if he could massage the images of yesterday away if he only pressed hard enough. It didn't work.

_Why didn't I see it sooner? Was I blind? Was I just that desperate to have someone on my side here? Or did I just need something, anything in all this insanity that I thought maybe I could fix?_

He had to give Tony credit; the guy was a much more successful actor than Bruce could ever hope to be. All the time that they had worked together, depended on each other; all the time that Bruce had worked so hard to keep him alive…he had never suspected the fouled spirit that really lived behind that sardonically grinning façade. He didn't know what he had expected from that video, but it wasn't…_that._

And it wasn't the death that had sparked his anger. It was too obvious for anyone with an analytic mind to be offended by death. They were _here_ to kill each other, and everything else – every so-called 'alliance', every shared fight, every stolen minute of peace – was just an illusion. He _knew_ it, as much as he hated it.

_Just killing time_, he thought with a rueful grin. _Even that._ Any semblance of teamwork was strictly for the pleasure of the Capitol. For the sick, twisted masses, raised to worship the yearly celebration of false promises, betrayal, and death.

No, it wasn't the death of the girl, even though it looked in the video as if Tony had enjoyed it a bit too much. _But that could have been edited in. It wasn't that. It was_…With a deep breath, he reluctantly saw the images in his mind again.

It was cruelty. It was _Sin_. The tough little 'gang-girl', so brave, so brimming with the need to prove herself to her father, brimming with the need to be someone, to be _something._ In his mind's eye, he saw her huddled in the sewers, the pain and fear on her face, her shirt gone, Tony clutching the arrow in her shoulder like a handle he could manipulate her with like a puppet.

He saw the look on Tony's face. Saw him take another gulp from the bottle he held. The red, slightly watery eyes, drinking in the wounded girl in front of him as carelessly as he drank down the alcohol. If he hadn't seen Tony try to drink the entire contents of the liquor store they found, he might not have believed it – but he knew what alcohol could do to a man. Far, far too well.

Bruce yelled as his fist came down on the ground next to him, raising a circle of dust. "Dammit!" His cry echoed through the cavernous space, a haunting sound.

If Tony had denied it – if he had made some excuse, if he had tried to explain, if he had even _suggested_ that it didn't happen – but no. Stark had just stared, all emotion drained. _If the Capitol had manipulated that video, he would have tried to give me his version. But there was no other version to give, clearly. The bastard raped her. And God knows what else he did, before she managed to cuff him to that pipe and get away…_ He blinked hard, frowning in the dim light. _And I set him free._

"Damn." This time it was a mere whisper. "I'm sorry, Sin. And damn you, Stark. I hope someone finds you soon. I hope someone finds you who has the stomach to make you suffer."

Turning to pull his knapsack closer, he took out his water bottle and drank deeply. _The dust in this place is choking me. I wonder if there's any food around…_

Standing up was a little more of an adventure than he anticipated, as his stomach and head lurched simultaneously. _Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought – although I suppose it's more likely that I'm just hungry and dehydrated. It's so dry in here…and too warm_. Leaning hard against the cinderblock wall, he checked the sword at his side and unzipped his jacket as he stared out over the floor of debris, trying to make some sense of it. He took a few steps away from the wall, glanced back, and saw the path of disturbed dust that marked his entrance last night.

_Right. Last night._ He remembered leaving Stark in a fury, feeling the anger boil in his blood, running and trying to get as far away as possible. Vaguely, he remembered the chain link fence that he reached, and just as vaguely, he remembered pulling part of it down. With a frown, he looked at his hands.

Sure enough, red lines showed where he had pulled so hard he managed to raise welts in his fingers. He was so angry that it didn't hurt at the time, and now they ached no more than the rest of his body.

Going through the fence got him into this part of the arena, and the door that was pulled partially off its hinges told the rest of the story. He remembered now, finding this building unlocked as it was growing late, wandering through it in the dark, guiding himself with a hand on a wall until he found a doorknob – which stuck until he yanked on it as if his life depended on it. Once he was in this inner room, he had collapsed in a corner, exhausted.

_But where is here?_

He wandered through the piles of rotting fabric and stacks of boxes, curious. There were some canned goods, but they looked old. _Still, food is food…if I get desperate, food poisoning is as good a way to go as any._

He had put a couple cans in his knapsack when something sticking out from under some stacked debris caught his eye. He nudged the decaying fabric back cautiously with the toe of his boot. At first, in the shadowed spot, he only saw the corner of what looked like a book – but then he saw the rest, and his heart jumped with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

A skull grinned up at him, the small, bony arms of its body wrapped around the book. The water he had just swallowed came up in a rush, splattering in the dust as he realized he was looking at the huddled skeleton of a young child. _What the hell?_

Bruce looked around the huge space again, and logic took in the visual evidence once more to produce absolute horror. It all became terrifyingly clear. He staggered back, fear abrupt and sharp in his chest. Turning and trying to run, he stumbled over another pile of debris and heard the hollow, almost musical sound of bones collapsing to the concrete floor. Everywhere he turned, now that he was looking for them, there were heaps of crumbling cloth with dull bits of knobby, ivory white stems sticking out from under them.

He glanced around the huge hall again and saw metal switchback stairs climbing up the wall behind him, almost like a fire escape inside the building. With a sense of increasing terror, he climbed a hanging ladder to reach the first set of stairs and then quickly climbed up, testing the stairs as he went. While his nerves made him cautious, it seemed perfectly steady.

Reaching the top, he paused, panting, to look down at the floor six flights below. It was clearer from here that the ground level was divided into smaller sections, almost like rooms. _Exactly like rooms._

Living spaces that had been drawn by stacking belongings. A small squatter's town had been created in this huge warehouse; a big, sturdy place that was safer from the bombing and the raids than their homes would be.

_Then why are they all dead?_

There was no sign of a fight here. Just bodies, left to rot, their bones protected longer by the closed space. Bruce's mind tripped over the possibilities._ Poison? A fast-acting disease? Biological warfare? Gas?_

He spun away from the silent graveyard of the warehouse as his stomach roiled and found he was facing a door. Without a thought, he pushed through it, desperate to get away. He slammed the door behind him and fell back against it, his eyes squeezing shut in a useless attempt to erase his memory. Then a cold draft brushed his hair, and he gasped as he heard a rustling noise.

It was fear that made him open his eyes again. Heart-pounding fear of what ghosts might be in that room with him. His right hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword before he dared look.

When he did, it turned out that the room was missing a chunk of its back wall. The rustling was from dried leaves that had managed to blow in, and the draft was just the breeze that moved them. Something big must have hit this building back during the war, neatly shearing off a section of brick and plaster, leaving it open to the air.

Instinctively, he moved to the makeshift window, clinging to the edge of the broken wall and gulping fresh air as if he'd been holding his breath for hours. He closed his eyes and considered, for a moment, simply taking a step forward._ Right. With my luck, I'd hit some bushes and just be maimed, laid out until the rats ate me. Perfect. _Slowly, he calmed himself, zipping up and blinking into the freshening breeze.

Dawn was breaking in earnest over the ruined city, draping the broken buildings with shining coppery streaks where the rain had left them wet. The green had taken over so much at ground level that the structures looked, from this height, like rocks half-submerged in a grassy field. _Beautiful._ As the sun rose slightly higher, it illuminated the devastation of man and the magic slowly faded. Bruce took one more deep breath and turned back to look around this smaller room.

Low consoles lined two walls, and he walked over to look at the dials and meters curiously. Time had faded most of the labels on the equipment, but some of it looked oddly familiar. Several broken monitors were mounted on the walls, and he could make out what appeared to be a logo of some sort embossed on the wall above them.

**'Y'**? He squinted, trying to make out more than the one lowercase letter, but whatever small words were below it were obliterated. Frowning, he turned and looked to the other side of the room, where a grey metal desk in one corner looked bare and empty. The drawers stuck, but when he got them open, they were empty as well. _Not a clue as to what this was. But I'd guess it was a control room. Operations for the warehouse – it might have been a factory before they emptied it._ He stared at the wall for a few minutes and realized that the words below the y had actually been scraped off.

_This place wasn't just abandoned – whatever was going on here, they tried to take all trace of it with them._ He frowned thoughtfully. _But with death and devastation all around, who were they hiding it from? What would be so… unless… military?_

He flipped random switches on the consoles, expecting nothing and getting just that. He had reached the end of the second console when there was a quiet, sharp snap after he flicked the switch back and forth on an old meter.

"Oh, really?" It was only a few minutes work to fish out his glasses, push up his sleeves and break open the bottom of the console to trace the wiring. "Okay, buddy. What have we got here?"

The click had been, as he thought, a short circuit. _And where there's a short, there's power._ He traced the wiring back to where it disappeared into the plaster. _Hmh. Okay. _Carefully leaning out of the hole in the wall, he looked out and saw, mounted into the side of the building, what looked like a bank of solar cells.

Curiosity had him fixing the wiring almost automatically, but part of his brain was wondering why this meter had been left behind. _Maybe it was too antiquated to worry about. Maybe they were in a rush and got sloppy. Or maybe,_ he thought, twisting a wire into place,_ they knew it wasn't working and didn't even bother to try to fix it._

He crawled out from under the console and flipped the switch again. The needle on the meter rewarded him by jumping and settling down to a lower level.

"Well, hello, little friend. Like to tell me what you're measuring?" When he stepped away from it, the needle sank a bit lower. "Temperature? Humidity?" He slipped off his knapsack and put it on the counter to get out his water. "What could you be –"

He looked at the machine, and his eyes widened. The needle was now three quarters of the way across the meter. With determined scientific calm, he carefully picked up the knapsack and moved it away, watching the needle drop as he did. His heart was pounding harder as he thoughtfully reached into his bag and pulled out the cans of food from downstairs.

The needle jumped toward its far end.

Bruce swallowed hard. Abruptly, he looked at the logo on the wall and whispered what he saw there. It was _not_ a lower case _y_, although it resembled one. It was a Greek letter. One that he knew well from his experiments back at school. _Alpha, Beta…_

_Gamma._ The thought left his mouth dry.

That small 'y' shape. He knew. It was a Greek letter used with caution in labs everywhere. Whatever had been produced in this space had left it kissed with _gamma_ radiation. Those people down there…they didn't know. They knew it was a big, empty, strong building. They thought…

His stomach churned as he imagined it, knowing all too well what would have happened as they slept in this place. As they got sicker. As they stopped functioning. Tears welled in his eyes, which in turn fed his anger. _Even back then. Even then, the leaders didn't care about the people. Those people, they all died here, and I'm betting no one even warned them…_

His mind brought up the point that he had thus far avoided.

_And I waltzed in here and slept here. And now_ I'm _going to die._

He blinked several times. Knowing what it must be measuring, he went back to the meter, tried to figure out the multiplier on the faded dial._ Well, I'm still alive, so I can guess it's not too high. I've been here for what, ten hours? I'm guessing this is reading that I'm in about two greys. If it was twenty or two-hundred, I'd be dead already._

_Unbelievable. Even if no one kills me first, I've only got a couple weeks..._

He staggered out of the room and back down the long stairway to the open graveyard below.

As he passed the first skeleton he had seen, he stared for a minute. Then he carefully took the book from its clutching arms. The dust made him cough, and he went outside to the sunshine, sitting in a warm spot and leaning against the building. He looked at the book and shook his head. Opening it, he saw scratchy, childlike writing. The first page said:

_This is my book_

_Chelsea Anna B, age 7 1/2_

_Don't steal it!_

Bruce smiled in spite of himself and turned the page.

_Dear Diary,_

_I don't know if I want to call you just Diary, but Emma J says that's what you do. And she has a diary, even though I write lots better, cause mamma tought me more._

_So anyway. Today we moved into this super big place. Not just us but a lot of the neighbours, and some people I don't even know. Mamma says it's just for a little bit, but she always says that about stuff she doesn't like. Papa says we'll be safe here, cause it's got strong walls, and the bombs can't hurt it. I miss being outside more. It gets dark early there aren't a lot of lights._

_After we had some bread and cheese for dinner, a bunch of soldiers came by and said Papa and some other peoples father's had to go with them and help fight. Even Emma S's big brother Tom, and he's not that old. I heard Papa ask if this place is safe for us to stay in while he's gone, and one of the head soldiers said sure, why not? So I know it's okay. I miss him! but Mamma says he's very brave and we should be too. So I am. Mostly. Mamma cried a little when she thought I didn't see._

_We only have a little floor here, but it's just me and Mamma and right next door is Emma J and her aunt. Emma J is my best friend ever! I'm so glad she is here. We named all the walks in here like our streets back home, so our familys live on Applewood Lane, and down at the corner where they keep the water is Oakwood Drive. Not too many trees in here, though, haha._

He shook his head and flipped ahead a few pages. Soldiers taking innocent men to fight. Even boys. It sounded painfully familiar.

_Mr Al from the corner spot says that we should leave. He says that there's something here making people sick. Most everyone else says where else can we go? You can still hear big noises, but more far away than before, like thunder used to be in summer when we could play outside. Emma J and her aunt said he's a worry wart, and Mamma said he was looking for presents inside a horse mouth. I don't know what she means by that, but it sounded funny. She wasn't smiling when she said it though._

Bruce turned another sheaf of pages and found only blank sheets. Frowning, he turned back until he found the last page of writing.

_Dear Diary,_

_I feel kinda sick. I shouldn't complain, Emma J's aunt said, because a lot of people are really a lot sicker. Mamma left during the night, I guess. I think she was going to get some medicine or something. I was sad she didn't tell me she was going, but Emma J's aunt said she'd be gone just for a little bit, and said I could call her Aunt Sandy if I wanted since Mamma's not here. So that's nice._

_I also found I have a super power! Timmy K from down the street said that Mamma wasn't comming back, that she was dead an Aunt Sandy an his mom dragged her out while I was sleeping, and I got so mad I kicked him really hard. He grabbed me by the hair but then he screamed real loud and ran away because the whole handful came out in his hand! Haha! Just like those lizards we read about that make their tails fall off when something grabs them, and then grow them back. So I don't know how long it will take to grow my hair back, but I'm glad he's scared of me so he doesn't say those things about Mamma anymore._

_I know Mamma is coming back soon. Sometimes I can hear her when I'm falling asleep. And Papa too. I wanna go with them but then I wake up. I think I'll sleep now. Maybe they'll be here when I wake up. If I look quick I can actshully see them over by the door, but if I tell Aunt Sandy again I know she'll start to cry more. So I'll just go to sleep. I really hope tomorrow I don't feel so sick._

Bruce stared at the last words for a long time. Then he carefully closed the book, stood, and walked back into the building. He gently put the book back where he found it, trying hard not to disturb the girl's rest.

"Goodbye, Chelsea Anna." He wiped the moisture from his cheek and ran a finger across the smooth bone of her skull. "I bet I'll see you soon. Really soon."

He pulled the ragged cloth over the sad little bones and walked back out into the light.

* * *

The sun was straight overhead when he stopped walking, although he had only gone a couple blocks. He was simply exhausted, emotionally and physically, and frankly wasn't sure which direction would lead him farther from danger. He found some water from yesterday's rain puddled in the dented metal lid of a trash can and scooped it up to drink.

_It doesn't really matter, does it? How careful does a dying man need to be?_

But he stared at it in his palm, unable to take a sip. Swearing softly at himself, he got out his leather cauldron and gathered scraps of wood to make a fire and boil some water.

It was after he had filled his bottle once more that he heard the noise. Some rat skittering over a pile of debris, perhaps. He listened, frozen, silently packing his things back into his knapsack. It wasn't until the sliding, random noises turned into stealthy footsteps that he stood and slung his bag over his shoulders. Loosening his sword at his belt, he quietly waited for whatever it was to appear.

He was less startled than he expected when the slender figure appeared down the street, dressed in the soiled russet and grey of a tribute. He frowned for a moment before recognizing the outcast brother of the bulky blond Career from Four. Bruce raised his voice carefully.

"Stop there."

The lean figure stopped, surprised to see anyone, and then returned to his usual condescending glare. "Why? Are you afraid of me, Six?"

Bruce shook his head slowly. "It's death over here. Back off. Just go back the way you came, and I won't hurt you."

"Hurt me?" The younger boy laughed. "You? How? Will you _bore_ me to death, Six?" The youth kept walking, slowly, as he spoke. Bruce pulled the sword from his belt and held it comfortably. Almost _too_ comfortably.

"I'm warning you, _back off_."

His tone seemed to surprise Loki for a moment, as emerald eyes flickered to the weapon and back to Bruce's face.

"And if I don't? Will you _kill _me, Banner? Become a killer like your father before you?" He chuckled condescension, his lips parting in a toothy smile. "I think not, given how poorly you did at the rankings. I'm amazed you're still alive."

Banner stared at him, stoic. _How does the little bastard know that? How does he know anything about me?_ The words came out of his mouth without any filtering, surprising even himself with their bitterness. "Yeah, I'm sure you're _amazed_ your precious brother is dead, too. Logical analysis proves that you're no better at predictions than he was at staying alive."

Anger flared in the green eyes that tried to stare him down. "Watch your tongue, Six."

They glared angrily at each other for a long minute before Bruce shook his head, trying to calm himself. "Look…Loki, right? We don't have to do this. Not here, not now. Just get yourself away –"

"Why? What have you found here? Food? Weapons? Water?" The abrupt hunger in the lean boy's face – whether it was for power or sustenance – was startling, but Bruce held his stance.

"I told you. There's nothing here but death, and you wouldn't understand more than that even if I tried to explain it to you." He shook his head wearily, running his free hand through his hair to push dark curls back from his face. "Just…get out of here."

Loki took a few steps toward him instead. "I said, 'no'. I _will_ pass."

Bruce felt his pulse begin to pound in his head, bringing thudding memories with it. "I don't want to fight you."

The words rang hollow in the street. Bruce knew from the itching in his palms and the way his muscles were tensing that it was a lie. He _wanted_ to pound someone. He wanted this insanity to end. _Enough is enough. This is only going to end one way._ Loki moved again, and Bruce lifted his weapon.

He held the sword steady, pointing it at the younger boy's chest and stopping him a few paces back. "I'm not going to say it again."

With a show of disdain, Loki threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Your constant blather is enough to make me sick. You're almost as bad as that half-blind child from Eleven." His lips twisted into a grin. "Although at least I'll never have to listen to _her_ again."

Bruce frowned as he put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Eleven? Wait – _Ororo_? What did you _do_?"

The boy from Twelve favoured him with a viciously saccharine smile. "Nothing that wouldn't have happened anyway. And this way, I stayed alive, as I obviously should. Outwitting that idiot, trading her for me, wasn't exactly the most difficult –"

His words were cut off by a slap that spun him sideways. Banner had moved so quickly, Loki didn't have time to react. The boy held his palm to his cheek, staring up in disbelief.

"How _dare_ you."

"_Me_? You brag about giving a twelve-year old girl to a madman just to save your own skin, and you say_ I _dare?" Bruce shifted the sword back to his right hand and backhanded Loki with the flat of the blade, hitting his arm so hard it rang. "Do you even know what he _did_ to her? What he _took_ from that child? Get _out_. Get away from me, now, while I still have some –"

Loki scrambled to his feet and clambered up onto a heap of debris. Anything to make him bigger than the furious young man that held the sword. "You _dare_ threaten me? You hulking, insolent _fool_. My family is more, so much more powerful! And now, with Thor and Brunhilde gone, I'm the last! The All-Father will protect me! He _has_ to! You'll see! I'll be a _god_ among the likes of you!" By the time he finished, Loki was screaming, bits of spittle flying as he ranted.

The passion and fury that burned in the scrawny boy's eyes made Bruce shake his head, amazed. He put the sword back in his belt, shaking his head, almost pitying the creature that carried on above him.

_He means it. This pompous little jerk believes every word –_

And it might have ended with Bruce walking away, but that's when Loki stooped to grab something and threw half a brick, hitting Banner in the shoulder. It knocked him sideways, but that only served to give him a good lunging position. He practically leapt up to where Loki was, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and launched an uppercut into the boy's stomach that lifted him off his feet and knocked the air out of his lungs with a heaving cry. He hit him a second time before he let go, backhanding him across the face. Loki fell to his knees, gasping, and Bruce kicked him off the hill in disgust.

The smaller boy rolled down the debris to stop at the base of a brick building. Now it was Bruce standing on the top of the heap, staring down, panting hard from the exertion. A small voice in the back of his head distracted him for a few seconds as Loki caught his breath.

_You're fighting like your father would. Just like your father._

_It works well, doesn't it?_

_Yes. Pretty soon you'll be just like –_

Bruce clenched his fists, threw back his head and roared at the top of his lungs. _"Shut up!"_ He looked down at Loki, his eyes wild, and started bounding down toward him again.

Loki held out a hand, palm stretched out in sudden fear. "Listen," he whispered hoarsely. "You, you're stronger than I gave you credit for, Banner." His other hand reached out to the wall, trying to prop himself as he stood unsteadily. "We could work together. I could make sure that you –"

Bruce grabbed the wrist of the arm that stretched toward him and whipped Loki around in a circle, ending the trajectory only when the boy slammed into the brick wall, head first. Long, dark hair fell over a pale face as he tumbled bonelessly to the ground, a fine trickle of blood tracing his hairline.

Bruce stared down at the unconscious figure and shook his head, growling quietly. "A god among men. Right." He pulled out his sword and stood over the still body, blade held high and glinting in the sun. Then he took a deep breath – and hesitated. For a moment, it was quiet, and in the sudden stillness, a bird sang out, a liquid trill that tumbled in thirds down the scale.

It was just enough for Bruce to see himself. To feel his rage fade. Not entirely, no, certainly not enough to make him feel like himself and sane – but enough to stop him from thrusting a sword through the chest of an unconscious opponent. He found his arms trembling as they held the blade high, and he slowly lowered them, slipping the weapon back into his belt with extraordinary care.

He glared for a long moment at the fallen Career before he turned, leaving him unconscious, bleeding into his god-like aspirations.

As he walked away, Bruce shook his head and grunted.

"Puny god."

He walked on until a few fortuitous turns brought him to the fence that contained this forsaken section of the arena. Wearily, he managed to climb up over it, using his knapsack to protect him from the barbed wire across the top. Once he was down on the other side, exhaustion hit him like a truck, and he walked as if he was pulling himself through wet cement. Walking aimlessly, he rustled through the inner city jungle until he found a clearing under a couple large trees. The grass was soft beneath them and with a heavy sigh, he slumped down against a sturdy trunk and very quickly passed out, sound asleep.

* * *

Hours later, Bruce woke up from a nightmare of his own death to the sound of a cannon in the distance. He gasped out a cry in the darkness just before dawn, panting hard and clutching his chest until he calmed slightly.

His sword was lying on the grass at his side, dew speckling its blade. He swallowed hard, picked it up with slightly shaking hands, and dried it with a bit of his sleeve. Then he cleaned off his glasses and rummaged through his pack.

A few bits of leftover fruit and scraps of dried out meat with some water barely settled his stomach. He looked out through the trees as the sun rose, feeling almost peaceful as the early morning light touched the trees with gold and the sky with blushing apricot.

Then he thought back to the cannon that had wakened him, and a frown creased his brow. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out the notebook and pencil he had been carrying, flipping pages. He had tried to map where he had been so far in the arena, with varying success. In several places, there were small, almost scientific notations; each a number between 1 and 12 followed by an M or an F. Some were on the maps he drew, others formed increasingly longer columns along the margin. At the last page of drawing he counted down the side. _…Sixteen, seventeen…_ he exhaled as he scribbled a question mark at the end of the column. _Eighteen…_ He looked out into the dim light, unseeing._ Tonight I'll know who Eighteen was._ He carefully slid the pencil down the spine of the notebook and slipped it back into his knapsack.

_Six left. I'm one of six left._

He shook his head slowly, blinking hard.

_I wonder if that cannon was for Loki. I wonder if… if I killed that kid. He hit the wall pretty hard…_

A wave of unease clenched at his stomach as he pictured the trickle of blood on Loki's forehead. Packing up his bag and grabbing his blade, he stood and looked around hopefully._ I can't think like this. There's got to be something more constructive… _He took a deep breath and sighed it out, trying to think logically._ I think I could really use some food._

As the light increased, he realized that he was sitting in a small grove of apple trees, and one that was growing only a few steps away was heavily laden with ripe fruit. He walked over and picked a few, stashing them in his pack, and then selected another, polishing it on his jacket before taking a huge bite. He chewed, thinking, as the sweet, tangy juice moistened his throat.

_It doesn't really matter if I killed him or someone else did. We're all dead anyway._

He began to walk – in a direction that at this point was simply _away._

_I've got to find someplace to settle down and wait. With the radiation poisoning, I've only got a couple weeks at the most…but I'm sure I'll be dead long before that. The fatigue, the nausea – it's going to slow me down. If I wait for the rest to come to me, at least I'll have half a chance to defend myself._

_Although I'm not sure why I should. I know what radiation sickness does._

And suddenly he remembered one of the professors back at the school. The man was one of his favourite teachers, a really smart, creative type…

_Damn. I know_ exactly _what happens._

* * *

_Amadeus Cho rushed into the room, saw his roommate, and called out urgently. "Ruse, did you hear? About Chen Lu?"_

_Bruce looked up from his desk, and frowned. "The Prof? No. What's up?"_

_Cho perched lightly on the bed across from Bruce's desk to catch his breath and shook his head. Now that he had found Banner, he seemed almost reluctant to say. "I think – I think he got messed up in the lab."_

_"Mine?" Bruce's eyes widened as he sat up straighter. "Is he okay? Did he get–"_

_"No, not yours, his. And yeah, he was exposed to some samples."_

_"Holy crap. Is he…I mean –"_

_"I dunno. They said he managed to close it off before it got too bad, but of course he was exposed. Eight greys, I heard, but I don't know if it's true. There's a bunch of trucks out there now."_

_"Eight greys? He's dead, then." Bruce pushed back quickly from his desk as he and Cho leapt to their feet and headed down out of their dormitory._

_Dr Chen Lu had been one of Bruce's inspirations when it came to working with radiation. So many possibilities, he always said. So interesting, even though the utmost care was required. And now _he_ had been exposed to radiation? It seemed impossible. The man was so knowledgeable, so careful. It almost seemed-_

_"There." Bruce was startled out of his reverie as Cho touched his arm, pointing. A barricade had been hastily erected in front of the building that housed the high radiation labs, and a Capitol flyer was landing nearby. Bruce and Cho watched as the men inside the flyer leapt out, running not toward the labs but toward the building where Chen kept his office. Bruce frowned at that._

_"What are they doing? Are they going to help him, or what? Is he already…" Cho only shrugged in response._

_Several long minutes passed before the men came out of the offices and headed toward the lab building. Only then did they meet in small clusters with the guards that served the school, and in a surprisingly fast way, Chen Lu – or his body – was carried out on a stretcher, moved to the Capitol flyer, and spirited away._

_The boys stared._

_Bruce was the first to speak. "What the hell was that?"_

_Cho shook his head. "I dunno. But I suppose the Capitol has better facilities for taking care of him."_

_"Right. But only after they checked to see what he was working on?"_

_Across the way, they saw two Sentinels had stayed behind, garbed in radiation gear, and heavily armed. The students watched as the soldiers took up positions in front of Chen's office._

_Bruce turned to Cho, and their eyes met, staring solemnly for a long moment. "I have a feeling we should get back to studying. Like _now_."_

_Cho nodded, his eyes wide. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."_

_Silently, they walked back to their dorm, feeling like their reactions were being carefully watched._

* * *

He hadn't thought about that incident in years. Chen Lu never did come back to the campus. Instead, he became a huge force in the scientific research and development section of the Capitol. An amazing scientist, a right hand to President Thanos, so very, very supportive of his policies. And always looking, when he appeared at state functions, just a little…dead.

Bruce shivered with a sudden chill._ I don't ever want to be healed by Capitol scientists, just to become one of their slaves. I'd rather die. I don't think any tribute would..._

He had walked far enough back into the city that the buildings were getting bigger, and more demolished. The last thing he wanted was to end up back near where he had left Stark, or the sewers, or the streets where he had battled Ultron with the others… but he had no idea where he was heading. Something in his subconscious must have had other ideas, though, because as the sun was heading down toward the horizon, he saw some familiar things. Particularly a fallen statue of bronze horses.

_The park. Perfect._ With a bit more spring in his weary steps, he headed back toward his first camp, Banner Manor. As he walked the more familiar path, his mind drifted back to the cannon he had heard, and he shook his head. _Six left. Five more to die._ He looked up at the trees, at the leaves that practically glowed in layered shades of green, and rested his hand on the hilt of the weapon at his waist. _So do I just fall on my sword?_

Abruptly, the image of Steve Rogers holding a pathetic little piece of cloth flashed across his thoughts. He frowned. _What about that?_ It seemed like something was trying to surface in his mind; some decision was being made that he didn't quite have a handle on.

_All but one of us is going to die, and Lord knows what's going to happen to the survivor. Do the tributes just end up like Chen Lu? Alive, but dead on the inside?_

By now, he had reached the steps leading up to his little castle. It was well into the afternoon, and he was starving.

"Okay," he said, to no one in particular, trying to put philosophy aside for the moment. "I need some real food. Some real meat, to keep up my red count…"

A chittering noise made him look up from where he stood. A fat squirrel looked down at him, its tail waving and snapping like a furry black banner. It scampered halfway down the tree trunk and stopped, still making threatening noises.

Bruce drew his sword and, with one swift stroke, cut the animal's head off. It flopped to the ground, dead in an instant. He blinked at himself as he yanked the edge of his blade free of the tree, a little shocked at how simple it had been. "Well, that was…easy."

_I did that without even thinking. I just did it. I…_

Quietly, he took out his penknife, picked up the fat body, and walked over to the stream where he could get some water. He skinned and cleaned it, built a small fire, and cooked it in sections on a couple sticks. He moved so smoothly, so silently, that it almost seemed like a meditation. As the meat hissed and bubbled over the flames, he sat and stared into them.

_Six left. How would I even…_ Bruce picked up one of the sticks he had gathered and stuck one end into the fire._ I'm good with the sword. I'm strong enough. Who's left? I don't even know some of them._

A heavy sigh escaped him as he turned a few squirrel parts over the fire, trying to cook them evenly._ I know I could take out Tony._ He returned to playing with the burning stick, and his fist tightened on it as if it was the hilt of his sword._ I'm_ sure _I could take out Tony. But what about Steve?_ He shook his head and pushed the stick a few inches farther, watching it flare brightly.

An ironic grin touched his face_. All I really need to do is distract him with someone in distress. As soon as he puts that shield down, he's wide open._

He shook his head. _And then there's Logan… that would be tough. He's… _Pulling the stick out of the flames caused it to fade to a smoking ember, which he waved randomly for a few seconds until he brought it close to the fire again, where it burst into flame once more._ He's a tough one. I'd have the reach with my blade, but he's fast and strong… and practically clawed like a raptor. _One thing he did know about Steve and Logan – they had honour. They would never torture someone.

Slowly, a complete thought surfaced, pristine and honest.

_The best thing to do, then, is make the deaths as clean as possible. Suffering is too cruel…_

_And if I die, I die._

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**


	101. Chapter 100: A Silent Prayer

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with…what is this, our fifth consecutive update in five straight days? I may be starting to lose track, which is slightly embarrassing. Please make sure you're fully caught up before proceeding, because if not, you've missed some great chapters! In any case, we have a great chapter here for you now as our Chapter One Hundred, written by the sensational robbiepoo2341. The end is near. Be afraid. Be very afraid.**

**A big thanks to Eryniel Alasse for their review.**

**As always and as ever, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred – A Silent Prayer**

**Night, Day Thirteen**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"If someone had told Allie that she would commit a premeditated act of murder, she would not have believed it. She would have spouted off all the reasons how she could never be capable of such a thing—that no matter how dire the circumstances, she would find a better way. She was so naïve, so arrogant to think that the laws of necessity and unthinkable circumstance could not apply to her." _

– Neil Shusterman_, Everfound_

_"Our love was a two-person game. At least until one of us died, and the other became a murderer." _

– Dark Jar Tin Zoo, _Love Quotes for the Ages_

* * *

Kate stumbled against the side of a building, leaving a bloody handprint where she steadied herself against the brick. There were droplets of blood in her wake, dripping down from her red-soaked hand as she took careful, measured, stumbling steps forward.

This was the tricky part: stumbling on purpose. Logan was a tracker, and she wanted to make sure that the trail he found, the one she had been carefully leaving leading up to the open space below her most recent nest, was believable. She was careful to leave little hints. Leaning against the walls lining the alleyway long enough to leave a bigger splash of blood, that sort of thing.

In the early morning humidity, when the cool night air was still half-clinging to her skin, it hadn't been hard to leave a trail, but as the morning wore on, the blood was starting to dry, and she needed to make sure it looked like she was injured.

She smeared her hand across the crow she had killed that morning once more and then held her hand down at her side, letting the blood drip down before she continued on.

It was enough of a trail that Kate had a feeling even the other tributes in the arena without Logan's tracking skills would be able to follow the blood splatters, but she had a specific goal in mind, much more focused than the blind rage that had consumed her for most of the previous day. This…this was far more calculated, careful. She had to think this through if she wanted to come out the other side _alive_.

Once she hit the open streets, Kate nodded to herself and straightened up, no longer stumbling around but sneaking, putting to use the tricks Logan had taught her. _He'll regret helping me_, she thought to herself for just a moment before she pushed the memories aside. She didn't want to remember their alliance, or she might not go through with what she was about to do.

She climbed up into the balcony of what must have been a restaurant before the war and settled down on her stomach, watching her surroundings for any sign that someone had picked up her carefully-laid trail. Still, she was not so complacent that she didn't keep at least half an eye on the rest of her surroundings. It would be just like the Gamemakers to ruin all her hard work by dropping mutts on her or something in the middle of her hunt.

Kate waited patiently, her eyes peeled, as the morning turned to afternoon, but it was well into late afternoon before she finally saw the flash of a familiar red colour — a tribute hoodie.

"Finally," she breathed out as she pulled an arrow from her quiver and waited for whoever it was to wander right into her trap.

Whoever it was — they were good. Kate couldn't hear their approach over the slight wind, even though it seemed the birds and other creatures who were living in the city ruins had fallen silent. It was the silence of a hunt, one that Kate had heard more than often back in Twelve.

When the tribute following Kate's trail finally broke out into the clearing, Kate didn't hesitate to let her arrow fly — she had only hesitated long enough to see that it wasn't Peter. She wasn't going to shoot Peter.

But it wasn't Logan, either.

Elektra Natchios let out a horrible gasping sound as Kate's arrow struck her dead centre in the chest, and she stumbled to her knees as her gaze swept the area to find her attacker. Kate saw that the dark-haired young woman was holding a pair of sai, one in each hand, and even as Kate strung another arrow, her heart hammering in her chest, Elektra spotted her.

Kate's sharp gaze took in every little detail as she and Elektra stared wordlessly at each other. She could see the deep brown stain across Elektra's front, the cuts and bruises that meant she had seen more than enough fighting in the arena to be a threat.

And there was Kate — her torn hoodie, bloodied jeans, and the bruise on her arm the only evidence she'd even seen any action. Even as Kate levelled her shot, she could see Elektra sizing her up, and a sneer passed over the older girl's face.

"I know where you got that bow."

It was enough to stop Kate in her tracks as her eyes widened, and the horrifying _screaming _started in the back of her mind. She had to gasp in a little breath and try to get a grip on herself — she couldn't afford to tense up and screw up her shot. This was a _Career _she was dealing with, after all.

With Kate silent and gasping on the balcony above her, Elektra seemed to gain steam, her lips pulled back in a snarl.

"We both know you don't have it in you," she called up to Kate, gripping her sai hard as she tried to push herself to her feet. She tipped her head at the bow in Kate's hands. "He didn't either."

"Wrong on both counts," Kate shot back, glaring hard.

"Then do it!" Elektra managed to get to her feet, her breathing echoing over the silent streets, though it was hard for Kate to hear anything over the _screaming_.

For just a moment, Kate closed her eyes against the _sounds_ — and that was her mistake. She reopened her eyes just in time to see the flash of the sai headed her way as Elektra simply threw her weapon as hard as she could in Kate's direction. Quickly, she twisted aside, only just able to avoid taking the blade straight in the chest, but it was a near thing.

She cried out as the jagged edge caught on her tank top, tearing through the shirt to the skin below. Kate's own scream joined the ones in the back of her mind as she looked down to see the long cut, stretching from nearly the base of her throat to just below her ribs, bleeding freely.

_Stop hesitating, Kate, _she told herself._ Move…or she'll kill you. _

Kate didn't think about it before she fitted the second arrow and fired, and there was a terrible, echoing _thunk_ as Elektra took a second arrow to her chest — and then a third.

And then — a cannon, loud and jarring as Elektra slumped to the ground.

The moment Kate lowered her bow, the second she shouldered it, she felt her hands starting to shake as she stared…at a _body_.

_I killed her._

There was a dull sort of buzzing at the back of her mind, and she heard the gasp that escaped her throat almost as if she was hearing it from the other side of the street. She didn't even really think about it before she just turned from the sight of the bleeding, lifeless _body _in the street.

She _ran_.

She ran, and she ran, and she didn't stop running until she half-stumbled to her knees, gasping and bleeding, her head spinning — but at least the screaming had stopped.

"Come on, Kate," she whispered to herself through gritted teeth as she forced herself to take stock of her surroundings, blinking hard as she looked down at the new red blood spilling over her jeans.

_No. _The thought surprised her with its ferocity as she moved almost without thinking, tearing the remains of her tank top off so she could see the cut more clearly. _No. She doesn't get to kill me. I won't let her._

It was easier, somehow, to have something to do with her hands as she just started to tear her shirt into strips — and then she started in on the silver parachute she had been carrying in her back pocket, the long ripping sound as she just tore it apart somehow soothing and grimly satisfying as she worked.

She knew she didn't have much in the way of options, and she had to get her bleeding chest wrapped, but…she was running out of material. If she had to, she'd start cutting up her hoodie as well, but the nights were cold enough with a one-armed hoodie, and she didn't want to know what would happen if she gave up much more of her clothing to her efforts.

Luckily, Elektra's sai hadn't damaged anything important, just torn skin, and Kate was pretty sure it didn't need stitches or anything. Probably.

Kate's hands shook as she finished tearing up her makeshift bandages, and as she started to try and tie the cloth around her chest, she found that she couldn't keep her hands steady enough to do it, and she gave a great gasp, trying to force air into her lungs as tears sprang to her eyes.

"Dang," she whispered under her breath. "And I was doing so well."

She leaned forward, pressing her palms into the ground underneath her, letting her hair fall down around her face to shield her from the cameras that she knew were watching as she ignored the steady dripping of both tears and blood just below her. She closed her eyes against the concrete beneath her, taking deep, steadying breaths.

_Cycle your breathing. In…two, three, four…_

Kate felt her fingernails scrape against the concrete of her rooftop perch, and she winced slightly at the sound, but it helped, somehow, to hear it, to remember where she was.

Her arms shook underneath her, and she gave up trying to hold herself up at last, falling sideways carefully so that she was lying first on her side and then her back so that gravity would help keep her from bleeding too much.

She'd thought it would be easier. Killing someone.

It was _Elektra_. She was a _Career_. She was a murderer, and she would have killed Kate without a second thought, if the way Clint talked about her was any indication. Sure, Kate had set her trap with Logan in mind, but… that didn't change the fact that she…

_I killed her._

There just…wasn't anything that she could tell herself that made it okay. _It's the Games. You're supposed to kill people here. You had to. She would have killed you. You stopped her from killing anyone else — maybe you kept her from running into Peter in the future. You had to get through her to get to Logan. You can't expect them to just let you get to Logan so easily — you have to show them you can handle it._

_It's the Games. It's the Games. It's the Games._

Kate choked on half a sob and raised both hands to her face, pressing hard to try and stem the tide of fresh tears. She _couldn't _cry. She was _so close _to the end now. There were only four more people — _no, tributes _— between Kate and… well. Going home, she supposed. She didn't know if the word _winning _was really one she could use right then.

And she really _couldn't _cry, because she had worked so hard to get this far, to prove that she could win. She'd fought and clawed her way through nearly two weeks of exhaustion, thirst, hunger, and terror, and she couldn't cry now, because that would mess with her "everything is awesome" image, and she still _needed _to stay on Marvel's good side.

"Please," she whispered — she wasn't sure who to. Maybe to the Gamemakers watching her. Maybe she was pleading with them to point their cameras somewhere else. Maybe to her own body, which was betraying her, shaking and crying and doing all the things she _couldn't do_, because she had to _survive._

She stopped worrying about gravity and blood or anything else, really, as she felt her breathing hitch again, and she curled onto her side and wrapped her knees up to her chin, hiding her face, trying to become smaller, a thing unseen and untouched by the Games.

_I just…want it to stop._

With a shout, she pushed herself back up to her hands and knees, and she shook out her hair. "Stop it," she told herself quietly. "_Stop it_."

She leaned back, sitting on her feet and on her knees, her jaw tightly locked as she forced herself to grab pieces of fabric. When her hands began to shake again, she would hiss at them, ball them into fists, and close her eyes until they _stopped doing that._

She worked in grim determination, and so she was surprised when she finished so quickly, her chest now tightly bound, her breathing steadier now.

_Okay. Next step. Find a place to sleep._

She pushed herself to her feet and grabbed her bow, testing out her strength. She thought… For some reason, she thought that holding it would feel _different _after she killed Elektra, but with her hands around her bow, she felt _grounded._

It was her anchor, the one constant. Kate pulled back on the string experimentally, setting her sights, and when there was no twist to her stomach, she felt the shame blush over her cheeks. She still _enjoyed _this, the feeling of a bow in her hands.

_What is _wrong _with me?_

She shook her head and forced herself forward. She had run far from her last nest, and she hadn't exactly been paying attention, but… Yes. There.

Kate climbed up toward the tall building. It looked like it might once have held offices, and most of the windows had shattered — big, wide things that probably afforded a whole view of the skyline back in the day, she reflected. But it also looked sturdy, and it had height, and that was what Kate needed.

She needed to _see_.

It didn't take Kate long to cross the streets to the building, and she was pleased to find that the stairwell was only slightly crumbling. She only had to jump a few feet across a gap three times, and honestly, that one part where she had to sort of press herself against the wall and use her body as leverage to cross the very last bit before she got to the top floor was a good way to keep herself occupied.

When she finally reached the top floor, she could feel some of the tiredness settling into her skin, and she slid down the wall, leaning back against it and letting the breeze from the open windows prick her bared shoulders.

"Okay, Kate. That was a nice freakout, and now it's time to be a big girl and get back to business," she whispered, tilting her head back against the wall. She untucked her balled-up hoodie and looked at the supplies she had managed to stuff in there. She knew she still had a little food left…

"You've got to be kidding me," Kate muttered, frowning, as she realized that the last can in her possession was, of course, peaches.

She was too tired to fight the familiar wave of grief, so she just leaned back again, closing her eyes against the memories. The constant chatter of Peter's bad jokes. The way Kurt would sort of nuzzle his head into her back in his sleep without realizing what he was doing when they were both laid out on the sleeping bag. The gentle, low grumble of Logan telling them….

She gritted her teeth. _No. Logan killed Kurt._

He _killed Kurt. _Kate felt her stomach tighten at the thought, this time for an entirely new reason, and she nearly dropped her last can of food when the thought struck her.

She was _going _to kill Logan when she found him. There was no doubt about that in her mind. But…he had the advantage. She couldn't stop shaking after killing a _total stranger_, and yet Logan had killed _Kurt _and he had seemed just fine about it. Just kept right on swinging with Kurt's _body at his feet_ as Peter ran away from him.

Gulping in air, Kate held her breath for a moment and then let the breath pass through her nose. _In, two, three, four…_

She knew the odds were against her. They had never been in her favour, and she'd known this back at the Capitol, known that she was just a skinny kid from Twelve, one of the youngest there, definitely one of the smallest. But _Logan_, well, he was older than most of them. Old enough that he would've been out of Reaping danger next year. And he was big, and he knew how to fight, and he knew how to kill, and he didn't _hesitate_, and—

_The deer fell at his feet, and he looked up at her, something dangerous in his eyes, and Kate knew that he hadn't even been aware of her presence until that very moment; he was too wrapped up in the kill._

Kate reached for her bow, gripping it tightly in her hands, using it as her centre as she tried very, _very _hard not to think of Logan doing the same thing to _her_.

_He could, too, _she thought. _You're going to go looking for him, and you _know _what he's capable of. What kind of lunatic are you?_

She shook her head, steadying her breath. She was just freaked out because she'd killed Elektra. That was all. If she could just… calm down. Yes. Calm down and get a handle on her emotions — and then she'd remember just how awesome she was and how she was definitely _not _going to get herself killed hurtling toward Logan and his claws and…

_I'm gonna be sick._

Kate scrambled to her knees, desperately clutching back her hair, but although she felt her stomach threatening to follow through on its rolling and churning, she found that, instead, she was left slightly panting and gasping and out of breath, but still with all the meagre contents of her stomach intact.

Which was probably a good thing — she didn't need dehydration to set in and make her an even easier target, right?

She took deep, calming breaths and, when she was sure that moving wouldn't trigger something that she would regret, she settled back down and took out Kurt's knife to start fiddling with the lid of the can.

"I'm fine. I can do this," she repeated to herself out loud, though she wasn't sure what it was that she thought she could do when the sweet scent of peaches brought a fresh wave of loneliness, of grief, washing over her.

She forced the peaches down and drank the water from the can, then wiped her mouth and forced herself to her feet. She had to find a room in the building and then make it safe—it was getting late, and she didn't want to be caught unaware.

A few minutes of searching at last yielded a door that looked like it wouldn't give in at a single kick, and when Kate opened it, she let out a soft sound of delight.

_A couch._

It was _glorious_. She'd never seen anything so wonderful in her _entire life_. It was intact, and it was leather, and when she half-stumbled to it, surprised, she leaned her weight on it and it was _soft _and it was _sturdy _and it was _perfect._

"It's about time things started looking up," she said with a giggle that she couldn't quite stop as she busied herself with looking around the rest of the room. It must have been some kind of break area, because there was a table and the decaying remains of a kitchen, and there were chairs that she could use to make a small barricade on either door. There were no outside windows, so that was good — yes, this would make the perfect Nest.

She was about halfway through the barricade for the first door — there were two in the room — when the anthem started to play outside, and Kate's head popped up, her eyes wide.

_Already?_

Kate chided herself gently for not paying better attention to how much time had passed before she swept out of her room, headed for one of those big windows so she could poke her head out and see what the score was.

There had been a cannon earlier that day, before Elektra, and Kate found herself for the first time hoping, for just a moment, that it had been for Logan. Of course, she immediately pushed that aside, because Logan was _hers_, not anyone else's, but the thought surprised her all the same.

_I'm just scared. I can't let him get to me when he's not even _here, she thought, exasperated.

As the anthem faded and the parade of faces began, though, Kate was struck by a sudden terror — she hadn't _prepared. _She didn't have a bird pun for Clint or anything to say to Kurt, and already Wade Wilson's face was fading away…what was she going to _do_?

It didn't help that Elektra's face was before Clint's, scowling her indignation all over the sky, and Kate felt all her breath catch in the middle of her chest, just at the edge of her ribcage, so it was already difficult to get words out when Clint's face came next, and she stumbled over it.

"C-Clint," she gasped out, racking her brain for _something_, for _anything _that she could use, but nothing came to her, and then his face was gone from the sky, and she was left scrambling to catch her brain up. She had to pay _attention_. She had to know who all was left.

She didn't see the Three boy up there, and that was a shame. He was the only one she knew anything about, besides Peter and Logan, because she'd seen him in training learning about traps, and it would have been nice to not have to worry about stumbling into one of _those_. He looked like he could rig up something dangerous and terrifying.

The Five boy, the one who was handsome and blond but she didn't really know much about, wasn't up there either, and neither was the Six boy, who she vaguely remembered from the interviews as…shy? She wished she had paid better attention, but it was _weeks _ago, and there had been _twenty-three _kids to keep track of.

But with the Three, Five, and Six boys still out there, that meant the cannon had to be for either Peter or Logan — and Kate knew exactly who it was even before a smiling Peter Parker lit up the sky.

The picture they used for him was perfect — he looked like he was on the cusp of saying something funny.

The bottom dropped out of Kate's stomach, and she scrambled backwards, away from the sky, her eyes wide and her chest heaving as she realized what was about to happen and knew that _this time_, there was no stopping it.

The parade hadn't even finished, but Kate couldn't wait — she crawled as quickly as she could from the window, clutched her stomach, and finally made good on her earlier promise to be sick.

Even after she was finished emptying her stomach, she continued to heave as tears blinded her vision and it became impossible to breathe through her nose, which only made everything _worse _as she sobbed — then heaved — then sobbed some more.

She pulled her hair back away from her face, wiping her mouth and sniffling miserably as she felt the exhaustion settling around her. She barely managed to drag herself a distance away from her own sick before she stopped, shuddering slightly, and began to whisper through her teeth, hiccoughing slightly.

"You took him from me," she whispered. "You took the last of my boys — what, was it too much to ask that _I _could be the one to kill him?"

She tucked her knees up underneath her chin. "I would have been gentle. I would've shared my food with him and we would've traded stories one last time, and I would've waited until he was asleep, and he wouldn't have felt anything, I swear."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that it wasn't that simple. She knew that she was shaking and tired and _broken,_ and that was because of Elektra, who had been a _stranger_, and it would only have been worse with one of her lost boys. But…Peter had deserved a good death. Not screaming and terror and this _feeling_, this immense _emptiness _that came with the end of the Games. Kate had watched the Games enough over the years to know that this late in the Games? He would have died _horrifically._

There wasn't a question. She just _knew_.

"I would've…" She gulped in another breath and hid her head in her knees. "I would've _tried_," she said at last, pulling herself into as tight a ball as she could manage.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she jerked awake what felt like moments later, though it was cold enough and dark enough that she knew it was likely the middle of the night, and she wondered briefly why her throat hurt her so badly before she realized that she had been screaming.

She had been dreaming about Elektra, about the way her body had gone all limp, about the way her eyes glossed over, about the blood and…

"Please!" Kate burst out, her knees, her arms, her _everything _shaking uncontrollably. "_Please_," she whispered, urgently, trying to wrap herself up to stop the shaking, though she saw now that part of the problem was that she was exposed, and she was shivering with cold, because she was out in the open.

Panting, the adrenaline still tingling her fingertips, Kate dragged herself through the building until she reached the room with the couch. She struggled through her violent shaking to build a barricade before she grabbed her one-armed hoodie, wrapped it around herself, and tucked herself into the folds of the leather, waiting for her teeth to stop chattering.

She wished she could say that it was only the cold that had her so badly shaken.

She closed her eyes, trying hard to calm down, but her heart was racing, and she could still _see _Elektra's face, and she could hear Clint screaming again, that same sound that was _always _there, always waiting to make its memory heard.

"Please," she whispered. She didn't know who she was asking for help, at this point, alone as she was.

It was almost like a prayer.

She seized on that thought, remembering something she had heard days ago, before she lost her boys, remembering Kurt. He had talked about praying, hadn't he? He talked about praying during the Games, praying for himself and for _her _and for the others. She thought she'd overheard him teaching Logan once, but she had been talking with Peter at the time and hadn't paid it much attention. Now, she wished she had. He had talked about it like it _helped._

Kate didn't know much about religion or praying — she just knew that it kinda sorta wasn't allowed. At least, not overtly. But Kurt had believed in it.

Did Kurt believe in Heaven, too? Kate knew about Heaven, because people always talked about it like it was a comfort when someone died in the mines or of hunger or in the Games, but it had always seemed empty. It was supposed to be a better place, but Kate had always thought it was just a nice word people said to make themselves feel better.

But…maybe Kurt made it. He would have deserved to go there — he was definitely nice enough. And if he was up there, maybe he could help her talk to God or whoever it was that ran this crummy universe.

She shifted slightly on the couch, still jamming her limbs deep in the leather to try to force herself back into warmth, but this time, she tried to press her hands together. She thought she had seen him do that once.

She couldn't do this out loud. That wasn't allowed, and Kate didn't want to make the Capitol angry enough to kill her now that she was so close. At least…she was pretty sure she didn't. So she would just have to hope that Heaven worked on a thought-wave or that the rules for communication were different up there. She didn't really know much about it.

_Hey, Kurt, _she thought. That was a good way to start, right? Or was she supposed to do something else? She really didn't know anything about this.

_Could you…maybe talk to someone up there for me? _she continued, snuggling deeper into the couch. Some of the shaking was starting to settle out. _Explain to whoever's in charge that…that I'm sorry?_

She couldn't find the words to phrase her request, but the idea that someone was listening to her, that she had someone to talk to, was at least helping. She could feel her breathing even out. _Could you tell God or whoever is in charge up there about me? _she asked. _About the Games?_

She didn't know what Kurt could say about the fact that she had actually _killed _someone, but maybe if he explained to someone about the Games, it could help.

Her breathing was starting to settle as, after some time, she found her next words. _Do you think… you could save me a spot up there? _She snuggled deeper, trying very hard to picture Heaven and finding that she didn't have a mental reference. To her, it looked a lot like a grove of trees and a lake and a sleeping bag and a curly-headed swordsman.

_You know. If that's allowed. If…if you can forgive me for killing people. _She paused. _Do you think that's something the people in charge forgive?_

Kate was surprised at the silent tears that began to slide down her cheeks. _I'm sorry, _she thought, and then she muttered it into the couch pressed against her face. "I'm so sorry."

Because the truth of the matter was that she was a killer. She had murdered Elektra in cold blood — she struck the first blow, and she had never intended to let that girl walk the moment Elektra stumbled into her trap. But what was _worse _was that she was planning to do it again. She was planning to find Logan and stick him full of arrows, and she was planning to do the same to people who got in the way, and she just…she had to explain it to Kurt. Explain why he probably wouldn't see her when she died — years from now, probably broken and tired and used up like everything else in District Twelve. Because killers didn't go to Heaven, did they?

_It's not on you, _she thought fiercely. _The…the people I have to kill. It's on me. It's my choice. It's not on you — it's not your fault for dying. I just…I wanted to make sure you knew that._

She could feel the exhaustion slipping back over her shoulders like an embrace as she finally stopped shaking and her breathing slowed. She could feel the sleep creeping in at the edges, and she didn't fight it as she fell back into quiet oblivion.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**


	102. Chapter 101: Promises, Promises

**(A/N) And after a day off without a chapter – due to spending my night catching up with some school friends after too long, so I hope you'll forgive me – we're back with a new update. As much as I would have loved to maintain Canuckle's original format of the title sequence, with Logan 'Don't call me James Howlett' of District Seven, written by CC, the great Wolverine Whisperer, I had to bow to consistency. Please forgive me, CC. **

**This is the last chapter of this round, so we'll take a few days before our next update - back to the Capitol we go! Only about six chapters to go – crazy stuff right there.**

**Big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird, TheHazardsOfLove13 and Jaydragon for their reviews!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred and One –** **Promises, Promises**

**Day Fourteen**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"__Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path." _

– Robert E. Howard

* * *

As the first few beams of sunlight warmed the room, Logan's eyes opened. He rolled his shoulders as he sat up from the carpeted floor he'd camped out on. The door was barricaded with enough crap to wake the dead should anyone have attempted to sneak up on him, and he was high enough up that someone climbin' in a window was simply not a concern.

He looked around the dusty room as he wearily pulled himself together. He scrubbed his palm across his face before he carefully strung one hand of claws through the shirt sleeve and pulled it over his head for the first time in two days.

He'd taken it off when the fabric touching the stings had just gotten to be too much with the light friction of just him walking and breathing.

The sun had helped a bit to burn out the venom, but not nearly as much as the little patch of plantain that he'd stumbled on that was growing wild near the edge of the road. It was bitter when he chewed it and smelled like hell warmed over, but after he'd smeared the macerated leaves on his raised red stings, the pain slipped away and the swelling went down. Thank God he'd always been a fast healer.

He let out a sigh of relief. No more pain. He could take more time to track now that he wasn't at risk of sunburn.

He reached for his claws – still too on edge to sleep without at least one set on at all times.

Logan had kept himself busy in the past few days. Between hunting for food and preparing for his next hunt for tributes, he hadn't given himself much time to think. He couldn't. If he did, his mind wandered back to that stupid box and the message that it had held.

He shook his head and tightened the straps on his arms for what felt like the hundredth time. The leather was starting to stretch a bit from all the hell he'd put it through, but he wasn't overly concerned.

The leather straps he used back in Seven on his cutting gear had been through a helluva lot worse than a few cycles of moisture and he'd yet figured out how to wreck them. He knew they only needed to last him though a few more tributes anyhow. There weren't that many left.

He went through his new routine in silence as he prepared himself. It had been four days by his count.

Four days since the transport had scooped up the Elf and disappeared into the night. Four days since that blasted silver box had fallen from the sky and turned his heart toward murder. And four long, tense days since he'd seen another living soul in the decrepit hell on earth that they called an arena.

He'd spent the first one in a rage, just looking for a fight, but of course, when he wanted to kill something – nothing showed. After that, he let his anger simmer deeply into his bones as he tried to think of a way to handle the situation before him. That night he'd decided to play smarter and harder, and put his efforts into trapping and tracking.

No tributes crossed his path, but plenty of game had filled his traps, and he'd managed to feed himself pretty well.

Hell, since Kurt, he'd even had time to re-sharpen and temper his claws. He couldn't manage washing the blood from them since it had dried on the blades, but fire and a little sharpening left them more deadly than they had been before.

He looked down at them and smirked at the glint of light that reflected off the nearly razor sharp edge. He still couldn't quite remember the details of what had happened. When he tried, all he could think of was smoke and sulfur and blood. And that always gave way to the message.

He knew what he had to do. He didn't like it, but he knew. He frowned as he dropped his arm. He didn't need that damn message playin' on a loop in his head.

It was time to abandon his camp. Time to hunt. He took a deep breath before stepping out of the apartment. It wasn't going to be easy. Tracking his fellow tributes had become a real chore. So many tracks and trails crossed each other that it had been slow. Tedious.

As he slipped across a street, keeping to the early morning shadows and barely disturbing the dew on the grass, a glint of silver caught his eye and made him freeze. He locked onto it, wondering if it was a parachute for someone. As he watched, he realized it was nothing more than a camera lens glinting in the sunlight. The little reminder of the reason he was there. It had him nearly growling under his breath – and just like that he changed his path again.

He sneered as he slipped down an alleyway in an attempt to get the image of Creed out of his head. He'd travelled several blocks before he ran across an old trail – the tracks there days old. He'd hoped that hunting would take his mind out of that dark place, but all it did was spiral him further.

As he tracked his friends, he felt like he'd condemned himself, but the only way he could protect any of them was to win. He thought he saw a flash of purple down the street and his mind went immediately to Kate and her little habit of asking for a purple bow. Her cheerful smile and upbeat attitude. And in the blink of an eye, that happy image was replaced with the leering smile of his mentor. And his promise.

_I always keep my promises, Runt._

And just like that, Creed's message sprang back to the forefront of his mind.

* * *

_He had watched the silver box descend in the moonlight the night that he'd murdered his friend. Not even an hour after he'd made his decision to become a monster in hopes that his friends either wouldn't have to, or that they would get to play the hero and take him down. He was more or less at peace with what he was sure would be his path to death._

_But when he walked up to it, a metallic voice projected from it as if it was echoing down a hallway._

_"__**James Howlett?**__" It had queried as he eyed it cautiously. He had glanced around before he slowly stepped closer._

_"__What's it gonna take to get you people to quit callin' me that?" Logan had rumbled, a tone of irritation to his voice._

_"__**This cube contains information for James Howlett.**__" The clear brush off had him drawing his eyebrows together in irritation._

_"__I ain't James Howlett anymore," he pointed out. There was a pause and Logan was sure that was the end of it as he turned away from it. He hadn't gotten two steps before it's mechanical voice echoed in the still night air, stopping him in his tracks again._

_"__**Voice key recognized. This cube contains a special message and can only be viewed in a secure location.**__"_

_Logan glared at it for a moment before again glancing around him._

Special message, huh? _He thought to himself._ Why do I doubt that it's somethin' I want to hear?

_He remained silent and still as he listened for any sign of another tribute nearby and considered his options. The last thing he had in mind at the moment was finding a safe place. He wanted to find someone to kill. Something to burn off the guilt that he carried when he smelled Kurt's blood on his hands.. With a glance at the box, he shook his head and turned away again as he tried to choose his best options for travel. The shoe store seemed like a good idea. Nail Banner or Stark before Rogers caught up to them and tipped them off._

_He was going to leave it. He didn't give a damn as to what kind of message it could be because he was convinced that no one – not one single soul on the planet gave a damn about him. So that really just meant that whatever message the box held couldn't be good._

_And why the hell would he choose to hear bad news? He started to walk away, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at the shining silver box, glinting in the moonlight. With a growl, he took a few quick steps toward it and snatched it up against his better judgement. He didn't look backward as he started off at a quick pace toward some nearby tenement buildings._

_He'd had good luck in the past with some of the smaller buildings. It couldn't hurt to try._

_Twenty minutes later in the remains of what appeared to be a walk in cooler of a ransacked restaurant, he set the box down on the floor and brushed his hands off as he let out a weary breath. It had been a long, wearing day and he was sure it was about to get a bit longer._

_"__Is this secure enough for ya? Now what?" Logan grumbled as he sat down cross-legged and glowered at the box._

_"__**James Howlett?**__" The words rang out in the cooler – even more artificial sounding in the closed space._

_"__For the last God damned time, it's Logan," he growled out, allowing his irritation to show freely. There was a pause before the voice picked up again._

_"__**Do you wish to play the message for James Howlett?**__"_

_"__I'll tap dance naked on the roof o' this rat hole if you just quit callin' me that." It seemed to be enough of an affirmation for the box as it whirred to life and projected a flickering image onto the nearest wall._

_He reached down and moved it so it wasn't shining on the broken shelving that obscured the image. He froze and almost moved it back when a rough, graveyard rasp came out of the box, familiar, even though it was echoing and metallic from the tiny hidden speaker. It shocked him enough that he didn't quite hear the first part of it._

_"… __haven't done it. Still refuse ta give it a real shot. Don't know how many times ya gotta hear it - tap into it. Really give it a chance – let that sadistic side out, Runt. I know you got it in ya. Ya already proved ya do. No one can kill that easy and not feel bad about it unless they got murder in their veins, boy. And you ain't felt one bit guilty until your little sidekick got too close to ya on accident."_

_The camera zoomed in on Creed's face as he chuckled. "I'm supposed to give you something motivational. So let's see ..." a twisted grin lit on Victor's face as his eyes sparkled, and somehow, it just made Logan more apprehensive of what was about to come._

_"__I know how you think and what makes you tick. And I know ya probably got it all twisted around in yer head that killin' some o' these little whelps is doin' em a favor somehow." He shrugged noncommittally before he continued in his message._

_"__Maybe some a' that's true. But I don't think you can drop the hammer on every one of 'em. Not sure what I gotta tell you to make you move yer ass, so all I can do is make ya a promise on what'll happen if ya don't win." Logan frowned as Creed continued. "Ya know, I always keep my promises, Runt." Creed let out a weary sigh before his expression shifted to a truly amused smirk._

_"__Personally, I think you're yer own worst enemy. Plenty a potential. But ya got all that …_tortured nobility_ weighin' ya down. Ya might be able to pull a hat trick an' win this, but let's talk about what happens if ya lose. Cuz I think you need to know. Have ya considered it at all while ya been trying to figure out the best way to fall on yer own sword – or …claws? Probably not. All wrapped up in yer own head and wallowin' in yer own self-pity, ain't cha? Well. Let me tell ya what happens. 'Cause between you an' me? I sure hope that little girl you been protectin' is the one."_

_His smirk stretched into a smile on the screen and Logan's eyes widened as the feed from his mentor cut away to old footage of Silver Fox, her hair blowing behind her in the breeze before fear tainted her features. With a flicker, the image went back to Creed's predatory leer._

_"__Gotta tell ya, kid, I can't wait to get to know her better – while we're both in the victor's circle. All that time behind the scenes when the cameras are off an' they ain't worried about her safety." He chuckled low before his wicked grin all but filled up the lens._

_"__I'll treat 'er real good for ya." Logan's stomach twisted hard again as the bile rose up in the back of his throat before everything seemed to go numb. "Love to see how she likes it when_ I _call 'er 'Trickshot'."_

_With a frustrated roar, Logan kicked the box into a wall and upended a bank of shelves before he just went to raging at anything within arms reach. But the recording continued to play over the near deafening crash of all that shelving as he tore it from the walls._

_All around him was breaking glass as he threw anything he got his hands on and the cooler echoed with his roars of frustration and rage. And through it all, it was like Creed's voice had somehow gotten louder, easily discernible to his sharp ears over the rampage. He destroyed everything until there was nothing left to break. Winded, and worn, emotionally spent, the young man slid to the floor, panting._

_He was exhausted. In his despair, just when he thought it was over and he was alone with his thoughts, the cooler echoed with a recording of Creed's whispered confession of all that he'd done to his betrothed the year before._

_Just like he'd done just before the launch – while Logan was locked in the launch tube when he'd admitted what he'd done to Fox before sending her to her death. Creed was taunting him, recounting again his past crimes and promising to apply the same cruel hand to Kate. And it worked. Suddenly, he couldn't see Fox in his mind's eye, fearful and trying to get away from the beast. Now, all he could see was Kate. Less experienced than Fox, terrified and helpless._

_"__You got no way to stop me, fireplug. So unless you quit tryin' ta be a hero and get your head in the game, yer not gonna be of use to no one but tha worms."_

_He'd exited the aging building panting hard, his hands clenched into fists as every muscle in his body shook. He was nearly hyperventilating with raw rage. She was the only one left he would have hesitated to kill. The only one he would have died for now that Kurt was gone. And in one sentence, Creed promised to destroy that if given the chance._

_Even Logan had wanted her to win. But now? He didn't have much of a choice._

_He was backed into a corner and his hand was being forced. He'd have to find her. And when he found her, he couldn't afford to let their campfire alliance get in the way. He'd be quick and merciful for her own good just to keep her out of Creed's sleazy reach._

_Fine. He'd do what the Capitol and Creed wanted – but that sonofabitch was going to regret pushing him into it. One way or another. He'd live to make sure he regretted that particular threat. After what he'd admitted doing to Fox…no. He wouldn't let that happen again. Especially not to Kate._

_It was an awful thing – knowing he'd have to hunt down and kill someone so innocent and good. But Victor had promised if she came out…he'd take that from her._

_He glared down all available routes of travel and tried to decide which way to go. Where to start. And he thought back to what he had seen in the dirt back near the lake._

_He was sure he knew what had happened to Parker and Cap after the wasps, and he was going to hold a grudge against them for it. They had flat out scattered and left Kurt to suffer alone. Not that he'd done any better – but if they had any stones, they should have at least gone back to see Kurt. They shouldn't have left him alone._

_He doubted that the two of them were travelling together. From their tracks, it looked like they'd gone in opposite directions. But even though he was ready to end these stupid games, he'd rather not take out either of them right away. Cap had saved his skin – though now he wondered if that had been the right move, and Peter…Peter didn't deserve his wrath. He huffed to himself._

_He didn't want to see the judgement on their faces when he saw them. He couldn't imagine either of them going too easily. Not when he figured that if either of them had a brain in their heads they'd be on guard against him. No. It was a smarter move to go where he thought there could be a clueless tribute or two waiting._

_He had trekked back to the shoe shop, under cover of darkness, but when he'd gotten there, it was clear that Banner and Stark had vacated. He cursed under his breath and turned his attention to where they might have gone._

* * *

Logan rolled his shoulders as he released a slow deep breath and considered where to start. One way was as good as any other. Eventually he'd find someone, or the Gamemakers would push him to where they wanted him to be.

He'd only gone a few blocks deeper into his spiral search pattern when he found sign of someone going through. The tracks between the buildings read clearly. Someone had passed through recently and they were injured. The dirt was disturbed by some living thing, the signs were very fresh and accented with droplets of blood that had not yet congealed, though the morning dew was still resting on every surface that the sun hadn't kissed.

_Finally,_ he thought to himself. He hunkered down and looked the direction the trail had led before glancing up warily at the tall buildings around him and peeking over his shoulder.

No sign of movement anywhere – unless you counted the tattered remains of a curtain waving in the breeze ten stories up. He took a cleansing breath and nosed down the trail… The prints were easy to follow. Careless. The tread was unreadable, and the outline unclear from the way whoever it was dragged their feet with every step. Even without the blood trail, it was the earmark of someone injured and in pain. It should be easy.

The tracks were in a thin patch of dirt on top of concrete…not easy to spot for most. It almost looked like a scuff. He doubted if any of the remaining tributes would have seen it at all if not for the blood.

He made sure his movements were fluid and silent as he stalked through the alleys and streets, trying to keep to the clean, hard concrete for his own single track path. He paused at corners, and ducked behind dumpsters or cars when he thought he might have heard his quarry stop. He didn't need to know who it was.

And there was no reason for them to know he was there until it was too late. Get in close, just like the deer. Strike before they knew what hit 'em. This would be a mercy killing after all. He wondered vaguely if it was Cap or Parker…he knew they were still alive, but that didn't mean he hadn't hurt them back at the lake. He still had a hard time believing all that blood was from Kurt.

He shook the guilt from his head. No time to worry about that now. He'd have time to feel bad about it after he'd finished the job.

He knelt down, wanting a closer look at the blood on the ground. Even though the little droplets were fresh, it smelled rancid when he brought it to his nose. Foul. Infected. Whoever it was could likely be mad from the raging infection they had. He dropped the stick that had the festered blood on it and reaffirmed his decision. Mercy killing. Though bound to be bloody, this hunt was a mission of mercy.

He kept walking, slow and steady, if not overly tense. The signs were just as clear as they had been when he stumbled across the trail, only now he thought he could see sign of more than one careless soon to be victim. Wounded or not, it made the endeavour more perilous. Just because they were hurt didn't mean they weren't a threat.

A noise up ahead caused him to pause. Whoever it was had stopped, but not until they'd kicked a bottle in the street. His muscles tensed further and his breathing slowed and deepened as he readied his tried and true weapons. Ready to fight. Ready to kill…

He took a slow, deep breath to steady himself before he started to take measured steps toward the sound, and when he turned the corner, he found them. But it wasn't who – or what – he had hoped for.

The toe dragging trail belonged to an ape. For a split second, he just stared at it wondering who the hell came up with a flamin' monkey to throw in the arena. But when the tattered creature spotted him, it turned its head and made a low, tense sound that got Logan to follow the ape's line of sight. He was surprised to find that it had signalled to more creatures nearby that rushed in to join the injured creature.

He crouched down a bit lower, ready to spring forward with all the strength he had in his legs when one simply appeared, screaming at him from on top of a car nearby.

It squared itself up with him, its chest puffed out as it grunted and bashed the roof of the car with its fists – the sound of the banging was hollow and overly loud in the otherwise empty streets. The ape locked eyes with him and stood upright as it beat its chest from perhaps three feet away. Logan frowned as the beast bared its teeth and roared at him.

Only a heartbeat passed before Logan roared right back at it on pure instinct, just as viciously – possibly even more feral. His claws were drawn partially back and at the ready, just itching for a reason.

In a flurry of motion, the apes startled before they made a coordinated effort, and rushed in toward him.

The one on the car leapt at him, its arms outstretched, hands open, ready to grab him and tear him to pieces.

His claws sang as they cut through the air with a light swooshing sound. The beast lost its hand and fell screaming to the ground as Logan finished his first swing.

The second swipe caught its throat then met resistance as the next ape tried to block his attack with a piece of broken pipe. One had crept behind him and grappled at his hoodie as it leapt onto his back. He tried to dislodge it, but the beast dug its claws into his back, tearing a path through the hoodie and from one shoulder down to the small of his back. With a shout, he jammed one set of claws into its face before he grabbed hold of its arm and threw its freshly limp body over his head at the one still holding the pipe. The creature screamed as its pack mate's lifeless body collided with it.

When the last remaining ape got to its feet, it took a step back from the blood splattered, snarling tribute as Logan stalked forward, teeth bared and chest heaving – looking more beast than man. The ape gripped the pipe in its hands tighter as it backed away slowly, its eyes locked on the wild young man.

All at once, the ape's body language changed. The screams and roars that it'd been uttering moments before were replaced with squeaks and whimpers as it tried to make itself look smaller – non threatening.

It wasn't until then that Logan realized that this last one left was indeed severely injured with what was left of an arrow shaft protruding from its belly. His mind went to Kate, and he found himself wondering for an instant if the plucky young woman had managed to find Barton's bow. It was a bad wound, and he felt a bit of pity for the beast, but he knew well enough to never turn his back to a wounded animal.

He waited for an opening…and lunged forward to attack. In the end it really was more of a mercy killing than anything. The ape didn't even fight back, likely too wounded already to look at its impending death as anything but a release from pain.

When it was over, Logan stood there, panting, angry, and splattered with fresh blood as he listened intently for any remaining threats, but with time, he realized that there was none.

He didn't bother trying to collect himself before he set off in a different direction…picking up again on his slowly expanding spiral.

It took him a few circles before he settled down a bit. The drying blood on his hands was starting to bother him. He grimaced as he clenched his fist and the sticky, rancid, coppery scent hit his nose again. He had to get it off of him.

Always covered in blood. No closer to gettin' the hell outta here either. _At least the damn monkeys were somethin' to do,_ he thought to himself, trying to find something to distract himself from his current state of being.

The sun was nearly overhead when his spiral took him back toward the park. He knew what he should do. He needed to clean up. He stared into the woods for a moment, and realized he knew this trail. This was the path he had taken away from where Kurt…from where he'd murdered Kurt.

If he followed it back, he knew he'd be able to find the lake. And then? Then it would be time to wash off the stink and hunt for tributes again.

He walked carefully forward through the old trees, on guard as he approached the lake where Cletus had finally met his twisted end. He absent-mindedly ran his tongue over the inside of his lip where the swelling had finally gone down from that mess of a fight.

Without allowing himself to think it through, he waded into the shallows and submerged himself to wash off the blood – old and new – that had been accumulating. When he finally popped up from the water, he felt a bit more focused on the task ahead of him. Not calmer by any means, but more like he had a smarter plan forming than just wandering around and hoping for a bit of luck.

The apes weren't much more than an outlet for his frustration and a good stretch. Some of them were wounded, and likely they were hungry. That didn't mean whatever other mutt he might come across would be quite so worn down.

He climbed a tree with practiced ease and settled into a crook to form his plan. A gentle breeze dried his clothes as he considered his path. He looked down at the game trails that led criss-cross through the park – some toward the city, others deeper into the trees. Most of them unexplored, but that was about to change.

By his count there weren't too many Careers, if any around, so he opted to follow the trails deeper into the woods. He was bound to find either a tribute or a meal that way. One way or another, something was going to die before the day was out.

* * *

After he'd rested a bit, he slipped from the tree and stretched out before ambling down the game trail that led south. The animals patterns had been broken by the tributes invading their territory and now, at midday, it was plain that some of the trails were still fresh.

Like before, he nosed down the most promising looking trail and began to stalk, but unlike his hunt with Kate, this tracking session showed no sign of any human nearby.

He walked silently but quickly, listening hard and waiting to catch a whiff of the dusky musk that would signal a bedding area for the deer.

He was sure he was headed into something worthwhile when a deer ran across the trail, crashing into the brush.

He narrowed his eyes and slipped into deep cover to wait and watch. He was sure he hadn't spooked it – but something sure as hell had. He waited, but when nothing made its presence known, he started stalking his way in the direction the deer had come from.

His muscles were taut, his senses in hyper drive as he searched for signs of life. He found his heart racing when once again, there was easy sign in the forest that no animal had made. Broken branches, shorn leaves, and finally, footprints.

But they were not the heavy treads of a tribute. No, these tracks were familiar in a far more disturbing manner than any of his rivals could have hoped for.

Oval shaped. Large. Shallow treads. There was no roll to the foot – more like it had come directly down and landed flat footed in the soft dirt. He saw no sign of injury, though he was not so naive to expect it when the track looked so much like those of that damned Ultron robot that belonged in a junkyard.

He flexed his arms and cracked his neck. No problem. He had a hand in taking down that rust bucket excuse for a threat – he knew how to do it again, and this time, he wouldn't have Rogers or Blondie barkin' out orders to tip it off.

With a smirk, he dropped low and began to creep along the path of his mechanical prey. One more twisted toy sent from the Gamemakers for him to break. He just had to sneak up on it, hit it from the blind side and cut the hydraulics. If he could cripple it before it spotted him, it'd be child's play. And if he didn't?

The man made of what looked to be bits of metal and wiring paused at what looked to be a berry bush. A familiar laugh came from the figure as someone inside it lifted up the front of the metal face to pop some berries into his mouth. "More of these poison genetically modified raspberries, huh?" The figure laughed again. "Gonna have to do better than that to defeat the Invincible Armoured Iron Man."

_Stark? _Logan thought to himself as his eyebrows drew together. "The hell're you doing in that…thing?" Logan called out, just to see how well he could move.

Stark spun around, the weight of the armour obvious as he used his whole leg to turn himself. He slammed the front of his helmet quickly down with a hollow laugh that didn't hide the surprise. "Hey, it's the little Wolverine," he said. "Last I saw you, you were following a Captain off to war. But Steve told me that didn't turn out so well."

"Yeah? Any reason you're not hiding behind his shield now?" Logan started to circle him slowly, forcing him to turn just to keep his eyes on him. "I know you're travelling alone."

"Ah – now that I think about it, not a really good reason, no. We just…went our own ways after Parker died," Stark said. "And that – that is not a creepy thing to say at _all_."

"Just an observation, tin man," Logan said, though he hadn't blinked once yet.

"Pretty sure you're alone too," Stark said, obviously forcing a bit of bravado. "I mean, who'd want to stick around the smelly weasel that long?"

"No one with any brains," Logan agreed, setting Stark back a hair as he began to close the circle. "Can you fight in that thing?" It was almost like a turtle shell. Logan didn't want to drag it out - but the damn armour wasn't going to make it quick. It had to go.

"If I say no, you aren't going to let me walk, are you?"

"Nope," Logan said easily with a little shake of his head. "Can't do it."

Stark settled into a more defensive stance. "Well, this thing's seen me through a pretty nasty mutt and plenty of wear. Little badger shouldn't be a problem."

"I dunno," Logan mused as he started to settle into a crouch. "Just gotta find the soft underbelly."

"Bet I find yours first." Stark tilted his head to look him over. "All you've got are those claws to get past."

Logan smirked before he rushed him and the claws screeched across the metal as Stark moved to keep the sides of the armour away from him. He dodged the second set as they glanced off his helmet and Stark leaned forward as he pushed him back with both hands. Logan stumbled backwards a few steps and shook his head. "Not gonna win just pushin' me away."

"Yeah, but you don't look so good. Figure you'll tire faster than me, the way you look," Tony pointed out. "Like a poster for dead."

"Don't count on it," he told him. "Come on, Stark - try _something._"

"Actually, I'm good. You just - keep trying to hit me and I'll get used to the sound of screeching metal."

Logan narrowed his eyes and made another drive forward, pushing Stark back a step before he slashed low and took out the supporting leather and wires that held Stark's left leg armour together before he moved back again. "Can you get used to that?"

Even with the metal obscuring most of his expression, it was clear Stark was taken aback, but he shook his head and tried to keep up his bravado. "I know I've got nice legs, but honey, this is the first dance."

The next dodge in cut the final straps on that leg and the armour that was there clattered to the ground. Tony looked down at it and let out a small "huh" before he stomped on the edge of it so that the metal stood up on end and he could grab it without having to bend over too much.

When Logan dodged forward the next time, Tony whipped the scrap of metal and wire - and somehow managed to slice into his arm high, almost at his shoulder. Logan cried out angrily and slashed at the strappings on the offending arm before plunging his free hand of claws into Stark's exposed leg.

Stark gasped out and swore several times over as he tried to push Logan away again, batting at him with the loose armour before Logan knocked it out of his hands.

Injured and now decidedly angry, he didn't bother trying to go easy on him. As soon as Stark saw his little weapon was gone, Logan rushed forward again and shoved him backwards. Tony stumbled back several paces, though he didn't go over, instead, catching himself and over compensating to end up down on one knee.

Apparently deciding that just letting Logan slash at him was a bad idea, Stark seemed to gather himself for a rush. He ran toward Logan, head down and tackled him at the middle, knocking him backwards before he managed to land a solid shot to Logan's side that had the breath rushing out of him in a whoosh.

While he still had the upper hand, Stark punched him hard in the jaw before Logan swung and sunk his claws in the open side of Stark's armour while his arm was raised. The armoured young man fell forward, his weight on Logan's chest until he pulled his claws loose and tried to push him off.

"Can't…kill me," Tony panted. "That trick doesn't work on…on me."

"We'll see about that," Logan replied before he took another swing in nearly the same spot, twisting his wrist this time as Tony flat-out screamed and returned fire with a few punches to the side of Logan's head as Logan tried to hold his arm up in defence against the blows.

Half dazed, Logan pushed him away and rolled over to try and get to his feet. Tony made a grab for him but only managed to grab at his shirt and that tore away fairly easily from the damage it had already sustained.

"Now who wants to see who shirtless?" Logan half teased.

"Put…put it back on," Tony breathed out. "Stop torturing me."

Logan couldn't help but let loose a hollow laugh as he stood up. "You're not doin' real good here, Stark."

"I've got you on the ropes," came the reply, slightly echoing in the mask.

"Get on your feet," Logan instructed, eyeing the blood still flowing freely from Tony's leg.

It took Tony some time to struggle to his feet, but he thrust forward his head, jutting his chin out behind the mask. "Fight like a man, you mean?" he muttered.

"I just wanted to see if you _could_ stand," Logan admitted.

"Your concern is really touching," Tony sighed, swaying slightly. "Really. Very sweet."

"I'll make it quick then," Logan promised.

Tony let out a hollow laugh and gestured at his leg and side. "Really good job you've done of that so far. Thanks. Didn't feel a thing."

Logan let out a slow measured breath and rushed forward, only to duck under Tony's swing and pop up behind him long enough to use both hands to cut the leather straps at Tony's shoulders in half and step back as Tony tried to stop the chest piece from clattering to the ground.

Stark's eyes were wide as he clutched at the armour. "Hey. That - that took me _forever _to put together. No respect for hard work."

Logan just shook his head at him, amazed that the man could not shut up for two minutes. He didn't respond to the commentary other than to dart forward again and as he brought his left arm down, Tony instinctively raised his arms to stop him, dropping the chest piece an instant before Logan jabbed his right set of claws through Tony's chest, his knuckles resting on the glowing blue device that Banner had crafted.

"I did make a promise," Logan said quietly.

He met Tony's shocked gaze and twisted his wrist hard, severing more than just the wires and magnets that had kept his heart beating.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**

**5: Tony Stark, District Three Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	103. Chapter 102: No Rest for the Wicked

**(A/N) Hey guys – we're back after a bit of a delay, which unfortunately was entirely down to me, and I'd like to apologise for it. Some things came up that were difficult to deal with, and the break between chapters hasn't been the best of times, unfortunately. I've set myself deadlines numerous times with the chapters, and told our writers that it'd be up only to delay another few days, and I feel bad about that. However, now that it's time to upload the chapter, I'm feeling pretty happy with it, and I hope you guys will too.**

**A big thanks GeekyComicBookGuy, Bookcrazysongbird, TheTzip, kittykat477 and Idalove2read for their reviews. As a few of you have noticed, we had quite the run of deaths in the last few chapters – both Tony's and Elektra's coming from different points of view. Unfortunately, we were meant to have chapters from their points of view, but Talia and JGrayzz both dropped out of contact. Thankfully, both CC and Robbie were able to adapt their chapters to incorporate the events we had planned, and those chapters **_**were **_**fantastic, but it did mean a lot of action was covered in a short space of time.**

**But now it's time to slow things down a little once again. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred and Two – No Rest for the Wicked**

**Agent Coulson, Director Nick Fury &amp; Skye**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them." _

― John Green,_ The Fault in Our Stars_

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

"_You were sick, but now you're well again, and there's work to do." _

― Kurt Vonnegut,_ Timequake_

* * *

Coulson stared blearily at the television monitor in the far corner of his room, scratching absent-mindedly at the itching collar of his hospital gown. Weird, that he could still feel the itching even under the huge dose of painkillers.

The television was, of course, displaying the latest events in the Games, flicking between Twelve's Kate Bishop and Two's Elektra Natchios. The last two girls alive had gradually been coming closer and closer together, and it seemed likely that they'd cross paths before long.

Both were nursing their own wounds – mental ones more so than physical. Bishop had seen Barton die, and watched a video showing her friends killing each other. Natchios had just killed a third member of her original alliance – Coulson couldn't remember the last time someone had taken out that many Careers by themselves, but he had been beginning to suspect that Elektra might soon be adding a fourth to that number.

Her own.

The Games had clearly taken their toll on her, and while Bishop seemed to be coming out stronger, something had been broken inside Elektra. At least, that's what it looked like to his eyes – yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how much of that was done for the cameras, and how much was genuine. Some, surely, but probably not all.

Bishop stumbled on the screen, propping herself up against a brick wall and leaving a bloody handprint behind her. The camera zoomed in on the handprint, the blood still drying in the cool of the night, and a handful of synapses in the back of Coulson's brain fired up, looking for a connection.

_What's she trying to tell me, _he wondered behind the morphine-haze. _What does it _mean?

He dozed, on and off, for most of that night, his mind barely registering the endless stream of people flowing in and out, aware only of the itching in his body as the medicine got to work. He could _feel _his flesh regrowing and knitting itself back together, and something about it nauseated him.

It had been a while since he had last been injured in the field. He couldn't say he missed it.

Coulson was awake to see Bishop finish of Elektra Natchios, and dimly heard the cheers from the other rooms. His own seemed to be empty at the time, and he straightened up in his bed, relieved to find that the itching had lessened and so had the painkillers, the worst of his drugged-up stupor falling off him.

"Hey there, big fella," a voice drawled to his right, and Coulson half jumped, realising that he wasn't quite as alone as he had thought. John Garrett stared over at him from a seat in the far end of the room, partly shrouded in darkness, a wry grin on his face.

"John?" Coulson murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "You been…there long?"

Garrett laughed. "No, just the last fifteen minutes or so – May had the previous shift. Your team have barely been out of the room since you got here, even though Simmons kept telling them you were too drugged up to recognise them. Didn't stop _her_ keeping an eye on you, either."

"How long…have I been here?"

"Not long – you were out for the best part of a day. You woke up sometime this evening, but they kept you on painkillers until the meds could do their job. Doctors say you should be back on your feet in no time."

"How soon?" Coulson asked bluntly, remembering his nightmare.

"Another day, I'd say. Though, you won't be back to normal for a while still – they can fix lacerations pretty easily, but broken bones aren't so simple. Your throats gonna be sore for a while too – guy almost collapsed your trachea. Still, makes you glad you don't live in the districts, huh?"

"Yeah," Coulson agreed, feeling a slight twinge of protest from his ribs. Given the beating he had received, that twinge was a minor miracle. If he had been living in the districts, the wounds he had suffered would probably have been fatal. "So…what've I missed?"

"You really want to do this now?" Garret asked, looking concerned. "You're allowed to take a break every now and again, you know. Almost-getting-killed allowance. It can wait."

"It's not like…I've got anything…better to do," Coulson wheezed, gesturing pointedly to his hospital bed.

"Well, we lost the guys who beat the crap out of you."

"_Both…_of them?"

"Yup," Garrett replied glumly. "Ward abandoned his post when he heard you had found Po. Kid had been antsy the whole night – not happy at being left behind, I guess. Got there just in time to tackle owl-mask as he made his exit, and got stabbed for his troubles."

"Is he…okay?"

"Course he is. Kid's a trooper. Feels guilty though, if I'm any judge. Mad that he didn't leave earlier."

"He shouldn't…have left…his post," Coulson said in response, but Garrett simply smiled, probably because both of them knew they would have done the same thing in Ward's situation. "What else?"

"Fury's taken you off the Clairvoyant case," Garrett informed him, his smile fading. "He's put me in charge of the ongoing investigation. Thought you should know. Your team's been stood down for the moment – Fitzsimmons have been taken off any Games' duties too, just until everything gets resolved."

"So…Fury thinks I've…been behind it all?" Coulson joked wearily, and then winced as his ribs made themselves known through a sudden burst of pain. "So…this is all…just an elaborate…alibi?"

"Don't be an idiot," Garrett growled, shaking his head. "Fury'd never doubt you – you're his golden boy. But there's a rat somewhere, and until we find out who it is, we can't get much further with the investigation."

"There's no rat…on my team," Coulson replied, this time a real hint of anger in his voice.

"It's not _your _team that I'm worried about."

Coulson frowned. "What's that…supposed to mean?"

"Hand's back in the Capitol."

"Hand? Why would…you think she has…anything to do with this?"

Garrett rolled his eyes, and tapped his head thoughtfully. "Well, the symbol they keep leaving behind is a _hand, _Phil. Seems like one hell of a coincidence."

"That's some pretty poor…detective work there, Garrett."

"Well, I'm sorry, I forgot I was in the presence of the World's Greatest Detective there. Forgive me for my arrogance. But Hand _was_ in District Nine when you rescued that Weapon X guy and all this Clairvoyant business started."

"On the other _hand…_she was still out there…when Quinn was killed," Coulson pointed out.

"But _not _when Po was, and when you got the living hell beaten out of ya."

"What?" Coulson asked, as this was news to him.

"Yeah," Garrett said, seeing that he had landed a point home. "She got in earlier that day. Totally off books, from what I could see, but I have a friend in S.W.O.R.D. who says she definitely landed with the rest of her team earlier that day. It wasn't logged in for whatever reason, but they were travelling light – either they're not expecting to spend much time in the Capitol, or they had to drop everything and rush over here."

"Then talk…to the Director. If Hand…was called back to the Capitol…he'd have been the one…to order it."

"And if he did?" Garrett asked archly.

"What? Are you trying to tell me…you think _Fury _is the Clairvoyant? He's the second most powerful man…in the Capitol. Why would he kidnap…and kill…his own S.H.I.E.L.D. agents? What would he…have to gain?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," Garrett confided grimly. "Though, to be honest, my money's on Hand. Always thought there was something off about her."

"Pretty homophobic…of you."

"That's not what I mean, you ass, and you know it. Hartley's a good woman – I've never had a problem with _her._"

"That's just because…she puts up with…your jokes. Hand has…better taste," Coulson joked.

"And no sense of humour," Garrett replied bitterly.

"Maybe you're…just not as funny…as you think you are."

"I'm funny," Garrett replied firmly. "My mom used to tell me that all the time. But anyway, you shouldn't be talking so much – doctors will throw a fit. Don't worry about the Clairvoyant for the time being, I'll take care of it. You concentrate on your recovery."

"As long as…you keep me…in the loop. Promise?"

Garrett rolled his eyes, but Coulson could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are we, kids? _Fine, _I promise. I'll let you know if we find anything – we'll need you to identify the bastards when we round them up anyway."

Coulson nodded slightly, before frowning. "There's something…that's bothering me," he rasped.

"That would be the fact that you got your ass handed to you on a platter, Phil."

"Sure…but that's not…it," Coulson said thoughtfully. "Po said…something to me. Something important…I think."

Garret leaned forward, puzzled. "What?"

"I…I don't…I don't know. It's on the tip…of my tongue…but I just can't…remember," Coulson admitted, before sighing and settling back into his bed. "Maybe…it'll come back…to me."

Garrett got to his feet with an exaggerated sigh, and walked over to Coulson's bed. As he did, the bottom of his shirt parted slightly, revealing the metallic surface of the Infinity implant he had received.

Following Coulson's gaze, Garrett glanced down, and laughed. "Don't worry, Phil, docs decided you didn't need one of these bad boys," he said, thumping its surface for effect. "Nothing wrong with you that a few weeks of rest won't fix. Let me know if anything comes to you, but until then, sit back and enjoy the rest of the Games – people are saying there's not long left now. Apparently the Wolverine's favourite at the moment, according to the Gast dens, though the Bishop girl's following close behind."

"Still rooting…for the Captain," Coulson reminded him, and Garret laughed, shaking his head as if dismissing his friend's naivety.

He tapped the handrail by Coulson's bed in goodbye, and had almost made it to the door when a new thought struck him, stopping him in his tracks. Glancing over his shoulder, Garret said, "Oh, by the way, Taneleer Tivan tried to contact you. They forwarded him to my desk, explained that I was taking over the case."

"Anything…interesting?"

Garrett turned and shrugged. "Nah, he just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery, apparently. Torn up by guilt that you almost died on his property – that kind of thing. Weird, but then again being weird is pretty much what he does. Guess it must have shaken him up more than you'd have thought."

"Well, that's…nice," Coulson replied, and Garrett laughed and left, leaving the injured man alone with his thoughts.

Taneleer Tivan, well known for his self-obsession, had taken the time to offer his commiserations and wish him well? A man who Coulson had blackmailed in the past, who would probably be only too happy to see him dead?

_Not likely._

_Not likely at all._

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

"_In a world where vows are worthless. Where making a pledge means nothing. Where promises are made to be broken, it would be nice to see words come back into power." _

― Chuck Palahniuk_, Lullaby_

* * *

"I'm sorry to hear about Coulson," Duquesne murmured, as he stepped out onto the balcony where the three men had agreed to meet. "He's a good man. If there's anything I can do to help at all, just let me know."

"How about giving me some time and space until we catch the guys who almost killed him," Fury replied wearily, straightening up, having been slouched against the metal railing a moment before.

"Now Nick, play nice," the third man said, and Fury glanced over at Alexander Pierce, glaring, but held his tongue. "It's important that Jacques is kept up to date on Project Rebirth, he is _funding_ it, after all."

Duquesne looked puzzled. "Project Rebirth? Isn't that rather on-the-nose? I thought you were following my advice on concealing the various arms of our operations?"

"Yes, it is, and yes, we are," Fury replied tiredly, glancing over at the taller man. "But we're starting to run out of words, and I've almost authorised a dozen requests thinking it was related to our main goal. Strange had slipped a file onto my desk under the name of 'Orangutopia' or something – apparently he wanted leave to go visit the Chitauri again, and try to educate them. Create a while new civilisation."

"Cats and dogs living together, that sort of thing?" Pierce joked weakly.

"He already tried that one. Decided human brains are easier to mess with than canine and feline ones. Bovine too, for that matter. That was a couple of years back – he wanted to create a minotaur mutt."

"I never saw one of those in the Games," Duquesne noted, and Fury nodded.

"It never made it past testing. Its head weighed too much for its body – kept falling over. Had nightmares about it for weeks. There was just something about its eyes…" Fury trailed off, before suddenly shuddering. "Anyway, that's not why we're here. The answer's still no, by the way."

"Nick-"

"Don't 'Nick' me, _Jacques. _I'm still not letting you on-site – the last thing I need is Thanos asking me why you're being escorted around S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities."

Duquesne ran a hand through his brown hair, the grey just beginning to creep in, more visibly in his facial hair. "He already knows my involvement in funding many of your projects. We've made no efforts to hide that, even after all the public attention Infinity has received. Why shouldn't a man who's donated so much into S.H.I.E.L.D. be allowed to see exactly what his money has been spent on?"

"Because S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to answer to only one man, and that man isn't standing here," Fury growled. "Thanos doesn't mind his citizens contributing to their security forces, but he _will _mind if they start expecting to be able to make demands in return. The man sees spies and assassins in every room and talks to things that aren't there, so expecting a _reasonable _reaction isn't exactly an option."

"Then arrange a covert visit," Duquesne argued. "Limit those around to people you trust, keep it off the books."

"And if even one little thing goes wrong, it'll look even worse when Thanos hears about it. I don't think so."

"Nick," Pierce said warningly, butting in. "You know we all need to compromise, here. It's the only way we can keep things going."

"You're taking _his _side?" Fury asked in feigned disbelief, because he had expected as much. "You know Thanos better than anyone. The only way we've been able to keep our work hidden is because we've operated under a strictly need to know basis. Our Swordsman gets his reports – that's all he _needs _to know. Seeing what we're doing with his own eyes won't help him in how he conducts his end of things, so I fail to see the advantage here, and I don't see why we're bringing this up again."

"You promised me that you'd deliver Edison Po into my hands when your agents captured him," Duquesne reminded Fury. "The reason why we're returning to this topic is because things have changed – Po is dead. You failed on your side of the arrangement, so know I'm coming to you again. If you me to keep my end of our original deal, I want to see where my money's going. I want to see _everything_."

"When my men take in Po's killers, we'll hand them over to you," Fury said tiredly, trying to bargain. "He was killed because he knew too much – they'll be able to tell you why, and who sent them. The same information is still at play, here."

"Generally, you don't remove a potential leak by implicating people who possess the same information," Duquesne countered, seeing Fury's bluff for what it was. "There's no reason to suspect they'll know anything more than the account number their fee was paid into for the assassination. But, for the sake of argument, can I assume that they're close to be apprehended?"

"Some of my best men are on it," Fury replied after the briefest hesitation, but Duquesne picked up on it nonetheless.

"With Coulson injured and Hill too prominent a public figure to take on such a case without drawing unwanted attention, I doubt that, Nick. Who's assigned to it? Hand? Quartermain? Woo?"

"Garrett," Fury replied, and Duquesne smiled with satisfaction, his point proven.

"Garrett's a good agent and a fine man, but the people he's going up against are clearly resourceful, and unless I've been missing something from your reports, you have no leads beyond rumour and hearsay."

"And the symbol of a secret society that was believed to have died out quarter of a century ago, if it even existed back then," Pierce added sceptically, and Fury shot a glare in his direction.

Duquesne nodded in agreement, before turning back to Fury. "Are we missing anything?"

"I wouldn't underestimate my agents."

"I'm merely stating the facts of the case, Nick."

Fury sighed, shaking his head, and admitted defeat. "Fine, I'll arrange something for you. Once the Games are over, during the celebrations. With some luck, the President's attention should be taken up entirely by the Games not to notice anything on our end. Now, is that enough to shut you up?"

"Nick…" Pierce murmured again, but Duquesne only smiled.

"Do you remember our promise, all those years ago?" Duquesne asked softly, and Fury snorted to himself, shaking his head slowly.

"Of course I do," he replied bitterly. "It may be twenty-five years ago, but it wasn't the kind of thing you'd forget easily."

Duquense and Pierce nodded in tandem, with the latter noting, "The war was a terrible time."

"In my experience, _all_ times are terrible," Fury said, his thoughts flicking back to Coulson. "We remember suffering in the past, experience suffering in the present, and hope that somehow tomorrow will turn out differently."

"Which is why we promised to _change_ tomorrow," Duquesne added.

"Indeed," Fury murmured. After a moment of silence fell between the three men, Fury glanced over at Pierce. "It was just after my team rescued your daughter and a dozen other hostages in District Eleven. We stormed the building through the sewers."

"Defying my express orders," Pierce added, but was smiling in recollection. "I thought I could talk them down. God, I was a fool back then."

"You made what you thought was the right call," Fury replied. "And I made mine."

"Those were the days," Duquense said, caught up in shared recollection. "Thankfully, I work _with_ you now, Nick. Serving under you was…well, it was interesting, at least."

"And now you own half the city."

"And now I own half the city," he agreed.

"Those days were simpler," Fury noted grimly. "I gave you the orders, not the other way around."

Duquesne smiled, not rising to the jab – after all, Fury had just promised to give him what he wanted. "And you paid me to follow them. Now, as you said, I own half the city."

Another moment of silence passed, before Duquesne turned to his two companions. "So, we dragged Pierce's daughter-"

"Sharon," Pierce interjected, and Duquesne waved his hand irritably.

"We dragged _Sharon _out of that hellhole, and the bastards never even knew we were there. But she was pretty beat up all the same – they all were – and you had me and Dugan as security outside her door on alternating shifts. I wonder, if Pierce had come during Dugan's shift, would any of us be here at all?"

"You'd still be rich," Pierce noted. "And Nick'd still be the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. After he saved Sharon, it was only a matter of time. Even then, I still knew what strings to pull. The President's not a terribly hard man to influence, if you know what you're doing."

"I bet Mojo Adams and Arthur Cadenski thought the exact same thing," Fury said, warningly. "And Angmo-Asan, Sebastian Shaw, and all the other Directors before me, my father included. If you wanted to do me a favour, you would have kept me _away _from this job. I'm here because I had a promise to keep."

Pierce nodded slowly, accepting the rebuke. "Old Dum Dum never had any kids anyway. It's a hard thing to do, to pledge twenty-five years of your life on a course that you know might well end in your death, but we do crazy things to protect the people we love."

"And now all of our children work for us, too, so we get to _make _them do what we want. What a group of rat-bastards we are," Fury noted sourly.

"At least they're safe," Pierce replied, and the other two men nodded, silence settling between them once more.

"Are sons any easier?" Duquesne asked suddenly, glancing over at Fury. Pierce also turned to him, half-shrugging, waiting on his friend's answer too. "Dealing with two daughters…I've always wondered."

Fury leant against the banister, thinking on it, drawing in a deep, cold breath. "Yeah, sons are easier. I don't think my daughter's atypical of her gender, though."

"You'd be surprised," Duquesne muttered gloomily. "Sometimes I think mine will be the death of me. At other times, they're the only way I'll live on."

"Doomed either way," Pierce joked, and the other two men smiled.

"We done here, then?" Fury asked. "No other crazy demands for me?"

"As long as you deliver on your promise, Nick. And you'll have your funding for next quarter delivered in the morning, as arranged."

"Nothing like some good, old-fashioned blackmail, eh Jacques?"

"The classics rarely go out of style," the other man agreed solemnly. "The divide between business and crime is often a fine line, unfortunately."

"As the man running our legal system, I've yet to see concrete evidence that such a line exists. What about you, Alex?"

"I think we need to let our petty differences go, for once, Nick," Pierce replied calmly, and Fury rolled his eyes.

"Always the peacemaker," he muttered under his breath, but shook both their hands and followed Pierce out. Duquense, last to arrive, also appeared content to be the last to leave, leaning against the handrail and gazing down upon the city beneath.

"I've always wanted a son," Duquense murmured softly, probably thinking that Fury wouldn't hear it, but hear it he did.

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"_In the end, you have to choose whether or not to trust someone." _

― Sophie Kinsella,_ Shopaholic &amp; Baby_

* * *

Skye found Ward, eventually, combing her way through the Triskelion until ending up in one of the many gyms, where Ward jogging on a treadmill. Not as fast as he normally did, though, out of deference to the wound in his side – though that was rapidly healing, and within a day or so only a faint scar would remain. In another day or two, even that would be gone.

Seeing her, he smiled and waved, although that smile faltered as she bee-lined towards him, coming to a stop by his treadmill, her arms crossed and frowning.

Ward deactivated the treadmill, picking up the towel he had draped across the front of it and slinging it over his shoulder.

"What's up," he asked easily, as he hopped off and picked up a water bottle that he had left next to the machine, unscrewing the top and taking a drink. "Something happen?"

"Coulson says you haven't been to see him," Skye said, a note of reproach in her voice.

Ward's shoulder sagged, and he smiled sheepishly in response. "I've just been busy, Skye – you know how it is. It's only been a little over a day; I'll head down to him when I've got the chance."

"We've all been stood down, Ward," Skye said deliberately. "What could you be doing? Everyone else's been down to see him – even Fury, for crying out loud. If the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. can take five minutes out of his schedule to visit someone, you can too."

Ward stared at her silently, screwing the lid back on his bottle, not quite meeting her eyes. "Seriously, Skye, I'll be down to visit him later. It's not a big deal."

"Then come with me right now and prove it," she challenged. "You've been off ever since Po died and Coulson wound up in hospital. If it's not such a big deal, why are you acting so weird?"

Ward laughed, and began to form a sentence, before falling silent. He turned away from her, his free hand clenching and unclenching, which she couldn't fail to notice.

"I just…I just can't face him, Skye," he said finally, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. "I can't see him lying there, knowing that I should have got to him faster, that I could have _done _something."

"Whoa there, Ward – you can't blame yourself," Skye replied, surprised. She had thought his problem had been around the fact that they had been stood down, not…well, guilt. Ward hadn't struck her as the kind of guy to obsess over mistakes. "You shouldn't have been there _at all_ – Coulson had assigned you to watch over the mutt wing. What would you have done if there had been another breakout?"

"Garrett and Trip had the situation well in hand, Skye, and you know it," Ward shot back. "I should have been there from the start. If only he had _trusted _me-"

"The self-pity's cute and all, but the delusion isn't," Skye cut across. "Coulson got hurt. Yeah, it sucks, but that's not on you. We're agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., it's part of the job description."

_I can't believe _I'm _the one saying this, _she thought to herself.

"But don't pretend any of this happened because Coulson doesn't trust you – he filled you up with truth serum the first time we met, remember?" she pointed out. "I was a security threat – would he _really _have given me access to everything in that screwed-up little head of yours if he thought there was anything bad there?"

"It'd be a good way of finding out," Ward joked lamely, and Skye allowed a small smile to slip onto her face.

"If he was worried, he'd have done the questioning himself," she said softly. "He used you because he knew you were solid, that there was nothing I could ask that'd scare me away. But I don't need my veins to be pumped full of serum to tell you the truth now – it's not your fault."

Ward stared at her silently for a moment before sighing and glancing away. He held his head in his hands, breathing heavily, before glancing back at her and nodding.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I have been a little hard on myself," he conceded. "Look, I'll go see him right now, okay? Apologise, or whatever. It's just been…it's been a lot to deal with. I don't think I'll be happy until we catch those guys, Skye. Until we work out what all of this has been about – the Clairvoyant, Po, everything."

Skye smiled, glad that Ward wasn't beating himself up, at least, but his words caused a sudden surge of guilt to rush through her, as her thoughts returned to Raina. She had avoided the other woman since the night Po died, Coulson's injury providing a welcome distraction while she worked out what to do next, but still hadn't decided on what exactly that should be.

Confront her? Report her? Tell Coulson?

All of the options seemed bad to her, but doing nothing seemed even worse. She just couldn't get over the initial feeling of betrayal and confusion which had lingered over the past two days, unable to connect the two contrasting images with her head.

The first: Raina, her friend and confidante. The second: Raina, the traitor and spy.

"Ward, can I ask you something?" she asked suddenly.

"Yeah, of course, Skye," he said, surprised. "Fire away."

She hesitated, chewing her lip. "I have a…a friend that I'm worried about?"

"Fitz?" Ward asked with a smile. "I've gotta confess, I'm worried about him too – how can a guy be so smart and so dumb at the same time? What's he done – finally bought that monkey he's always been going on about?"

"It's not Fitz," she replied tiredly. "It's…someone else. I found out a little while ago that they've been keeping something from me. A secret. A big one."

Ward cocked his head, meeting her eyes with concern – and a trace of another emotion that Skye hadn't seen before, and couldn't put a name to.

"A bad secret?" he asked.

Skye hesitated, before nodding. "I think so. It looks bad, anyway."

Ward remained silent for a moment, before glancing over at her. "Do you trust them?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, shrugging.

"Of course it does," he replied. "If you trust them, then you've gotta trust that whatever they've done or are doing, it's for the right reasons, Skye. You just mightn't be able to see it from where you're standing, if you don't have all the information."

"Well…I thought I did," she confessed. "I guess I just don't know anymore."

Another moment of silence passed, until Ward broke it once more, glancing over to her with a questioning look. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Ward," Skye said softly. "I just don't know."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

Ignoring his body's protests and he made his way across the steel walkway and down another flight of steps, Coulson descended into one of the most heavily guarded labs in the lower levels of the Triskelion. Well, technically he was descending into bare dirt, because these floors didn't exist on any official documents, but who had time for those kinds of semantics.

He was just glad Fury couldn't censor his thoughts, although he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that, somewhere nearby, a team of scientists were working on just that.

"How are we today, Hank?" he called out as he entered the lab, blinking in the harsh white light. Below him lay a hub of complicated-looking terminals, glassware and chemicals – a feat of Capitol engineering and technology, or at least, it probably was. Coulson couldn't quite work out what _all _the sparkly bits were for, but they sure _looked _impressive.

The younger man glanced up, his eyes widening, taken aback at seeing Coulson in his current state, and Coulson felt the sudden urge to conceal the sling that held his broken arm.

"My word, Agent Coulson! Are you okay?"

"A bit under the weather to be honest, doc," Coulson replied with a weak smile. "How're the ants?"

The man in the labcoat glanced back to the display in the far corner of the room, where several glass encased ant farms were housed. "Not too bad, all things considered. 17B is turning out quite nicely." He glanced back at Coulson, his head cocked slightly to the side, appraising the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents condition.

"I suppose I should ask about the other guy," Hank said wryly. "I'm picturing a seven-footer, muscle-bound, nasty-looking kind of guy – a real David vs Goliath match up. Am I close?"

"Guys," Coulson corrected. "Plural. Two of them. Had one on the ropes, but then the other caught me with my guard down. And you need to lay off the old books. Anyway, I've been catching up on my rounds – been told I won't be back out in the field for another two months."

"More like four, if those are broken ribs too," Pym noted, Coulson's bravado failing to hide anything from his perceptive eyes. "Sounds like some trachea damage, but you wouldn't be talking so much if it wasn't healing nicely."

"If this is nicely, then I'd hate to see badly," Coulson shot back, nodding towards his cast. "Wouldn't be all that found of mediocre, either. But that's enough about me – I'm here to talk about you. How's everything – you being treated all right?"

"Same old, same old," Pym said, shrugging. "But it's nice to see a friendly face. I take it intelligent apes haven't taken over the world since I've last been outside?"

"Wait, you heard about Strange's pets?"

Pym froze, his brows knotting together in confusion. "Wait, _what? _Strange went and found intelligent apes?"

"Well, semi-intelligent, really. At least, that's what my science team tell me. They weren't big fans. All that radiation out there, who knows what the craziest thing out there is? Yesterday we find unexploded thermonuclear devices, today we find talking monkeys. Tomorrow, who knows? Giant ants."

Hank laughed. "I don't think that's likely."

"We all have dreams, Hank. Personally, I'm holding out on a dragon. I've been brainstorming names for it for years."

"A _dragon? _I'm surprised you haven't pitched that for the Games."

"How do you know I haven't?" Coulson asked with a smile. "Next year will be the Twenty-Fifth Games, and Fury wants something special planned for it."

Pym frowned. "How exactly would the tributes be expected to take down a dragon? Wouldn't it just kill everyone and ruin the Games entirely."

Coulson's face fell as he considered that thought. "I guess you're right," he conceded grudgingly, falling silent before changing the topic to cover his embarrassment. "How's Janet?"

"The same, more or less," Pym said, blinking, caught out by the sudden change. "She doesn't like being cooped up. She feels like she's in a cage."

"It's only for as long as it needs to be," Coulson said sympathetically. "It's for your own protection – for both of you."

"I know, I know," Hank replied, waving off Coulson's apologies. "I'm not complaining. But I've got my lab, my distraction – Janet's got nothing. This stuff doesn't do anything for her. She's bouncing off the walls in here."

"You want me to try and talk to her?" he offered.

"I don't think it'd do much good," Pym said, smiling sadly. "She's not really in the kind of place were words from a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is going to mean all that much, given what she's gone through."

Coulson nodded. "You've _all_ gone through a lot. More than I can even imagine, and you're having to deal with it on your own."

"You're wrong, Coulson," Pym said. "I _don't_ have to deal with it on my own – I've got Janet and she's got me. That's more than enough. We'll make it through."

He forced a smile, and then ran his hand through his hair, looking sheepish. "Anyway, that's enough about me. I suppose you're here for a reason, right – even in your current state, Director Fury isn't going to be wasting you on courtesy calls. What did you bring me?"

Coulson suddenly looks startled, glancing around for his briefcase, but he spotted it almost instantly on the table he had set it down on when he had entered.

"Ah, of course," he replied, momentarily caught off-guard, walking over to the case and pressing his hand against the biometric scanner. **"Greeting, Agent Philip Coulson" **the display briefly read, before he snapped the case open.

He gestured towards its contents dramatically. "Behold – Ultron's brain!"

"That's a gross oversimplification," Hank muttered, and he removed the cubelike device and set it down on a nearby table, hooking it up to a variety of cables. "Didn't know whether or not you'd have been able to recover anything."

"We didn't either," Coulson confessed. "Were you watching when Captain Rogers decapitated it?"

"Yes. Janet was in the lab at the time – I generally try to avoid watching, but she's got some sort of obsession with it. Of course, I didn't complain at the time – I wanted to see how it'd perform in the field."

"Well, the body the Tanaka brothers created was a very early prototype. We felt anything more would be too advanced for tributes to deal with, although we didn't expect them to deal with it as easily as they did."

"Tell that to Sinthea Schmidt," Hank replied quietly.

"Or Tony Stark," Coulson added, nodding. "It did quite a number on him."

Hank nodded back, and worked away in silence for a moment, Coulson peering over his shoulder to get a look at the inside of the device – which, unsurprisingly, looked like the inside of a mechanical device. Wires, tubing, metal, etc.

"Looks like bad news after all," Hank announced grimly, at last, tossing the device back onto the table. "It's been fried – wiped clean. Must have been damaged in the fight after all, unless someone transferred everything from it before you brought it down here."

"Couldn't have," Coulson replied, sighing in resignation. "The remnants were delivered straight to the Tanakas, they removed…this and handed it over to me personally earlier today. The pilot that picked it up did so remotely, and didn't have manual access to the cargo hold. There's no window."

"You trust the Tanakas?"

"I do. And even if I didn't, we monitor everything they do. If they had done anything that they weren't authorised to do, we would have picked up on it."

Pym frowned. "Well, even without the data, I'm sure the Director got to see enough of Ultron in action. Do you think he'll give us the go ahead to create a replacement?"

"I think he will. Fury's always taken a shine to your projects – you know that. I'll let you know when I hear anything. I've gotta run, but I'll report this to him later today, okay?" Coulson said, shaking Pym's hand and Pym nodded, relieved. That done, Coulson began making his way towards the staircase he had entered through, saying, "See you around, Hank," as he did so.

"So, where are you off to next?" Pym called after him, and Coulson couldn't help but note the hint of envy in his voice.

Coulson glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

"Solving a mystery, Hank. Solving a mystery."

* * *

"I heard you wanted to wish me a speedy recovery," Coulson said, as he sat down in the chair offered to him by one of the Collector's burly security guards, his cast making him awkward. "I didn't realise our relationship had progressed to that stage. I started going through the flowers in my hospital room expecting to see your name on a set."

"Well, I had to say _something_," Tiven replied with a shrug, from the other side of the table. "Your friend Agent Garrett is a very inquisitive man – I don't think hanging up and pretending I never made the call would have deceived him. Not for long, at least."

"You could have just told him the truth – Garrett's a good man, and a good friend."

"And that's a fine thing to hear," the Collector murmured, his face serious, "but I don't know John Garrett. And I don't trust people I don't know – it's a practice that's served me well in life."

"Well then, what do you have to tell me that you wouldn't tell him?" Coulson asked. "I take it you've got _something _important to tell me, or you wouldn't have bothered with the subterfuge."

Tivan smiled. "How very perceptive of you, Agent Coulson. I do indeed have some information you might find…valuable."

"I _do _like information," Coulson replied with a smile, though he already knew Tivan wouldn't give whatever he had up that easily.

"This information comes with a price," Tivan murmured, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table that separated them. Coulson raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

"Of course it does," he replied. "Information that I might find insert significant pause valuable always does. How much is it going to cost me?"

"I'm not looking for money," Tivan said disapprovingly. "I do have plenty of that myself – you may have noticed. No, I'm looking for something else entirely. Security."

Coulson glanced over at the heavily armed guards at every entrance to the room, and cocked an eyebrow. "You seem to have all that in hand. Then again, a man was just killed on your property. And a valiant S.H.I.E.L.D., heroically wounded in an attempt to save him."

"Killed by the same people who killed a man in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, if my sources are correct," Tivan countered, smiling. "You clearly do not have the capability to protect me from these people. No, Agent Coulson, that's not the kind of security I had in mind."

"What, then?"

"There have been…rumours circulating of late that Director Fury intends to drop me after this year's Games. That he intends to go younger, more attractive, more…feminine."

"Trish Walker did catch some people's eyes when the final eight interviews were broadcast," Coulson agreed, seeing the anger and the hunger in the Collector's eyes, knowing that he just needed to go along with things.

"Pfff," Tivan snorted. "A rank amateur. Patsy Walker can't hold a candle to me, no matter how you frame it. Fury's just looking for a pretty face, legs, and a pair of breasts to match. Something for the men in the audience."

"Well, sex appeal never has been very present in the coverage of the Games. Strength, sure. Beauty doesn't keep you alive when the chips are down."

"So why should we pretend it's something it isn't?" Tivan challenged, his voice rising, causing some of the guards to glance their way, concerned. "Should we try and push for more female victors, just for the sake of appealing to the biggest demographic? What next, try to make sure only the pretty ones win?"

_I'm fairly sure that one's been going on since the start, _Coulson thought to himself, but held his tongue. "Rumours are just rumours, Mr Tivan. I wouldn't have put you down as a man who pays much attention to idle gossip."

"Rumour is the watchword by which this city speaks its secret truths," Tivan replied, apparently serious. "Gossip I disdain, but _rumour, _on the other hand, I've always paid attention to. It's what has gotten me where I am today."

"And rumour has it that Fury's looking at Trish Walker?"

"She's…one of the candidates," Tivan admitted. "There are others. That Valley girl, for instance."

"Valley girl?"

The Collector sighed. "Blonde. Beautiful. Brainless. That one. No? It's irrelevant in any case. Anyone at the top of their profession exists in a constant struggle to maintain that position, and I've done so for years. I'm just asking for your assistance this time."

"You could have made this deal with just about any other high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Tivan. You didn't need to try to contact me on what might well have been my death bed – what would you have done if I _had _died?"

"I would have adapted to the new situation," Tivan replied. "Thankfully, however, you did _not _succumb to your injuries, and here we are today. I contacted you because you're Director Fury's right-hand man, Agent Coulson. I don't know Agent Garrett or Agent Hand, but I do know you. And I know that if you make me a promise, you'll keep it."

"Well, technically Maria Hill would be Fury's right-hand man, except she's a woman. I could be his left-hand, although Elizabeth Hand or Clay Quartermain are probably better candidates for that role."

"He trusts you, is all I meant," Tivan said reproachfully. "He _listens _to you."

"He's also removed me from this investigation," Coulson reminded him. "That's why you were put through to Garrett. I've been stood down. I can't just turn up and tell him that we need to reward you for giving me information I never should have gone to you and asked about."

"He'll listen if you deliver a result. If you follow up on the information, and see where it leads, and find your men, he'll give you whatever you want."

Coulson nodded, before suddenly frowning. "Wait, amn't I still _blackmailing_ you? How about you tell me right now, or we cart you off to a nice prison cell. I'm not cruel – we'll make sure it's one with a view."

The Collector laughed. "Oh, you are a funny one, Agent Coulson. If you want to send me to prison, very well, arrest me right away. I'd rather spend the next few years in a prison cell than in a grave."

"We could make you talk, you know? We have people who do that kind of thing," Coulson informed him, but he did so uneasily, as that side of S.H.I.E.L.D. had never sat well with him.

"Many people have tried, and failed, to do just that," Tivan replied easily. "I keep my secrets unless I have fair reason to share them. Torture doesn't fall under that category, and I'm disappointed that you should fall into such an unimaginative series of threats. Blackmail, then torture? What next? Are you going to go after my family?"

"No," Coulson murmured. "So that's all you want? You're putting yourself in danger, putting me on the track of two men who have already killed two other men to cover something up, just to keep your job?"

"I am the Collector, Agent Coulson," Tivan informed him gravely. "My position is not just a job to me – it defines who I am. When the citizens of Marvel turn on their television screens, _my_ face is the one that greets, _my_ voice is the voice they hear. To lose that would be to lose a part of myself. I would rather die."

"That's insane," Coulson replied, shaking his head. "But you've got yourself a deal, as long as the information pans out. Who has the information I'm looking for."

"An old friend of mine," the Collector informed him. "And not the kind of man you'd like to cross, or threaten."

"His _name, _Tivan."

"En Dwi Gast."

Coulson stared at the Collector in disbelief for a moment, before realising that the other man was serious, and despite himself, he gulped.

_Oh boy._

* * *

_What a wretched hive of scum and villainy, _Coulson thought sourly to himself, as he navigated his way through the packed floor. He made his way over to the bar, ordered himself something blue and fizzy, but non-alcoholic, and stewed while he waited for Gast to arrive.

That was, _if _Gast was going to arrive. The man owned a lot of property across the Capitol – mostly dealing with activity not quite grimy enough to be considered criminal, but not clean enough to still be fun, and so his businesses thrived – but rumour had it this one would be where he was spending the night.

From what Coulson had gathered in the hours since his meeting with Tivan, Gast was well known for making an appearance each night at one of his properties while the Games where ongoing. Small wonder, really, as that was when he made most of his money.

Card games come and go, but the Games are eternal.

A fight broke out in the far corner of the room, but Coulson felt no urge to involved, content simply to observe. If things got too out of hand, the Sentinels would be called in, but it probably wouldn't go that far. In a place like this, these kinds of fights were just another form of entertainment – to be expected, not feared.

He had ditched the cast, at least, which made things a little easier. Drew less attention, anyway, as since he wasn't supposed to be working this case any longer, that was probably for the best. Doctors wouldn't be too happy, but the damn thing was just slowing him down. Besides, his arm felt fine.

He waited for an hour or so, too much going on all around him for anyone to take interest in a man in a suit by the bar, and passed the time by counting off the minor felonies committed in front of him.

_Assault and battery, assault with a blunt instrument, possession of illegal substances, sale of illegal substances, use of illegal substances, spilling a glass of an unidentified liquid on a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent after taking illegal substances, ordering a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to "Calm down, man"…_

Coulson was still wiping the drink off his trousers with napkins from the bar – knowing that he wasn't going to be able to remove the stain, no matter what – when a sudden hush descended across the room. He looked around, scrunching up the napkins and dropping them onto the floor.

_Littering,_ his brain murmured absently, but he hushed it.

The bartender looked up, surprised, and reached for a microphone that he kept beneath the counter for moments like these. He cleared his throat, before asking those present to put their hands together for a very special guest.

"The Master of the Games – En Dwi Gast!"

The room erupted into applause, but Coulson remained seated, his hands remaining firmly on the armrests of his chair. Gast began to descend the stairs leading down to the room, with a heavy consignment of bodyguards following in his steps. His hair was bright white and swept back, not all that dissimilar to the Collector's, and both men would have been about the same age. Where they differed, however, was in the colour of their skin, as Gast had modified his to somewhere between cyan and electric blue.

As Gast approached, Coulson stood up and walked over to meet him, an eyebrow raised in scepticism. "The Master of the Games – really?" he asked, when he stood before Gast. "You don't think President Thanos or Director Fury would take issue with that."

"Ah, Agent Coulson, I believe? I have been wondering when the good men and women at S.H.I.E.L.D. would be paying us a visit," Gast replied smoothly, proffering a hand, which Coulson took after only a slight hesitation. "A man can have many masters, agent. Why should the Games be any different?"

"I fail to see your involvement in them," Coulson fired back.

Gast smiled at this. "You wouldn't, Agent Coulson, because my role extends only as far as the Capitol. But to everyone gathered here, and in every one of my establishments across the city, my role is clear to see."

"Only as far as the city?" Coulson asked, raising his eyebrow once again in disbelief. "Don't take me for an idiot, Mr Gast – we both you're involved with the gambling rackets in the district. And one day, we'll be able to prove it, too."

"And should that day ever come, I'd be only too happy to defend my innocence. Is it really too much to consider that these rackets in the districts couldn't be organised _within _the districts. Are they not people do? Do they not get the same rush we do at a victory, the same crash at a loss?"

Coulson held the man's gaze as he pointed towards a huge glass screen that dominated and entire wall of the room. On it were five names, and series of numbers.

"Can I ask, Mr Gast, what _that_ is?"

Gast smiled widely, and a hint of pride entered his voice. "That, my friend, is the original Dead Pool. I must admit, I was moved when Mr Wilson's nickname came out. To have actively inspired part of the Games themselves…why, that was a dream come true."

"The 'original' Dead Pool. Meaning that you're aware of the existence of others?"

"Of course," the Grandmaster exclaimed. "There are one of these screens in every one of my establishments across the city – they all operate on the same system, so the odds remain the same no matter where you are. An even playing field, if you will."

"Would it surprise you to know that there's one of these in every district, too?"

"Yes, it would," Gast confessed. "I wouldn't have thought they'd have access to that kind of technology in the districts, at least not for unofficial purposes."

"They generally use wooden boards," Coulson replied, biting back a harsher reply.

"Well, as they say, great minds. They think alike. However, since we've already established that you're _not _here to arrest me today, Agent Coulson, what _are _you here for?"

"I hear you have some information on a person I've been looking for. Two people, actually A murderer and an accomplice."

"Ah," Gast said quietly, growing serious. "I take it a mutual friend sent you to me?"

"I wouldn't quite call him a friend."

"I wouldn't either," the Grandmaster confessed. "But we have no word for an enemy that's been around so long you can't imagine existing without them. 'Friend' will have to do."

The Grandmaster gazed for a moment at one of the various screens depicting the Avenger Games, as it flicked from each of the surviving tributes to the next – Tony Stark, Kate Bishop, Logan Howlett, Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers.

"You see, Agent Coulson, I am at a loss. You come here looking for something from me, but I see no reason why I should give it to you."

"Your civic duty?" Coulson suggested helpfully, but Gast only laughed in reply.

"That's hardly worth getting killed over. I quite enjoy my life, for all its debauchery. Now, our friend, he must have wanted something from you – something you were willing to give him. I, on the other hand, want for nothing. Chance is all I live for. Lady Luck is my only muse."

"Everyone wants something, Gast. Even you."

Gast smiled. "Let's say you're right. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that there is something I want."

"Name it."

"I've heard S.H.I.E.L.D. have files on my alleged operations in the districts. A close personal friend recently told me this," the Grandmaster said, perfectly serious. "Now, I'd like to see it – out of sheer curiosity, of course – but stealing it would be illegal. On the other hand, if a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent _gave_ it to me… No one could convict me for that."

"Deal," Coulson said through gritted teeth. "But only after you give me the guy's name, and I track him down to make sure you haven't just thrown out some random name."

"No," the Grandmaster replied slowly. "While I do wish to see that file, I'm afraid it's not worth risking my life over. The deal is not balanced, and therefore there can be no deal."

"Then why bring it up at all?" Coulson asked, confused.

"The deal is not balanced," Gast repeated. "It's not enough to interest me."

As Coulson stared at him, furiously working out a way to make the blue man talk, the Grandmaster got to his feet and inclined his head slightly.

"My deepest apologies, Agent Coulson, that I couldn't give you the answers you seek. I wish you the best of look in finding what you're looking for, particularly if your search keeps away from my premises," the Grandmaster murmured, as he turned and began to walk away.

"Wait!" Coulson yelled, and a sudden hush fell across the room, as dozens of eyes fell on him. The Grandmaster turned around, his head cocked slightly to the side, waiting for Coulson to go on.

"I'll play you for it," Coulson said grimly. "If chance is what you live for, then let's put it down to chance. I win, you give me my name. You win, and you'll get your file."

A moment of silence passed before the Grandmaster threw his head back and laughed, and his laugh was taken up by those watching.

"Now that, my friend, is more like it!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "So what will be, Agent Coulson? The cards? The die? The wheel?"

Coulson leant back into his chair. "I'm not here to participate in mere distractions, Gast. If we're going to gamble, it's going to be on the one thing worth gambling on in this city."

Gast smiled widely, showing off flawless teeth. "Ah. The Games it is. What are our parameters? I assume you'd like this done quickly, so betting on the winner probably wouldn't be what you're looking for."

"Next death," Coulson replied. "I pick. If I'm wrong, I lose. One in five shot, you're not going to get better odds anywhere else."

"And yet, one could argue that you're something of a ringer, Agent Coulson," Gast said slowly, after giving the proposal a moment of consideration. "You _do_ have inside knowledge of the Games. Has a tribute been slated to die by our dear Director? Is Banner's radiation poisoning progressing to a fatal point? Is Stark's heart about to give out? Have you a mutt primed to be sent in the moment you give the order?"

"If you're as informed as you're supposed to be, you'll know that my team and I have been taken off active duty on the Games," Coulson shot back coolly, seeing the hunger in the Grandmaster's eyes. No matter what reservations Gast may have, Coulson had his attention. The bet would happen – he just had to make sure he bet right. "The last thing we were involved in was the Carnage mutt. And if you're _not _informed enough to know that, then I have no reason to believe you have the information I'm looking for."

Gast hesitated, before nodding. "I _had_ received some information regarding that topic, but I wasn't quite sure if I could trust it until now. However, there are still a multitude of ways you could have an unfair advantage here. The deal isn't balanced."

"All that I'm basing my gamble on is a working knowledge of the arena's layout, a certain understanding of the tribute's mentalities, and gut instinct," Coulson replied. "Nothing there gives me an unfair advantage over anyone else here. My team were mainly involved in the Reapings and with mutt creation, neither of which are relevant at this point."

"You give me your word that you have no control over anything that goes on in the Games at this moment? A man is only as good as his word, Agent Coulson, and I've been informed that _your _word is good. Do I have it?"

"You do. I have no more control in what happens than you do."

"Then we will see who of two of us is the true Master of the Games," Gast replied with a smile. "I will hold you to your word on this. The deal is balanced. A deal is struck."

He spat into his palm and extended it to Coulson, who did likewise and shook the Grandmaster's hand.

"A deal is struck," Coulson repeated, and he felt the silence grow around him once more. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the room slowly filling up, as people poured in to see the Grandmaster challenged.

Coulson turned to face the nearest screen, studying it for a moment before turning to the next, and the one after that. Only a minute or two had passed before he nodded to himself, and turned back to the Grandmaster.

"I would like to place my bet," he said, and the Grandmaster nodded his consent. Coulson swallowed, taking a deep breath, and said;

"The next tribute to die will be Tony Stark of District Three."

The hush was dispelled as quiet murmuring broke out among the gathered crowd, and the Grandmaster smiled once more.

"An interesting bet, Agent Coulson. I had heard you held a soft spot for Mr Stark."

"He was my second choice to win," Coulson admitted. "Only after Steve Rogers – but those choices were made with my heart, not with my brain. Tony Stark will be the next to die."

"Then may the odds be ever in your favour. And now, we wait," Gast replied, and the pair turned to the screens.

An hour passed before the crowd realised that Stark and the Wolverine were getting closer and closer together, but the excitement only really started when Howlett stumbled across the Iron Man's tracks.

"The Wolverine does have the most kills so far, now that Miss Natchios has been dispatched," the Grandmaster noted.

"Worried, are you?"

"On the contrary, I am _enthralled. _The Iron Man vs the Wolverine and his claws of steel, and what's more, I have a stake in it. I haven't felt this alive in quite some time," Gast said, and Coulson saw no reason not to believe him.

The fight, when it came, was short and brutal. Stark held his own admirably, but ultimately Howlett came out on top, just as Coulson had expected. When the noise finally died down, he turned to the Grandmaster, who motioned for him to follow.

The pair left the main atrium behind – a burly security guard opening a side door for them, leading them into a smaller side room. They stood for a moment in silence, the din in the other room – while nowhere near as loud as it had been when Stark's cannon had sounded – still audible, but only barely.

"I'd like that name now," Coulson said after a moment, and Gast snapped out of the lull he had fallen into.

"The name of the man you're looking for," the Grandmaster said, meeting Coulson's gaze, "is Leland Owlsley."

Coulson laughed in disbelief. "Leland Owlsley, really? The Owl of the Capitol, accountant to most of the richest people in the city – he's the one who stabbed me? Not only that, but physically de-aged a good thirty years to boot? I think I've had enough of your games for one evening, Grandmaster."

"I always keep my word, Agent Coulson, and I always honour my bets. You interrupted me before I had the chance to finish," Gast murmured reproachfully. "May I continue?"

Coulson smiled wearily, but nodded. "Go ahead."

"His name is Leland Owlsley."

The Grandmaster paused, but just as Coulson opened his mouth he added one final word.

"Junior."

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**

**5: Tony Stark, District Three Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	104. Chapter 103: Heart of the Storm

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with a new update for In the End, You Always Kneel, and we're only a few chapters away from the very end! Who'll emerge victorious? You'll just have to wait and see! And now I leave you as we return to Bruce Banner, written as always by the ever-fantastic Miran Anders.**

**Big thanks to Bookcrazysongbird and TheTzip for their reviews – and to griezz too, even though that was in error. Always nice to know people are reading our fics! I do have to say, though, the positivity in the reviews we've got – both lately and all around – has just been fantastic. So glad people are enjoying our work, and I'm so excited to think of the remaining few chapters ahead, and what you'll all make of them!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred and Three — Heart of the Storm**

**Day Fourteen**

**Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"The Flesh_

_endures the storms of the present alone,_

_the Mind_

_those of the past and future as well."_

\- Epicurus

* * *

Rain pattered on the trees with spring-like delicacy, then more loudly before lessening once again; from where he stood in his high, lightly sheltered tower, it sounded almost as if the storm was breathing. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled off into the night. He stared up into the dark, enjoying the power of nature making itself known here in the park, deep in the heart of the deserted city.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he allowed himself a moment of calm. _The heart of the storm… and exactly where I am right now…_

Lightning cracked the sky over the broken New York skyline, illuminating with an electric blue-white flash the face of the man standing at the stone rail of his tiny castle. He breathed into the storm as the thunder rumbled, almost as if he was becoming more comfortable when surrounded by chaos. In the storm, but not part of the storm.

The clouds moved farther off on spidery legs of light that reflected in the brown of his eyes, making them sparkle in the darkness. Here he was, alone in the night… _but I don't feel alone._ In fact, he felt more alive than he had in days.

_Amazing what acceptance will do for you._

As the storm slowly abated, Bruce wrapped his jacket more tightly around him and settled back against the best-protected wall in Banner Manor. He watched until his eyelids began to droop. Then, the clouds seemed to tear in the slowest of motion, and through the ragged hole, a bulging half-moon shone amongst a diamond scattering of stars.

It was peaceful in the night. He longed for peaceful. _Almost there. Yes. Almost done_. With a sighing breath, he pulled up his hood and closed his eyes.

* * *

The late-morning sun was shining, reflecting off puddles even as it dried them. Bruce opened his eyes and yawned. After a drink of water, and a short walk down into the woods surrounding his base, he stretched out his achy muscles and shook his head. It was strange. He felt good. Strong. _This must be it, then. My body is making its last gasp before…well…_ mentally, he gave a shrug. _Before… it can't anymore._

He made a small fire and set up his leather cauldron, filling it and watching the magic as the leather soaked through. It was directly over the fire; it should have burned – but it absorbed enough of the liquid to protect itself from the flames as the rest of the water within it slowly rose to a boil. _There's a lesson in that, somewhere._

He watched the bubbles forming and breaking for a few minutes before digging into his backpack for a mug. _I really liked this part. The feeling of self-sufficiency. Surviving_. For a moment, he frowned at himself. _And stop talking in the past tense, Bruce. You're not dead yet._

A bird called overhead, distracting him from his reverie. Standing, he walked around near the stream until he found some fresh mint, bruising it into his mug before scooping up a cup of the boiling water. Sitting once more, he drank the tea to make sure he was well hydrated and smiled as a small green finch landed on a rock nearby. It tilted its head suspiciously at him, and when he laughed, it flew away in a hurry, chirping out its indignation.

_I better eat something. Not much appetite, but that's probably normal…_

He hunted around the woods until he found a rabbit that had stumbled into one of his hastily set snares the night before and dispatched it with calm efficiency. His sword, although sharp, was a bit awkward for more than doing it in. He switched to his pocket knife to cut it up. _More lessons. Bigger isn't always better. "_Thanks for this, rabbit. I doubt that I'll have much appetite at all left by tomorrow. So here's hoping that today is... well-spent."

He watched the clouds carefully as he cooked his catch with a bit of extra salt and ate with an odd thoroughness, even cracking the bones and sucking out the marrow. It looked like last night's storm might be back for an encore, although right now it was just sticky and humid, as if the sky was holding its breath before exhaling hot, moist air on the earth. Packing up his things, he walked back up to the tower and pulled out his notebook.

Paging through the maps and notes he had been keeping, he found some blank pages and then looked around suspiciously. While he knew by definition he wouldn't see a hidden camera, a corner provided some semblance of privacy. Sitting down with his back to the wall, he stared thoughtfully for a few minutes, hunched over the notebook, and began to write.

_Cho,_

_I'm sure you've been watching, so you know what's what. Two grays isn't going to kill me fast, but it'll do the job._

Bruce took a deep breath and shook his head. He didn't know quite what he wanted to say, but knew he had to say something.

_I doubt that I'm walking out of here. There's some strong fighters left. If I don't get to talk to you again, I wanted to let you know that I'm okay. God knows what they'll show onscreen, but really, I'm… I'm okay. No matter what happens, it'll be okay. You're the smartest kid I know, and I want you to know you've been like a brother to me. The only real family I've had for a long, long time. I really appreciate that._

He paused for a moment, nearly wrote something else, shook his head, and finally just signed it,

_Keep the faith, little brother, and see if you can be the one to change things._

_Ruse_

He blew out a breath and slipped the book back into his knapsack. "Okay, _Ruse._ Let's take a little walk before it rains again and we get _really _sappy." He slipped off his jacket and shoved it into his knapsack before walking down the stairs into the woods, striking out in a new direction. Although the sky was clouded in grey, it was hazy and gave no relief from the heat. _Although, that could be me, I suppose. Fever might be starting already._

A few minutes of walking brought him to a small stream he hadn't found before, a trickle that gathered into a small, clear pool in the rock. He stared at it for a moment, then shrugged off his pack and pulled off his tank top. He drank a little, then soaked his shirt and washed off his face and chest. The cold water felt good, and he couldn't remember when he'd last felt clean. Wringing out his shirt once more, he draped it around his neck to keep himself cool.

By now, it was late afternoon, and his stomach rumbled in some annoyance. "Right. Like a pound or so of rabbit wasn't quite what you had in mind for lunch." He considered eating one of the apples he had stashed in his knapsack but saw some thorny bushes and grinned. "Berries? Better sugar content. Good call."

An unnatural rustle from somewhere nearby made him freeze, and the following clank of metal against wood made him back up very, very slowly. _Okay. So I circle around and come back for berries later._ A strange voice caught his ear. Like someone talking through a tin can. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he let it go. _No. That doesn't quite sound like a human. And somehow… I don't even want to think about going up against some other robot alone…_

He moved quickly through the woods, thinking how strange it was that he was getting really good at moving without disturbing anything. _Yeah. Great timing, Banner. And you're a regular Tarzan, out here shirtless in the wild..._ Once or twice, he thought he heard voices, but between the wind sighing in the trees and the distance, he couldn't be sure.

He climbed into the arms of an inviting maple to wait. Using his damp shirt as a neck pillow, he tried to rest for a reasonable time before he hopped down and began the stealthy walk back. He'd gone a few yards when he heard a familiar loud noise.

_BOOM._

Bruce stopped and ducked behind a nearby tree. _Who now? And was that another robot killing off a tribute, or is one of us still over there? _He moved closer and saw a short, bulky shape looking down. The heavily muscled shoulders were enough to identify him, although it looked like something had recently raked down his bare back. Unconsciously, Bruce picked a few berries without looking away and popped them in his mouth.

_Oh. Logan. Terrific._ The stocky lumberjack would not have been his first choice to fight, but he didn't see much of an alternative._ Five of us. No choices left at all. You'd rather fight the girl? Or Tony, or the Cap? No. There are _no _good choices, if there ever were._

Shifting to his right, he could see what the object of the other tribute's attention was through a break in the bushes. _Oh. Oh, boy. _The bloody body was easily recognizable amid the shreds of metal and electronics. It was Tony Stark.

_Well, that's one less to worry about. Looks like Stark got what was coming to him_. The pragmatic thought startled him. _Wow. Way to be heartless, Banner. Although I suppose it's good to be pragmatic right now._ It only took a moment for him to realize that the broken bits of metal were actually from the mechanism they had defeated. The one that had nearly killed Tony. _Ultron. Leave it to Stark to dress himself in the shell of a killer robot._

He noticed Logan lifting his head and looking off in the distance and then heard the sound of the approaching transport himself. _Guy's got ears like a bat. It's going to be hard to surprise him... _Holding back a sigh that would surely have been heard, Bruce shook his head. _Have to start somewhere. At least with him I know it'll be a clean fight._

He hung back until Logan left the scene, picked another handful of raspberries, and followed him at a distance. _Like he won't hear me. Right. Hell, he can probably_ smell _me –_

Logan walked a distance from where Tony's body was being recovered and into another clearing. He spoke in his customary low grumble, without turning to see who was behind him. "You wanna get this over with, bub?" A distant rumble of thunder punctuated his words and did nothing for Banner's nerves.

Bruce took a deep breath and felt his heart begin to pound. There was a strangely definite ring of finality in the boy's tone. Abandoning any sense of stealth, he walked into the clearing as well, trying at least to _appear_ calm. "May as well. No point in putting it off, is there?" He casually slung his pack down to the ground and dropped his still wet shirt on top of it.

The shorter tribute turned slowly and looked at him, caught only slightly off-guard. "Banner. You made it this far?"

"I'm as surprised as you are." Bruce held out his palm. "Raspberry?"

A rather pointed frown was his first answer. "Won't make it any easier."

"True." Bruce ate the last berry himself and stared at his would-be opponent.

Logan shifted his weight, his frown deepening as he steeled himself for the upcoming fight. "Waitin' for something?"

Banner exhaled a deep breath. "Honestly, I don't know. I didn't think it would be this way. Just _calmly_ deciding to fight to the death isn't exactly something I've had any practice with." The outward calm was beginning to make him queasy. His heart was beating hard in his chest, his fists clenching and unclenching. He saw that the other tribute was tensing as well, but then with Logan, it was his customary stance. Always seemingly ready to fight or run – and running never really appeared to be an option.

The clouds continued to darken as Logan took a calculated step toward him. "You don't have to fight, Banner." With an insanely fast movement, the shorter tribute shifted sideways and aimed a kick that caught Bruce in the midsection. "You can just roll over. I'll make it quick."

Bruce stumbled back from the force of the blow with a grunt, tripping over his knapsack as he did. Several of the apples that he had picked just yesterday rolled and tumbled out as he staggered and caught himself against a tree, trying to catch his breath.

"I don't think I can make it that easy." He ducked his head and charged, catching the other tribute off guard as he got in under the reach of his claws. Gripping his chest like a barrel, he threw Logan sideways with all his strength and managed to slam him into a tree trunk. There was a grunt and a rather hollow thud. Bruce only hoped he heard a crack.

The shorter tribute got to his feet a bit more slowly, his head tipped back and his face wearing a momentary grimace. The hand on his side only half covered the brilliant colours already blooming at his ribs, and he shook his head hard. They stood panting at each other as the rain began to fall. Logan squinted at him appraisingly. "If you'd rushed me, you coulda finished it there. Y'don't know much about fightin', do ya?"

Bruce's heart was pounding in his ears as he tried not to run away. "Yeah, well. I'm a fast learner." He looked at Logan's shoulder, where the rain was washing dirt from what looked like a pretty fresh slice in his flesh. _Stark must have gotten a hit or two in._ Picturing the anatomy diagrams he once studied, he waited until Logan charged at him, then sidestepped and grabbed the man's upper arm in just the right place, holding on tightly and twisting it just so –

He felt the pop of the shoulder joint through his hands.

Logan screamed and then growled out a curse as he jerked away, slashing blindly with his other arm. "Dammit, Banner –" He staggered back, trying to work his arm back into place as the entire left side of his body seemed to just… slump. His lips pulled back in pain as an angry growl escaped.

Bruce nodded. _Well, that worked. Maybe if he's angry he'll make mistakes_. "What's wrong? Not fair to use scientific methods?"

Out of nowhere, Logan swung at Bruce with an unholy burst of energy. Even though he ducked away, the claws caught the side of his bare arm, and Bruce cried out in pain.

_Okay, angry Logan is a bad idea_, he thought, pressing his hand against the gashes along his triceps. _And I'm wondering if coming at him without even my jacket on was smart, either._

Another part of his mind responded with _you do have a sword, you know._ He pulled the weapon from his belt and dropped deftly into _en garde._ "You may have those, but they're not as long as this." He held the blade out in front of him, trying to ignore the slight trembling of its point.

"Oh, so now it's about who's bigger?" Logan half laughed. "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, Banner. It's the size of the fight in the dog."

"Right. We'll see who barks first."

The rain increased, and thunder rumbled even louder as Logan let out a bellowing roar. He shifted his shoulder roughly, and Bruce heard an audible sound as it snapped back into place. _How the hell did he do that? It must have hurt like hell… probably still does._

Moving quickly, he advanced and swiped at Logan's wounded arm. The shorter tribute was still able to move so quickly that the sword only caught on the leather holding his claws in place. Not enough to cut them through, but enough to scratch his arm and loosen the already worn straps.

_Damn_. For a few minutes, there were no words spoken, both men reduced to grunts and animal roars as they fought.

Bruce parried as well as anyone could against six blades but found himself being forced slowly back across the clearing, the leaves underfoot making it slippery. He fell away, his feet sliding, and felt the rough bark of a tree trunk scrape his back raw as the wet sword slipped from his grasp.

Lightning flashed, showering them both with startling blue-white light that filled their eyes with writhing red and purple shadows when it was gone. Bruce's heart pounded louder, the rain poured down his raw back, and he heard himself panting like a wild animal. He squinted in the grey, trying to clear his vision.

In another flash of light, he saw Logan break off a thick length of branch, wielding it like a club and moving closer in the dull grey of the storm, a murderous expression in his eyes. Strange, hideous,_ familiar_ echoes in Bruce's mind made his throat clench, and he gasped as if someone was choking him.

_This is it. This is the when it happens. He's going to kill me. It was going to happen, just like… just like… he always said..._ Bruce stumbled backwards in a panic, and his foot slipped against something hard and round. He glanced down to see the apples that had fallen from his pack. _The apples… He's going to kill me just like he killed Mom. Because of the apples—_

He stared down at them wide-eyed as abruptly, a door in his mind that had been guarded rather carefully for ten years burst wide open; it spread vicious, blinding pain, horror, and heart-rending grief as it did so.

_Apples. I just wanted… I wanted her to be happy. To smile, just for a little while. She was always hurt... he was always hurting her… always…_

Bruce grabbed the fallen fruit and turned toward Logan, his eyes wild, almost unseeing. For the moment, he sounded and moved like an eight-year old boy as pain and grief abruptly became _anger._ "You _killed_ her! You – you _bastard!_" With all his strength, he flung the apple in his hand at Logan and caught the shorter tribute in the chest, knocking him back a step.

The other boy's eyes widened as he watched, confused by the bizarre behaviour. "Banner, what the hell –" He didn't get any farther, because Bruce was already throwing a second, and Logan reacted without thinking. He swung the branch like a bat and actually managed what would have been a decent baseline hit. Bruce threw his head back and roared.

"Damn you!" The shirtless boy from Six was nearly weeping now, his expression contorted in abject grief as the rain poured down his face. "It was _my_ bat, you hurt her with _my_ bat, but if I had something –" A light dawned in his expression as his eyes fell to the sword shining on the wet grass, and his age came back with it. "I'll kill you!"

He screamed as he somersaulted down to grab the weapon and came up at the other tribute like a man possessed – which he may well have been. He swung hard, thrusting like a demon – but Logan had fought his share of demons in the past.

The stocky tribute blocked the first attack, managed to push Bruce backwards a couple paces with his good arm, and then pulled his other fist back without thinking to strike again. His weakened arm faltered and made the angle of his attack lower than he expected it to be. With a growled curse, he pushed through the pain, hoping the damaged straps would hold up to the impact.

The claws flailed backwards from their loosened straps as Logan's arm swung, then caught on the fabric of Bruce's pant leg and steered themselves up and sideways, deep into his thigh. Bruce gasped and jerked away, a darker red stain spreading down his already wet pant leg with eerie speed. He frowned down at himself and staggered against a tree as Logan caught his breath from a safe distance.

_Where is all that blood coming from?_ As he rocked sideways against the trunk, gasping, he felt the odd, dizzying sensation that he was losing air. The shock of it almost snapped him out of his madness. Swallowing hard, he spoke in what was very nearly a normal tone as he dropped his sword and grated his back down the rough trunk once more to collapse at its roots. "Femoral artery. Right. Femoral… fast bleed out…" He blinked a few times. "Always thought it would hurt more…"

The shorter tribute, breathing hard, stared at him. "Banner?"

Bruce looked up and seemed to see the other tribute for the first time. "Logan? Did I… did I get him?"

Logan looked down at his own bloody, torn skin. With his mouth open a bit, he tipped his head down in a little nod. A few breaths, and he had his answer. "You gave 'im hell, kid."

Bruce nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Good. That's…" A short cry of pain stopped him, and the other tribute walked over quickly, lifting a fist to put his claws through Banner's naked chest and end it – but the lightning flashed, and with another gasp, Bruce's eyes opened wide. He blinked at Logan, and then looked over the boy's right shoulder.

The lightning sparkled in his dimming eyes, and while the word he spoke was a faint, bare whisper, it was crystal clear.

"Mom…?"

And Bruce Banner was dead.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**

**5: Tony Stark, District Three Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**4: Bruce Banner, District Six Male – Killed by James Howlett.**


	105. Chapter 104: Take Me Home

**Hi all – apologies about the slight delay, had intended on getting this chapter up a day or two ago, but have been under the weather the last few days. However, we've got one hell of a chapter on our hands right now, but would you expect anything less of Robbie's Kate Bishop? Of course you wouldn't!**

**A big thanks to griezz and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews, and we hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one will be the finale, so set expectations to 'stunned'. Even though we're almost there, there's still a lot to come.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred and Four – Take Me Home**

**Night, Day Fourteen**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

_"My dear, find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains." _

– Charles Bukowski

* * *

Kate hissed through her teeth as she stickily pulled her makeshift bandages away from her skin to check the long cut once more. Her skin was slightly warm to the touch, and she didn't want to make it this far only to die of infection.

The pharmacy she'd discovered a few hours after her late lunch of pigeon and squirrel had been a godsend, even if it was completely stripped to the bone and there was nothing easily accessible. She'd had to break into five different cabinets before she found, neatly pressed and pristine and preserved, a single bottle of medicinal alcohol, and new bandages.

She peeled the old cloth bits of what used to be her shirt and the cube's parachute off of her warm skin and winced as she carefully poured the stinging alcohol over her front. For a while, she sat back, her teeth gritted, letting the open air, sticky with humidity from the storm she could hear somewhere further out, hit her bare skin and cool her down, before she started to wrap her chest again.

It wasn't lost on her that there were hardly enough bandages for her needs, so she couldn't be all that picky about her wrapping process. It would have been much easier if she had someone there to help her, she reflected as she finished the long process and then examined herself as best she could. Though…she wondered if any of her boys would have been brave enough to help her with, ah, _this _kind of bandaging across the chest.

_Kurt would've turned bright pink. I would've liked to see that, _she thought, and she felt the tiredness of grief touch her eyes again.

She cast her mind back to her campfires, with her boys, with Clint, to a time before she was alone, as she considered how each of her former allies might have tried to help. Peter would have nervously declined if he could get anyone else to do it. Clint would have helped so long as he could find a way to joke all the way through it. Logan would have given them all a disdainful look as he did what needed to….

She paused, taking a deep breath, pressing her eyes closed for a moment. Maybe she _was _fevered. She'd forgotten to keep Logan out of her list of her lost boys. Only for a second.

There were no mirrors, but she could imagine how she looked — in nothing but a bra and some hastily wrapped bandages, her jeans bloody and abused, her hair matted and tangled, her hoodie ineffectually tied in a bundle at her waist by the strings. She felt tired, dirty, exposed, and she was sure that she looked it.

But she was also in the Final Five, and she was the last girl. And that had to count for something. It was, she reasoned, the main reason she'd been allowed to find the pharmacy in the first place. She didn't imagine the Gamemakers would have been pleased with a quiet death by infection this late in the Games.

She pressed a hand to her cheeks to check and make sure they weren't flushed. No fever, so that was a good sign. She'd been afraid she had one when she woke up plastered to her leather couch that morning, but she'd also been covered in sweat and having nightmares _again _about killing Elektra, so… it had been hard to tell.

It had only been yesterday that she became a murderer. It felt…longer. More distant.

Kate picked her way back out of the pharmacy, careful of the shattered glass and some of the more dangerous corners. When she opened the door, the cooling evening air and the rush of wind from the still far-off storm hit her bare midriff, and she sighed at the touch. It helped with some of the heat, and so she kept her hoodie tied at her waist a little longer.

She had hardly made it a few steps forward, however, before she noticed that something had changed. Her sharp gaze spotted it almost immediately — the street sign on the corner was different, shiny and new. When she jogged curiously over to it, she saw that even the street name had changed.

**Chavez Avenue.**

Kate tilted her head at the strange sign, the beginnings of an impish grin touching her lips. After _days _of begging the Gamemakers to bring her to Logan… _now _she was getting somewhere. This was definitely a sign.

_Literally._

She took out her bow and kept it ready as she walked down the newly-christened Chavez Avenue, watching for any signs of movement. _This is it, _she thought. _They're finally listening to me._

She felt a little stronger for having her new bandages, and with the excitement of a new hunt pounding in her chest, she almost forgot that she was going to have to _kill _someone again. And when she remembered, she violently pushed that thought aside, drowning it in the darkest corners of her head until it was just a whisper and not an insistent nagging thought.

_I'm already a murderer, _she thought. _Can't stop that now._

She reached an intersection and looked up, but there were no new street names, just a continuation of Chavez Avenue. So she'd keep going forward, following her best friend's name. This _had _to be a sign.

A few more blocks yielded **Parker Lane**, and she turned that direction, the smirk growing wider with every step. This was perfect. This was _great_, because it meant that someone out there still liked her, still wanted her to get what she wanted. "Lead on, then," she informed the street sign, keeping her arrow nocked.

The tiredness, the terror, the hopelessness from last night was starting to fade from her shoulders with every single step she took, replaced instead by adrenaline, and a sense of danger that felt… _breath-taking_. As much as Kate hated to admit it, she couldn't help but feel her every nerve falling in love with the rush surging through her.

_Well now I'm definitely not getting into Heaven with an attitude like _this, Kate thought, and the idea broke the smile's spell for just a second before she spotted **Barton Way **and nosed forward, pushing her place in Heaven out of her head for just a little while longer.

Somewhere along the way, she heard a loud, booming cannon, and she paused, surprised. That meant there were only three people left besides her.

_Eliminating the competition, _she thought briefly. _I wonder who it was. The Six boy? Five? Three? Not Logan, probably. Logan's mine._

Barton Way seemed to stretch on for a while, and she paused partway there to drink from Clint's canteen, grinning up at the street sign that held her former partner's name. "So, Clint," she told the sign, "I guess you're bossing me around now that you're dead. Telling me where to go and all that. Lucky for you I can't argue back. You could've never bossed me around like this in person."

The sign, as expected, didn't say anything, but she hadn't expected it to.

When at last Barton Way turned to **Wagner Street**, Kate's smirk was completely gone, replaced by a frown as the evening stretched further toward night. She had been traveling for a while now, and it was getting late. Usually by now, she would have been out and looking for a place to stop, to hole up for the night, but… This was _Kurt's _street.

That _couldn't _be an accident.

She passed another intersection with no new sign of where to go next and paused, looking up at the sign that bore Kurt's last name.

_I'm sorry I'm letting them direct me like this, _she said in her head, hoping that he was even still listening to her, if he was in Heaven. _I know that's not what you would've done. But I've got to get this over with. Then I can go home. I just… want to go home._

When Wagner Street intersected with **Howlett Boulevard**, however, Kate had to stop. Just… stop. And glare at the sign, at the indignity of it all, of Logan's name crashing its way through Kurt's. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and for just a second, she removed her hand from her bow to point at the offending intersection. "No," she whispered, her tone sharp. "Not again."

Her cheeks flushed with both anger and the heat of her own slightly-fevered body, she turned on her heel and headed down Howlett Boulevard, eyes narrowed, ready to see Logan at any second. It was getting darker and darker, but Kate had a warm moonlight glow at her back, and she kept her eyes peeled for any sign of movement.

She felt her heart in her throat when she heard a slight noise, and she pressed herself into the shadows, her pulse racing. Logan was a good tracker, and he wouldn't be fooled by a simple hiding trick like this, but maybe she could….

Wait, no — it wasn't Logan.

He wasn't standing out in the open yet; he had paused and seemed to be thinking about something, studying the area. But he had his back to her, and Kate moved quickly and quietly, raising her bow to aim at the boy from Five.

She took in a deep breath, drawing the bow back, deathly quiet. She had the shot — he would never hear her coming until her arrow was already between his shoulders. She breathed in—

_Boom._

The echoing cannon shot startled the blonde boy as much as it startled Kate, and she saw him jump slightly. But Kate let out a small gasp at the thundering noise. She hadn't _meant _to gasp. She really hadn't — it had just slipped out.

But it was enough.

The boy had heard her, and he was already turning to defend himself. She let go of her arrow already _knowing _that it wouldn't hit its mark, but what surprised her most was the metallic _clang _that sounded out as her arrow bounced off of…

"What the heck is _that _thing?" Kate asked despite herself, staring at the perfectly round, very shiny, silver shield that the Five boy had on his arm.

He stared at her for a long moment instead of answering her, and Kate bristled a bit at the look in his eyes. It was far too _soft _and _pitying _to be allowed, and it lingered for far too long on the hand-shaped bruise on her arm, the one that wasn't nearly as purple anymore but was still pink and obvious, even in the moonlight.

She was a _killer_. She wasn't just some _kid_. Still, she should be glad he wasn't staring _other _places, considering her whole bandaged-chest situation.

She fitted another arrow, and the Five boy stepped slightly back behind the nearby building, his shield raised so that it was hard for her to get a good angle on him.

"You're the girl from Twelve, right? Kate?" he called out around the corner.

"Yes," she said, her voice level and even and definitely recovered from both the surprise of the cannon — the one that meant there were only two boys left for her to get through before she could _go home_ — and the confusion of seeing that silver shield thing. "And you're the last kid between me and Logan."

There was a slight pause at her declaration, like he was surprised, and Kate took that as her opportunity. She ran sideways with a burst of speed, aiming even as she ran, hoping to catch him off guard and to get him from the side where his shield wasn't up.

It mostly worked. There was still that annoyingly loud metallic _clang _as her arrow bounced off the shield, but the Five boy had to turn on his heels to block it, and Kate was already setting up her next shot.

"Augh!"

Kate smiled grimly as the Five boy took a few stumbling steps back, her arrow in his shoulder, though it was not quite where she'd have liked it to go. She _had _been aiming for something a little more permanent, something that would render his arm useless, but he was surprisingly fast with that shield of his, and he had good reflexes for someone as wide as he was, and he definitely still had a good grip on that shield. This was going to be a challenge.

She licked her lips. Okay. She could handle a challenge.

The Five boy regarded her over the edge of his shield, and while his gaze was no longer infuriatingly soft, he still looked nothing like Elektra, with her flashing sai and her eyes like an entire pack of wolves at once. This was not the face of a killer, and if Kate hadn't been standing on Howlett Boulevard, just _one last stand _away from the thing that had been driving her for _days_, she might have cared.

"Okay, wait," the Five boy said even as she fitted another arrow. "Just wait a minute."

Kate's every instinct was screaming at her to shoot him, but… he didn't seem like a killer, so she nodded. "Take a second," she said with what she hoped was a terrifying smile. "But you're not walking out of this, Five."

"Steve." He gave her a tentative smile.

She frowned right back at him. "Okay," she said quietly, trying to figure him out. What was he up to? She'd just _shot _him! Why wasn't he trying to kill her right back?

_I don't have time for this. It's already getting dark, and I've got to find Logan before he finds us, _she thought, and then she fired again.

_Clang _went that stupid shield again, and Kate swore under her breath, diving aside as, at last, the Five boy — Steve — attacked back.

The only warning she had was the fact that she had been watching him for a weakness in his defence, so she saw that he was drawing back. She didn't have enough time to fire a shot at the new exposure and get out of the way at the same time, though, as a big silver thing was headed her way, so she dropped to the ground and heard the shield hit the wall behind her and go whooshing back at a slight angle. As she scrambled back to her feet, he scrambled for the shield, and they squared off again.

So he had range.

_Darn. I thought I was the only one._

This time, Kate grabbed two arrows. _Let's see you dodge this one, pretty boy, _she thought with a grim smile as she aimed at both his head and chest. Steve saw what she was doing and pulled himself behind his shield, tucking in his entire body in a sort of crouch, but even as both of her arrows bounced off his shield, Kate took advantage of the fact that he'd had to pull his head in so that she could get a running start, and she sped for the shadows, for distance, while he didn't have his eyes on her. The open street was too well-lit.

In the darkness, her eyesight was better than his. She was pretty sure.

She scrambled around a corner just as Steve reached the alley, and she jumped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the brick of the building she'd decided to climb, finally finding strength on a ledge as she pulled herself up, higher and higher, toward a solid-looking windowsill.

Satisfied, Kate braced herself up with her knees as she got into position. She had the height.

She had only just settled in when he appeared around the corner, clearly cautious and holding his shield so that he covered himself as best he could. "Kate?" he called out carefully. "Listen, we don't have—"

She had known he would be protecting the important parts of his body, but he couldn't have known about her height advantage, and even with that, she wasn't aiming for his chest or head this time, just in case that stupid shield managed to get there first. She let her arrow fly, and he let out a satisfying gasp as she hit his leg from behind. She'd been aiming for a more important artery, but, well, he was a fast mover, she'd take what she could get. She'd still drawn first and second blood.

But Steve had apparently decided not to play nice anymore, because instead of taking even a second to look down at the damage Kate had done him, he swung his shield without hesitation, and Kate winced as she only just let go of the side of the building in time to avoid serious damage.

That had been a _head shot_.

"Oh, _now _you come out to play," Kate said as she rolled with her landing, letting her momentum carry her forward. She grabbed another arrow and turned to fire as she did so, but she was surprised to see that Steve was _fast_. He had already closed the distance between them instead of going for his shield like she thought he would, and she felt the panic take her when Steve's hand closed around her bow, and he very nearly yanked it from her grasp.

"Hey. Hands off!" Kate shouted, dropping her arrow so that she could put her other hand on the bow and try to pull it back.

Now _there _was a losing battle. This guy was obviously much stronger than she was.

He yanked hard, and it was only the sheer force of determination that kept Kate attached to that bow, but he had such force that she was pulled forward, and at the last moment, she decided to use that against him, moving suddenly _with _the direction he was pulling her so that he very nearly pulled her on top of him, and he stumbled backwards. He still had a grip on her bow, but he no longer controlled the direction, and she side-stepped him, purposefully slamming her shoulder into his injured one so that he at last _let go _of her bow even as she pulled it up — but not over his head.

She had managed to hook the bow around his neck, and she _pulled. _He fell back a few steps, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for air even as the grip of her bow dug into his throat. She pulled harder, even pulling herself up so that she could get a better angle on him, her feet leaving the ground as she used her entire body weight to drag Steve back.

His eyes were wide as he struggled to push the bow from his throat before, finally, he decided to switch tactics. He reached behind him with both hands and managed to hook one around her upper arm, throwing her over his shoulder and to the ground with a clatter as both she and the bow tumbled down. She skidded slightly, tearing open several of the new bandages, and she felt the sting of the ground leaving trails on her exposed skin. When she stopped skidding, she popped back up just in time to see Steve get a hand around her bow, and she rushed forward, determined to get it back, before he swung, seemingly on instinct, and Kate took a blow to her stomach that had her doubled over.

They both backed away slightly — Steve massaging his throat and gasping for breath, his eyes wide; Kate holding her stomach and gritting her teeth. When at last she was able to stand, she saw that he was holding her bow a bit like a staff, so she grabbed for her own short staves. She could play this game too.

"Okay," she said, rocking slightly back and forth from foot to foot as she sized him up from a cautious distance. "Okay, that's _my _bow."

Steve looked almost apologetic, even in this half-light, holding her bow slightly out from him. "You were shooting at me," he pointed out.

She glared at him. "Well, yeah. You're in my way."

Steve regarded her carefully, backing away from her and toward his shield. "Right. You said you were after Logan," he said, still without taking his eyes off of her.

She bared her teeth at him. "I'm gonna kill him," she said, her voice low and treacherous.

He seemed to regard her quietly, and she felt his gaze not on her venomous expression but on her bloodstained clothes and her brilliant white bandages. "But you've got to go through me to do that?" Steve asked, soft and slow. "This isn't the only way. Maybe I can—"

"If you think you can't win a fight against a fifteen-year-old girl, you can just say so," she snarled back. "But don't pretend this is a fight either of us can just _walk away from. _These are the Avenger Games."

Steve frowned at her. "Yes," he said quietly. "I guess they are." He didn't look happy about it.

She saw that he had nearly reached his shield, moving as they spoke, so she launched herself forward, and her first blow connected with his side as she swung both staves together. She heard the breath rush out of him with a satisfying _whoosh_, but as he doubled over, he managed to grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her backwards and away from him before she could follow up her first blow with something more permanently damaging.

With a screech of pain, she kicked out at him, and he dodged but let go of her hair. She even thought she heard him mumble an apology.

What was a kid like him even _doing _in the final three? No wonder the Gamemakers wanted her to get rid of him before she faced Logan for a finale fitting of the Avenger Games. Steve was no good for the kind of violence they wanted — he kept _hesitating_.

She swung at him again, and he ducked, rolling slightly as he did so and grabbing his shield as he went, popping back up and spinning around to face her. He had her bow in one hand and his shield in the other, but in a second, he had pitched her bow as far down the alley in the opposite direction as he could, where she couldn't reach it, and she screamed her displeasure as she dived at him, her staves echoing off that stupid shield again with a _clang _that filled her ears and left them ringing. Her arms shook with the reverberation from the shield, and she fell back a few steps.

"What is that thing _made _of?" she gasped out.

"I don't know," Steve admitted, glancing down at the shield. He looked torn for a minute before he added, "My friend — Ororo — she knew."

Kate blinked at Steve for just a second. _You knew Ororo? _She almost asked the question out loud, but then she remembered that she had seen Ororo's face in the sky the night before she had seen Kurt's. And she knew better than to ask questions about dead friends.

So she opted for _not _talking to Steve anymore, and she decided to attack lower, swinging her staves for the side that didn't have the shield even as she followed up with her leg, meaning to connect with his knee and get him off-balance.

He dodged her kick but wasn't quite fast enough for the staves, and she managed a glancing blow off his injured arm before he went on the offensive, pushing against her with the full body of his shield and catching her in the chest. She felt her back hit the wall and ducked just in time to avoid the left jab that followed. She spun as she moved, trying to catch him with the heel of her foot, but he had anticipated the move and grabbed her foot.

For a moment, they both looked at each other, surprised, and then he grabbed her ankle with his other hand and _pulled_, swinging her around so that she went flying into the wall so hard that she saw stars for a moment.

_Okay. Ow. _She shook her head, trying to rise to her feet, but the shield filled her vision, and she stumbled backward, reeling from the blow that left a long, horizontal cut across the arm she had reflexively tried to raise in defence. She was lucky it wasn't broken, but it _hurt_, and there was definitely a lot of blood.

She was going to _lose _this fight.

The idea filled her with a horrible sense of dread and certainty at the same time, and she scrambled backwards on her hands and feet, her eyes wide as Steve stepped toward her again, his jaw set.

"Kate," he said quietly. "We don't have to do this."

But she didn't want to _hear _it. She was _not _going to let some stupid blond boy stop her, not now that she was _so close_.

"Shut up!" she shouted, rushing him again. She had fully intended to take both staves and hit him right between the knees, because she was pretty sure _that _would slow him down, but when she saw his shield moving to block, she set her sights lower, taking him out at the ankles.

Steve hit the ground hard, and Kate pounced, pinning his arm and his shield underneath it with her knee as she straddled his torso, both staves held in one hand as she grabbed her knife with the other, meaning to plunge it right into his chest.

But she hadn't quite pinned his other arm with her other knee like she meant to, and he managed to get his arm in the way of her murderous strike. She heard him cry out as her knife broke his skin, but he grabbed her by the wrist, his strong grip keeping her from finishing this fight once and for all.

She pressed harder, using both hands now, her staves forgotten as her arms shook with exertion, leading with her good hand even as her bleeding arm painted Steve's clothes with red. She was so close now—

"Hey!" Kate went tumbling sideways as Steve abandoned his attempts to push her up and away for a hard yank to the side. Her knife sliced open his shirt as she was pulled to his left side, and she left a trail of red, but it was superficial, and he had rolled with her, pinning her down.

He was on top of her now, his shield pressed against her chest so that it was hard to breathe. She could feel him trying to take the knife from her right hand, and, gasping, she felt around until her left hand closed around one of the staves she had left behind. She swung it with as much might as she could muster, and it connected with his gut. It was enough to get the pressure off of her chest, and she got her knees underneath her so she could use her legs to push him off of her.

She shoved her knife in her jeans and quickly made a grab for her other little lead pipe as Steve rushed for her again. Those pipes were a better defence against that silvery disc, and she managed to bring them both up just in time to block the shield that would have definitely taken her out at the speed it was going when he threw it. As it was, her sturdy little staves were ringing, and her arms were getting tired from the effort, especially the one that was going sort of tingly and numb after Steve's shield hit it. That shield was made of serious stuff.

But Steve had thrown the shield, and it hadn't hit her, and so it wasn't in his hands — and this was her chance. She saw Steve dive for it and kicked it aside, putting her body in the way of his dive.

They both went down in a tumble, and she felt every inch of the rocky ground dragging across her exposed back, tearing at her skin, but at least now he didn't have his shield.

Though — that wasn't exactly as much of a help as she wanted it to be as he grabbed her by both arms, shoving her against the wall. She felt her feet leave the ground as he shoved his arm underneath her chin, and as the pressure on her throat grew and she gasped, her vision blurring slightly, she felt him feeling around the edges of her jeans.

_Searching for my knife_, she realized. _He's trying to end this faster._

As much as she wanted to keep both hands pushing to get some distance between Steve's arm and her throat, she knew it would all be over if he got her knife, so she freed one hand and grabbed the only weapon available to her.

An arrow.

He was distracted by his task of _somehow _still managing to be gentlemanly about searching her waistband for a knife, so he didn't see it coming, but he released her pretty quickly when she drove the arrow into his side, and she dropped to the ground, taking in great gasps of air. She wasn't sure if she had hit anything important — she had been swinging blindly — but at least he had stumbled backwards.

But — oh. His _shield_.

She saw too late that he was stumbling towards that stupid thing, and she dived forward again, her fingers closing around the smooth metal edge just as he picked it up.

When he bashed her in the face with the shield, she felt the tears sting her eyes as blood gushed from her nose and her lips, but she had a hand on the shield as well, and she pulled him with it, rolling as, for a second, he landed on top of her, but he wasn't the one in control of their momentum. She hooked her leg around his shoulders as she fell and pulled him sideways, meaning to trap him again with his shield arm under her like she had before, this time with Steve face-down so she had a better advantage.

The manoeuvre worked only partially, because Steve managed to get his wits about him at the last second and to prop his shield up vertically just underneath her.

The full momentum of her fall as well as the combined weight of her body and Steve's pressed her knee into the edge of Steve's shield — and even further — and white-hot pain exploded in her leg as she cried out, the sound stolen from her. She sounded — she sounded like _Clint_.

She rolled off of him, holding her leg, crying and panting and gasping in pain, all determination drained out of her for just a moment as she felt the warm blood gushing through the tear in her jeans.

She was going to die.

The knowledge settled over her once more, the weight of it as heavy as when Steve had pressed his shield into her chest, and through her tears, she looked up to see that Steve was just…. _Standing there._

He looked pale, surprised, as if he hadn't expected that to happen. His mouth was slightly open, almost in horror, and he took a slight step forward, hesitant, as if he wanted to reach out to her.

"Kate, I—" He looked uncertainly down at his shield, which was splattered with red across the silver. "I'm… I—"

_I know_, she thought, though she didn't say it out loud. _I remember the way I felt when I first killed someone._

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to rise to her good knee. She felt slightly woozy, but Steve made no move against her. She blinked blearily at him, and then her mouth twisted into a smile as she realized what Steve hadn't, not when he was too busy staring at the blood of her ruined leg, of her broken nose and bleeding mouth.

Her bow. It was close. They'd rolled slightly past it, but if she could just…

She could still win. She could do this. And then… and then she'd bandage up her knee and hide in the shadows so she could still shoot Logan when he came for her. She didn't have to be able to stand to kill him, not as long as she had her bow.

_I can do this._

She pretended to stagger, and Steve flinched back, his face still pale, but then she made her move, rolling forward as best she could, her left leg absolutely useless beneath her and slowing her down as every colour in the spectrum flashed across her vision, but she felt her hands close over something definitely bow-shaped, and she reached for her quiver, her hand closing around one of the few arrows left that hadn't been strewn across the whole alleyway as they were fighting. It was easy, familiar, to string her bow, but her vision was filled with screaming purples and blues, and by the time it had cleared, Steve had realized what she was doing and reacted.

She didn't have time to aim properly before she released the arrow the second her vision cleared and she saw the shield headed right for her, but from the hiss of pain, she knew she'd hit him a split second before the edge of the shield slammed into her chest, and she hit the ground, a loud _crack_ ringing in her ears as her head hit the pavement. She saw only red for a moment before she was aware enough to see that she was flat on her back, the two broken pieces of her bow on either side of her.

Everything hurt, and for a while, Kate just lay there, finally registering what that _crack _had been as her side caught fire. Her ribs were broken along her right side, and if the fact that she was struggling to _breathe _was any indication, Steve's shield had done more damage than just that. It felt like drowning, her every breath shallow and wet and _terrifyingly _inadequate.

She closed her eyes and sucked in air through her teeth, though it didn't help her breathing situation at all. It hurt. Everything hurt. Her head and her chest and her leg and her arm and _everything _hurt.

She forced her eyes open, because she wanted to _know _what was happening, and she saw that Clint had come to crouch beside her… No that wasn't right. It was…it was Steve. He was also blond — that's why she thought it was Clint.

He looked shaken, but that didn't stop Kate from twisting and kicking out with her one good foot. She felt the satisfying crunch of his nose under her boot and thought blankly that it served him right for getting so close to her.

He stumbled backward, his hand over his nose, and he still looked pale. He was bleeding from all the places she'd stuck him with her arrows, but that wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough. He was still on his feet, still stronger than her. She could feel it with every heavy, sticky breath she took.

_I'm going to die, _she realized. _I'm going to die, and the last thing I'll have ever done was try to kill a boy who didn't even want to kill me._

_That's not… I wanted justice, not…this._

"I don't want to die," she said, suddenly, and she had to spit the words around the blood in her mouth, but she was so seized by the desire, by the _need _to say them that she couldn't stop it.

Steve's head snapped up, and he looked at her with a strange sort of expression, the same kind of one he'd had when he first spotted her on the street. His eyes were shining, and she realized that he wasn't pale because of the arrows she'd managed to stick him with.

"Please," she whispered. She felt the terror filling her, felt the tears splashing over her cheeks, warmth and salt mixing with the metallic red already coating her face. "Please," she whispered again. "I don't want to die, Steve."

She was _scared_. It was hard to breathe, and every single gasp only made it _worse_, shooting pains running up and down her side as she shuddered, her terror taking hold over her pain as she cried _anyway_, gasping and panting and feeling very, very small.

Steve sounded miserable as he knelt down beside her. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and she felt him searching for her knife again. "I'm so sorry, Kate." His voice sounded hoarse, but it was hard to tell if he was because he was crying or if it was because she'd busted up his nose.

"Get _away _from me!" she screeched, pushing against him, leaving two bloody handprints on his clothes, which were already pretty red. She knew most of that was her own blood, from when she had tried to pin him, from how close they had been to each other.

There was _so much of it._

She knew she wasn't strong enough to fight him, but Steve pulled back, his eyes wide, at her touch, and Kate burst into tears again, gasping her every breath until each inhale was more of a scream of protest — though the actual sound that came out was a low moan.

He stared at her, pale as death itself. She could see the evidence of tears on his face, little paths cleared through the dirt and grime and blood, and for just a moment, all Kate could think was that it was strange for the boy who had killed her to be so sad about it. If it had been Logan, he wouldn't have hesitated to finish it, to _move_, to _act_….

_Logan._

Why hadn't she thought of that? He was the only one left — he _had _to be. He just had to be. She knew he was still alive, because…because he _had _to be.

And maybe he was out there. Maybe he was coming this way. He could…he could help her. He could do _something_.

"Logan," she said, the name bubbling in her throat and dying as a whisper. She frowned.

Steve looked up at her, and the look on his face told her that he'd misunderstood. "It's okay," he said softly. "He's not here. You're safe." He seemed emboldened by the fact that she could hardly manage a whisper now, and he gently pressed through her feeble attempts to fight him off, this time not looking for a knife but for her arrows. She couldn't stop him from taking the last three in her quiver, and he weighed them out in his hands, not looking at her.

"Please," she whispered, the tears springing back to her eyes. She didn't…she didn't want to die.

She wanted to go _home_.

Steve seemed to make a decision, and she _knew _what it was, because she'd been saying she would have done the same thing for Peter Parker only last night. Hadn't she just said that she would have given him a quick and easy death instead of whatever the Games had done to the last of her lost boys?

But she didn't _want _to die. Didn't that count for anything?

"Kate," he said quietly, his voice shaking a bit. He had forced himself to meet her eyes, and she recognized that soft look from the first time he saw her. "I'm sorry. I didn't want... I'm so sorry."

Kate could feel the panic settling around her as she fought for her every second. The taste was familiar, more intense than what she had felt in the bloodbath, an iron hand clamped over her heart and her throat, a feeling like a Sentinel's hold on her arm at just thirteen years old.

She was _scared. _She wanted _out_. She wanted to go _home_.

Steve had her arrows held tightly in his hand — and she took a deep breath, or at least, she tried. She forced as much air into her lungs as she could.

"LO-GAN!"

The first part of her scream was a punch, a rush of air and energy as she just struggled to get it _out_, to be loud enough to be heard, but the second part — it was brassy, a shriek like a tea kettle singing and like the hiss of a cornered wildcat and like the whine of a S.W.O.R.D. hovercraft streaking over her hiding place in the woods all at once.

The sound echoed back to her in streets that were deathly quiet, and it sounded like desperation, like terror. It echoed in her ears even as Steve brought his hand swinging down, and her arrows felt like a punch to her chest and then heat and then cold.

She didn't die immediately. He hadn't pulled the arrows out of her chest — he must not have known he needed to if he wanted to make sure there was nothing to stop the bleeding. And why would he know? He wasn't an archer or a hunter.

"_Please_," she whispered, trembling, but that was all she could manage.

It took her still a few more minutes to die as she slowly slipped out of her senses. She could feel Steve beside her, could hear his quietly whispered apologies, and she was surprised to find that he had hold of her hand. He whispered to her, promising not to leave her alone, and for just a moment, she forgot he was there, because the voice was Kurt's, promising she wasn't alone, and when the last of her breath left her, she had stopped trembling and crying. It would be alright — he'd take her home.

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**

**5: Tony Stark, District Three Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**4: Bruce Banner, District Six Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**3: Kate Bishop, District Twelve Female – Killed by Steve Rogers.**

* * *

**(A/N) And we have our finalists - CC's James "Logan" Howlett and Lili's Steve Rogers. Who are you rooting for? How do you think this will go down? Would you have chosen different finalists? Let us know, and find out how this all ends...soon!**


	106. Chapter 105: Howling Commandos

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're back and you know what time it is! It's time to find out who'll emerge victorious from the Avenger Games. It's a day that's been over a year and three-quarters in the making, and I'm so proud to be delivering this chapter to you now. A little while back I went to both Lili and CC and asked them to write up their version of the finale, gave them some guidelines, and left them to it. Both were fantastic, and it was all-but-impossible to decide which one to go with, but I had to make a call. And while this chapter will be the one we're going with, we'll be posting the other writer's version on our companion fic – Before You Kneel – in two day's time, so you can see what might have happened.**

**And, given the amazing feedback we've had over the course of the fic, and the fantastic team of writers involved – many of whom have stayed on – we **_**will **_**be following up with a sequel, as long as the demand is there and we can get the writers. Details on that – and where to apply – will come in the epilogue, which will be our final update for the fic.**

**The biggest of thanks to PotterAvenge-X Kane, Eryniel Alasse, TheTzip, actresspdx, griezz, cheshirecat9116, Idalove2read, KJAX89, GeekyComicBookGuy and Bookcrazysongbird for their reviews. **

**Now, it's time to see who'll be left standing. Who'll rise as the twenty-fourth Victor of the Avenger Games? Read on, and enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred and Five – Howling Commandos**

**Night, Day Fourteen**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

_"Even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this. A real man does not think of victory or defeat. He plunges recklessly towards an irrational death." _

– Tsunetomo Yamamoto, _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_

_"Victory is reserved for those who are willing to pay its price." _– Sun Tzu

* * *

Logan slid wearily to the ground after the cannon for Bruce echoed the arena. The fight had taken a lot out of him, and he was in rough shape, panting heavily, though he winced with every breath. Bruce had done more harm than everything else that had happened so far – or at least he was smart enough to know what to do to make everything that had happened worse.

He glanced down at himself and had to keep from laughing. Shirtless, and covered in blood and dirt – or bruises wherever he wasn't bloodied. His whole side was already turning a magnificent purple black, and when he looked to his arm, bruising was evident that matched up with where the hulking young man had grabbed a hold of his wrist – purple finger marks already blooming on the underside.

"Son of a bitch, you had one hell of a grip, Banner," Logan muttered to the now still form of the young man nearby.

He grimaced as he stretched out a bit, wincing as he found new and sharper pains. The scratch down his back from the monkeys seemed like a paper cut compared to what Stark and Banner had done. He made his way over to the nearest sturdy-looking tree and leaned against it, not even caring at this point if the freshly cracked open scratch got dirty. At this point, it was pretty well the end of the line anyhow. From how quickly the last two or three fights had gone down, he doubted he'd make it to dawn without another scrap.

As Logan finally caught his breath, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a few moments before a cannon echoed out in a deafening _boom_ that startled him. His eyes opened at the sound, and he looked down to Bruce, his brow furrowing as he realized it was down to two.

When the realization hit him – that it was only him and one other, a bright blue light shot up from a point in the arena until it hit the upper boundary of the force field, crackling and illuminating everything with an electric blue wash. The world was suddenly in a high contrast of black and bright blue. He stared up at it for a moment and slowly stood. "Looks like this is it."

He rolled his shoulder and winced at the fresh, sharp pain where it had been dislocated before he shook his arms out and once again checked the straps holding the claws in place. The ones on his left arm were showing a lot of wear – particularly after Bruce had managed to slip that damn sword in there. He realized that he might just lose them before this last battle was over. He took a few deep breaths and tried to take better stock of himself before heading out.

Amazingly, even after going toe to toe with Tony and Bruce, he was still moving pretty well under his own steam.

Before he left Bruce's still form, he stood silently, his head bowed. Words that Kurt taught him came unbidden to his mind, and he whispered them softly into the dimming light, feeling guilty for how Bruce had met his end – battling some madness that Logan did not know the source of. After a long pause, he sighed quietly.

It had been a long day, and now – as he slowly started toward the final battle, he had to wonder who it was he was going to face.

He dreaded seeing Kate there – and he knew she was clever enough to have evaded the others, or set traps for them – maybe even fashioned herself a bow if she hadn't caught up with Barton.

It would be just his luck to come up against another member of his alliance – but he had to prepare himself. Kate had good reason to call them 'awesome'. He allowed himself to focus instead on the threat that Creed posed to her should she be the one he saw once he returned to the Tesseract.

He had himself primed – prepared to make it quick as he slipped between a few buildings on his way toward the source of the blue light. He paused before prowling into the boundaries of the open space, waiting first to see where his final opponent would be hiding.

He was careful to stick to the shadows, his eyes searching for the tiniest of movements; his ears straining to hear anything beyond the crackle of electricity as the Tesseract continued to act as a beacon, drawing the two tributes like moths to a flame.

It was the uneven sound of gravel crunching underfoot from the far side of the Tesseract that had him frowning. It couldn't be Kate. She was smarter than that, and more sure-footed. He'd taught her better – she was more cautious. She knew how to walk. He whipped his head toward the noise, and when he saw the tall, broad, blonde figure there – favouring one leg – he was sure his heart stopped in his chest.

He drew up out of his crouch, numb – as he realized that Kate was already dead, and judging by the injuries on the boy in front of him, he was staring at her murderer. He straightened up to his full height and slowly crept closer to the edge of darkness and light, keeping in the deepest shadows as he made his way nearer – watching as the final combatant approached the glowing Tesseract.

Logan himself hadn't gone right to it. He'd seen no reason to – but now he realized he should have at least taken a peek, because Steve had stopped and tipped his head at the charred pile where someone had torched the career's supplies. From the wet, blackened mess, he plucked up a sword – though it was a different style than the one that Kurt had wielded. This one held a soft curve to its edge and looked like the ones that the lunatic from One had twirled so long ago in the training room – two at a time. But it was pretty clear that Steve simply hadn't spent much time or effort in learning how to use it.

Logan hadn't realized that he'd unconsciously stepped out of the shadows until Steve looked up at him.

The blonde said something, but Logan didn't hear it. His gaze had shifted from the charred blade to the delicate, feminine hand prints in blood that marked Steve's' shirt and shield – still wet and shining. Still blazing red in spite of the blue wash of light.

"You killed her," Logan breathed out before he allowed his eyes to flick up to Steve's. "What … how did it happen?"

"You don't have much room to judge after what you've done. I know you've got blood on your hands too," Steve said. "I had no choice." His voice broke the slightest, and his eyes betrayed his guilt. "I just want to get out of this place."

Logan frowned as he started to do the math in his head, thinking of the order – when they seemed to have gone down. "But – Kate? Who else did you take out to get here? Parker?" Logan barked as the two of them started to come toward each other slowly, though when they reached a point that made Steve uncomfortable, he stepped back to maintain what little distance he could. The tall, battered blonde shook his head but couldn't speak for a moment.

"Are we going by body count, _Wolverine_? Who did _you_ kill? How many – all that blood," he gestured to Logan's tattered, bloodied clothes and the splatters across his face and chest. "I know it's not all from one person. And it can't all be yours, or you wouldn't be standing. At least I only killed one."

"You're kidding me," Logan growled out, his anger clear and his voice rising. "I've been bustin' my ass – takin' hit after hit, tearing myself apart – and you think you can just walk outta here after I did all the heavy lifting? Just because you have this … this naive sense of right and wrong? You think you deserve to walk just because you think you're more _honourable_?" He spat on the ground. "More like you just didn't want to get your hands dirty." Logan was shouting by the time he finished.

"At least I have a sense of right and wrong," Steve countered as he raised his chin defiantly.

"You're awfully self-righteous for a coward. What kinda _man_ thinks he _deserves_ to live after what you did to a _fifteen year old girl_?"

"And what have you been doing this whole time? Judging by the look of you, I can only guess it hasn't been hanging around a campfire." Steve spat. The words he'd chosen simply struck the wrong chord as images of Kate laughing at the fire were replaced by what his imagination deemed to be a bloody and painful end.

"I've been doing what you should have been this whole time to _earn_ your way out," Logan countered as the two boys began to circle each other in a wide, open path. "Yeah, I killed people. All of 'em that crossed my path after the damn tracker jackers. And I stood over 'em and watched 'em die so I knew they didn't suffer and they couldn't get back up to bite me. But you – you left Kurt to die alone. You're so afraid of death you couldn't even stand to watch it."

"It's not that simple, Logan. I'm not afraid of death. I just don't think that I should be the one to act as executioner. You're eager to be the one to do it, though. _I _think the person who wins shouldn't be enjoying it," Steve countered. "You say I'm not acting like a man – but at least I don't enjoy killing."

The look on his face was a combination of fear, loathing, and disgust. Logan narrowed his eyes and glared as he sized him up, taking in all of his assorted injuries. He smirked a bit when he saw how fresh some of them were. Looks like his little Trickshot did a damn good job on him.

"I see how you're lookin' at me, Steve. Like I'm nothin' better than an animal. But I know how to _hunt._ And I know how to kill _clean._ All I did was the things you didn't want to do. So look at me any way you want, but judging by the way _you _look – what you did to Kate wasn't merciful or quick by any stretch."

"She was gunning for you," Steve said flatly as Logan shook his head at Steve's words. "Your _friend_ was gunning for you. She wanted to kill you herself – until … until she needed you. But I doubt you'd let that happen, would you? I can't see you getting this far just to lay down and die for a helpless girl. You're not the one to make the sacrifice play." The two young men were circling each other slower and slower, and Logan was cataloguing every injury on him. They both needed this to end quickly, though neither of them was in prime form any more. Both of them were breathing heavily, and neither was as fast as they'd been just hours before.

"You got a lotta nerve. Either you murdered a helpless tribute or you got all them arrows and cuts from someone that was more brave than you," Logan countered. "But it looks to me like you nearly got your ass handed to you by a _Hawkeye_. But you can't have it both ways. So which was it? Did you have no choice and were defending yourself from a stronger force or was it that you murdered a fifteen-year-old in cold blood?"

"I'm not trying to have it both ways," Steve replied between clenched teeth, crouching the slightest, his shield held up in front of himself protectively. They were just a few yards apart. "Damn it, I didn't want it to come to this."

"But you got no choice, right? If you did, you'd be facin' off against another injured girl. You're a coward," Logan growled out. Steve swung at him, unexpectedly, and landed a solid one to Logan's jaw that sent him reeling backward.

"I'm not that guy, Logan. I didn't_ want_ to kill her, just like I know you didn't want to kill Kurt. And I don't want to kill you either." Steve waited as Logan got to his feet – apparently trying to fight nobly – or at least get the chance to redeem himself for how he'd killed Kate. "That's all that was left. It was just us – our alliance. We took care of each other. We looked out for each other – but that cannon that went off a little while ago? That was on _you_ –and you can't tell me Bruce or Tony put up that much of a fight."

"You'd be surprised, you sanctimonious piece of crap," Logan replied as he rushed him. Steve barely got his shield up in time, and Logan's claws drew across it with a screech. Before the screech ended, Steve brought the sword down – and Logan rushed to catch it in his claws – hardly angling it away as the long sharp metal clashed. Just as Logan twisted his arm to lever the sword from Steve's hand – Steve bashed him with the shield, hitting the side of his head and shoulder before the two of them retreated to their corners, Steve standing a bit more upright than moments before as he gathered himself up and glanced toward the dropped sword. There was no way he could get there and not get a set of claws in him, and Logan was daring him to try.

"Don't try to tell me you're not a cold-blooded murderer," Steve said shakily as he started to circle Logan. "I know better. You're a killer. Anyone can see that."

"Yeah. But between the two of us, at least I can admit it," Logan said as he rubbed his jaw – his whole head hurt like hell. Still, he couldn't hide the flash of sadness in his eyes as he tried to think of a time when he wasn't just a killer. When he was something more. Something… redeemable. He bit the inside of his cheek when he realized that he simply couldn't.

Then – a flash of grey in the bushes past Steve caught his eye. A fox. Unafraid, it had appeared there, nestled into the bush, its head tipped sideways as it sat down to watch the two young men as they struggled to finish the fight. Logan nearly did a double take on seeing it and making the connection.

_Fox._ He was more than a killer when she was alive. Her smile filled his mind's eye, and he could almost see her long black hair flying behind her in the wind. The sudden mental image sat on his chest like a weight, but it gave him something to anchor to.

He took a slow, deep breath to centre himself as Steve came to a stop, blocking Logan's view of the little creature, and for a moment, he thought he could smell the scent of pine trees and alpine wildflowers that lived on the mountainsides of Seven in the light summer breeze.

He blinked hard and shook his head. He was starting to see double again, and that couldn't be good – not right now. "I know I'm a killer, Cap, but that's not all I am," Logan said with a rising fire.

He turned his sights on how to win. If he'd learned anything from fighting alongside the boy, it was that Steve had tremendous focus – until you pushed him too far. He needed Steve to get angry – lose that focus and get sloppy. His reaction was almost the polar opposite of Logan, who found himself more focused the angrier he got. Logan's smart mouth and growing defiance could still do exactly that as Steve tried to regain some of his bravado.

"I had to kill men, _good men_ to get here while you just took out the tiny, happy, girl that was friends with everyone she met. You seriously think you can take _me_?" Logan growled out as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the side of his thumb as they jockeyed positions for the next attack.

The blonde clenched his teeth. "I have no doubt." He was drawing his shield arm back, and Logan could see the strike coming. It was like the fight with Ultron. Like the fight with Cletus. Which meant he knew exactly what his next moves were.

Steve rushed forward, driving the shield ahead of his punch – clearly intending to take Logan's head off, but Logan knew what he was planning.

"No—" Logan said as he ducked the blow. One hand sliced at Steve's middle while the other cut the straps that held the shield onto his arm, sending it clattering to the ground and leaving Steve bleeding.

"You have no clue," Logan growled out as he kicked out, landing a solid hit to Steve's stomach that nearly knocked him off his feet with a pained rush of breath.

Rogers staggered backward into an old light pole and barely caught himself, bracing for a moment before making a dive for the fallen sword – his shield too far away to help him. He lifted it with a slash that cut across Logan's bare chest and went deep enough to do more than simply break the skin – the cut was deep and it took the smaller tribute off guard.

Steve looked almost apologetic before Logan advanced again with a snarl. Steve rushed for the shield this time – dropping the sword as he made another dive.

Steve ducked the claw-laden punch that would have ended him and grabbed the shield as he nearly lost his footing. Logan spun as Steve threw his shield toward him as hard as he could, and Logan skidded to a stop in the gravel and rushed to hold his claws up in front of himself just in time to deflect the flying disc.

The sound of metal on metal rang out, and Logan's arms went numb from the impact of the shield as it deflected off the claws. "Nice try, goldenrod," Logan muttered as he made to lower his arms, but before he could – he realized a bit too late that Steve had used the distraction to his advantage as he positively dove at Logan.

Steve grabbed him by the wrists, and the two of them fell to the ground. Logan was on his back, the wind knocked out of him, while Steve was nearly on top of him as he overpowered the smaller tribute. Logan sucked in a breath as Steve angled his own claws to his face.

"You ever wonder what those things feel like to the people you've been killing, Logan?" Steve said through gritted teeth. "Because I have, and it sure doesn't _sound_ like it's a great way to die." Steve's jaw tightened as he pressed forward.

Logan stretched his neck out to avoid the claws and his arms shook trying to push Steve away. He felt the sickening realization that there was no chance that he'd be able to get away. He was too tired, and the kid was just too strong.

The razor sharp edges inched closer and closer to his neck as Logan struggled simply to stop him. Steve was on his knees next to him and finally started to lean in – using both his weight and strength now. "Hurts doesn't it?" Cap said with a shaky, angry voice as one of the claws broke the skin at Logan's neck.

Logan felt a trickle of blood and made a desperate move that he knew might literally cut his own throat. With a pained cry, Logan shifted his body and kicked out hard at Steve – hitting him in the chest and launching him away. Steve hit the ground hard, and Logan realized that it had worked perfectly. He'd freed up his arms – though he couldn't feel his hands very well at the moment, and blood was flowing freely from the jagged new wound at his neck and the slash across his chest.

He knew he couldn't let Steve get him on the ground like that again. The next time would be the last. "Smart, Steve. Looks like you_ have_ learned some tricks since the fight with Cletus – but I'm smart too. At least when it comes to hurting people."

Steve had managed to get to his feet again, though he winced as he straightened his knees. He staggered in an ungainly rush to pick up his shield. The straps were ruined, but he could still use it. He grabbed the broken straps with both hands as he tried to rush Logan right up the middle and bash him. The claws sparked against the shield – a bright flash of white in the wash of blue light that illuminated the arena.

He followed up his bash with another right hook that knocked Logan to the ground with an echoing crack. Logan was blinking hard, trying to force his eyes to focus right, but it just didn't want to work for him.

"I hate to do this, Logan," Steve said as he stood over him. "But I really don't have a choice." He raised the shield high over his head and started to bring it down when Logan rolled out of the way. With a heavy-sounding clang, the shield stuck into the broken concrete.

Steve tried to pull it free, but between his injuries and how much force he'd used to bring it down, he couldn't budge it. Logan had rushed to his feet and took the chance to dive at him, leading with his claws.

Steve threw himself backward and the claws caught his chest, leaving him with another set of slash marks across his torso – deeper than the ones Logan'd put across his stomach. They caught the wound at his shoulder, tearing it wide open.

Steve let out a cry of pain as Logan got to his feet again, staggering. The blows Logan'd taken from Tony and Bruce were longer-lasting than just a simple slap. His vision was blurring, and he knew if Steve got another solid hit on him, he just wouldn't wake up from it.

He approached Steve cautiously, out of breath – the side of his chest that Bruce had all but crushed felt like lead and burned terribly.

The blonde boy rolled onto his stomach as he tried to get to his hands and knees. He was pushing himself up when Logan half threw himself over him and pushed him face down into the concrete. Both of them were dazed and moving a lot slower than they'd been at the beginning of the fight.

Steve tried to rise up again, still with more strength than Logan had given him credit for but Logan knocked one of his arms loose, and they both crashed to the ground – Logan's weight crushed the breath from Steve's lungs with a grunt, and Logan could hear an odd crackling wheeze as his opponent too gasped for breath.

When Steve tried to reach the sword – so close to his outstretched fingers – Logan didn't even bother trying to push him away from it. He just had to end it.

Logan jammed his knee on the wound at the back of Steve's leg and leaned into it as Steve screamed out in agony, the weapon at his fingertips temporarily forgotten. As he was trembling, reeling from the pain, Logan pushed up from him and drew his arm back to jam his claws into Steve's back with a ringing _snikt!_

Breathing raggedly, he withdrew the claws as Steve reached again for the sword, unseen by the other tribute. Logan blinked hard, his vision going black around the edges as he felt ready to pass out before he jammed his claws into the tall blonde one more time with all the strength he had left – right in the dead centre between his shoulders. Steve let out a gurgled cry as the claws crunched into the crumbling concrete beneath them.

Logan yanked his hand free from his one-time ally, letting the razor-sharp claws open the wounds fully.

He let out a sigh and dropped down next to Steve, his eyes closing as the blonde gurgled and gasped for breath. "I did you a favour, Rogers," Logan said, rolling onto his back before he stared up at the sky, panting with one hand pressed against the side of his chest. The ribs that Banner had broken must have damaged his lung, because now, his entire left side felt as if he was being stabbed with every tortured breath.

"Keep…telling yourself that...Logan," Steve sputtered, the sword forgotten, and the words barely making it out. "Maybe you'll...make it...true."

The blonde took a few final quick, shallow breaths and stilled. Immediately, the final cannon went off, echoing in Logan's ears as he felt the darkness begin to close in on him.

* * *

The immediate aftermath of the Games was a series of seemingly unrelated moments from Logan's perspective. He could remember flashes of medics rushing in and jostling him. And there was a lot of noise. So much noise. He opened his eyes to find himself in a transport plane, and then again to see the inside of a white, sterile room before his eyes drifted shut once more.

It felt as though no time had passed when he woke up in a dimly lit white room, restrained to a hospital bed and attached to all kinds of machinery. He felt high, and frankly, he didn't care one damn bit about what they were doing with him – _to_ him.

He floated in and out like that for God only knows how long – though after the first time waking up in the white room, the view hadn't changed one damn bit until the fog cleared entirely from his head. He slowly woke up to realize that his injuries were all healed and he was no longer restrained.

When he looked down at himself, he saw that he'd been cleaned up and re-dressed in a new arena uniform. He sat up and glanced around the room then swung his legs off the bed. As soon as his feet touched the ground, a hidden door opened across the room, and he silently padded across the expanse.

When he stuck his head outside the door, he was a bit surprised to find Moira waiting for him with a look of relief on her face alongside Jubilee, her assistants – and a very smug-looking Victor Creed.

He couldn't help but lock eyes with the monster as he walked toward the group of them. He ignored the cheerful welcomes and congratulations around him from the girls – all of it just white noise as Creed smirked down at him. He was about to make a move when Moira took him by the arm and yanked him away.

"Go with Jubilation, lad," she told him. "Ye haven'ae got time tae muss about with his nonsense right now." Logan glanced over his shoulder as Moira handed him off to Jubilee, who cheerfully dragged him to the elevator, where she dropped the professionalism entirely and nearly bowled him over with a tight hug around the neck as soon as the doors were closed.

"Jubes, come on," Logan grumbled as he half-heartedly tried to get her to release him. When it was apparent that wasn't going to happen, he let out a sigh and simply returned the hug until she let up a bit.

"Just shut up alright? I'm just like, really, really happy you're not dead. You have no idea how close you came!" she argued before she squeezed him again, only relenting when they reached the right floor and the elevator chimed out their arrival.

She pulled him by the arm toward the suite where she had laid out for him the clothes he was to wear for the mandatory three-hour recap of the Games. A frown settled on his features when he saw the suit.

"I tried for something more… you, but they just won't let you get around it this time," Jubes said apologetically. "I tried, really I did." Logan just swallowed and nodded to himself.

"Don't worry about it," Logan replied with a sigh as he pulled his shirt off, ready to just get it over with. "I can handle it." She gave him a final glance before she left the room to give him a moment to change, and when she came back, she was pleasantly surprised to find him standing at the window, overlooking the city as he gave her a little look and gestured to the tie.

"I can try," he said, "but I doubt it'll be any good." She shook her head and came over to him to settle it out for him, though he had to close his eyes and concentrate hard to try to ignore the anxiety that began to rise up as she pulled on the thin piece of blue silk around his neck.

"You don't have to try," Jubilee said quietly. "This is my job, remember?" He grunted out his agreement as she took an extra second to make sure it was perfectly straight. "You look nice."

When he didn't respond, she made a little face, clearly a bit confused on what to do with her obviously traumatized new victor. She quit trying to cheer him up and instead, she made a show out of fussing over him and making a few last-minute adjustments as they prepared to leave for the show.

"So you know how this works, right?" she asked as she smoothed out the fabric over his shoulders and moved to style his hair just so. He nodded, and she perched herself on the back of the couch nearby. "I'm supposed to tell you – you can't blow him off this time, Logan."

He let out a long breath and nodded his head. He was probably lucky that he'd gotten away with as much as he had the first time. "I know," he said at last.

"I mean it. You have to at least _fake_ it," Jubes told him. He nodded and stood there for a moment with his hands in his pockets and his gaze downcast. She watched him for a little bit and then sighed. "There's more you need to know." He looked up at her, his face still pointed toward the ground as he waited to hear what she had to say.

"No one saw everything that was on your video. Not the way you did. Not really," she told him. He let out a huff of total disbelief. "So… they don't know how he threatened Kate. There have been rumours that...because you killed the tributes after Kurt so…viciously…that you really _are_ Creed's protégé."

He looked up at her in a bit of alarm as the shock washed over him again, followed quickly by outrage – nearly as harsh and fresh as it was when he first got the recorded threats from Creed. And people thought they were the same? "Jubes, that's not—" She shook her head with her eyes closed and raised a hand to silence him – and looked a bit surprised when he actually listened.

"I only know the truth because I was outside of the room when they recorded it. I had to prep him for the camera." She had crossed her arms over her chest and was glaring at the floor before she let out a deep breath. "Nobody knows _all_ of what he said. The Capitol would never allow that to air as it was. They wouldn't let him _and them_ look that bad in front of that many people. As far as most of the country knows, one minute you were upset about Kurt, praying at his side – and the next – you were tearing the world apart to the message of him saying he wanted to get to know _Kate._ Some insinuations were made by the announcers..."

She was about to say something further to him when Moira made her appearance, looking the part of a vision as she began to give him the full rundown of what was expected of him, but he could hardly take his gaze from Jubilee. _No one knew_. They'd managed to paint him out as a monster after all. He hadn't even considered how it would have been twisted for the public.

"Are ye listenin' tae me, lad?" Moira asked as she snapped her fingers his direction. "Did ye catch 'at?" Neither she or Jubes looked convinced when he simply nodded and let them direct him.

They were gathered on the side of the stage, ready to go out when Jubes couldn't stop herself. "Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, using a moment to smooth the fabric over his shoulders as cover as she fretted.

"He's fine," Creed cut in as he dropped his heavy hand on Logan's shoulder. At the contact, Logan gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, trying hard not to just sucker punch the guy on the spot.

Logan shrugged him off violently but didn't bother to turn and look at him. "Keep your hands to yourself unless you wanna lose 'em," Logan growled out, his hands balled into fists. The stylists and escort looked as if someone had thrown cold water in their faces.

"Och, we were doin' sae well," Moira muttered before she stepped directly between them and poked Creed in the chest. "Ye willnae try tae start anything. _Ye were warned, Creed_." She glared at him, her hands on her hips until he grudgingly took a step back. She then turned to Logan.

"Don't think ye can get away wi' it either, lad. Nae threats. Nae fights. Nane ay thes pish. Ye both hae people back home tae worry about - there's no room for this lil' feud here."

Logan frowned and looked at the angry little redhead. Who could possibly be left for him to worry about? He turned to her to ask her who she meant when the lights went up and the crowd went wild over the deafening rendition of the Marvel anthem, and Tivan's voice cut in over the noise.

The crowd was roaring as the announcer called for the support team to come out and make their victory lap. The prep team was first, followed by Moira, then Jubes – who got a wild reaction.

The roar of the crowd barely dipped when Creed made his pass, and Logan tried not to glare quite so hard. If he got too angry now, he'd never make it through this fiasco. The rumble of the crowd went to ridiculous levels when the gruff, newest Victor stepped into the light.

It felt wrong. The cheers. The deafening cheers. Tivan turned his attention to him as he approached with his grin so broad, Logan was sure the man's head was ninety percent teeth. The overall feel of it left him not wanting to play any games, though he knew he had to at least try and fake it.

"Congratulations, young man! The first District Seven Victor since the infamous Sabretooth took the prize as bloodiest victor. Now, you didn't come close to his record, but you've avenged your beloved's death by winning the Avenger games in her honour and in the process gave us such an amazing story of ups and downs!" Tivan sounded tickled, but Logan shook his head even as the crowd roared. Only Tivan heard him as he tried to clear the air.

"I didn't kill anyone in her honour yet," Logan said, but Tivan just smiled wider at him and continued to play to the crowd as the screens switched over to start up the recap.

At first, Logan ignored as much of the recap as was humanly possible. But, when they got past the Reaping and moved on to their time in the Capitol, Logan couldn't help but glance up when Kurt's pictures came on screen during the chariot section, and for an instant, all his anger slipped as he did a double take.

The hallucinations from the tracker jackers. It… _they were Kurt_. All of them were.

He'd forgotten what that stupid parade outfit had looked like. Suddenly, he felt ill. He'd thought he'd dreamed up those blue demons. The satanic blue cherubs that had hurt him – but it was Kurt all along. From the pointed ears and sharp teeth down to the long, swaying tail. It hit him hard and out of nowhere.

Had he known all along what he was doing? Did he subconsciously know it was Kurt and kill him _purposely_?

His hearing fuzzed out, and he closed his eyes – simply to find a bit of privacy in his thoughts, since nowhere else was safe. His mouth was suddenly very dry, and his skin felt as if it was buzzing.

His eyes popped open, and he flinched, his fist drawn back when Tivan's hand rested on his forearm. He'd missed the odd little man's question entirely, and he was ready to fight again.

"A little jumpy, aren't we?" The rumble from the crowd had him searching out for a friendly face in the audience. He ignored Tivan until his gaze landed on bright pink and yellow.

_Jubilee._ She was a safe face. A lifeline.

Jubes looked concerned, but she gave him an encouraging look and nodded. He took in a deep breath and quickly tried to centre himself. He could hear someone feeding Tivan his lines through the earwig.

"What?" Logan finally asked in a daze with a frown firmly in place after he cleared his throat and looked up at the host, who smiled cruelly.

"I was asking about the first kill. Raven," Tivan said with an amused look. "It didn't seem that it was too hard for you to kill her, but from your reaction here—" Logan frowned and he glanced up at the picture of Raven.

"No, she had it comin'," Logan said with a dismissive shake of his head before he drew in another deep breath. "Tried to make me think she was someone worth trusting." Tivan's eyebrows raised, and his grin faltered a bit. Wrong button, apparently.

"Yes, she did an uncanny impression of your friend." He paused to turn to the audience. "The Elf." Murmurs went through the crowd as Logan tried not to squirm. Tivan's tone softened, but his eyes glinted with the same cruel sparkle Creed had when he proudly boasted of his … achievements.

"He was the heart and soul of your little alliance. He was a friend. We all saw it. That had to be hard." Logan's eyes narrowed to near slits as he just waited for the other shoe to drop. "But even after you used those ingenious claws on him…" He paused for dramatic effect. "He still forgave you before he died. That truly was a touching moment. Unlike anything that we have ever seen before in the Games."

Still, Logan was silent.

"Tell me James—"

"_Logan_." There was an edge to Logan's voice as he corrected him. Tivan chuckled, showing a gold tooth that glinted in the corner of his smile.

"Of course, _Logan._ Tell me…" He angled himself as he leaned closer – as if the young man was delusional enough to be friendly with the freak. "When you were attacked by those vicious insects, the tracker jackers – you were stung repeatedly. There were a few here that thought you might have gotten too many stings. We all know you _must_ have hallucinated, and it's always an intriguing question – one we're all dying to know the answer to …. what exactly was it you saw when you stabbed your friend in the heart?"

Logan simply didn't answer as he worked his jaw and gave Tivan a cold glare.

"Come now, Logan," Tivan half laughed. "You're among friends. Was it a hallucination, or were you just tapping into some deep, well-hidden similarities with someone more vicious?" The look he gave the camera was manic, and Logan didn't like his insinuation at all. "Perhaps it was to keep your young lady friend to yourself?"

Logan looked out at the dark crowd and decided to give him the brush off.

"Don't matter does it? I think it's pretty well established now that I stab my friends. You still feelin' friendly?" Logan challenged with a growl. Tivan leaned back but tried to laugh it off as he moved on from Kurt to the last day.

"Yes. You established that well enough, it seems. We were particularly surprised to see you hunt down the boy you helped to patch up. Why did you help save Mr. Stark only to cut his heart out?" The friendly look on Tivan's face was gone, and it was clear he was trying now to rile him. "And did you know that Mr. Banner was doomed to die even had he won?"

Logan pulled a face and shook his head. He wanted to know more but didn't get the chance as Tivan continued, "Well I suppose that is what happens when such a lone wolf tries to join up with a pack. Natural animal tendencies come out, don't they? Culling the herd as it were – the injured and ill."

"We done here?" Logan cut across with a glare, ignoring the statement.

"No. Not quite yet," Tivan said shortly, his head turned from the crowd as he spoke quickly only for Logan to hear. "We still need to talk about your final kill." Logan had already started to shake his head as Tivan turned back to the lights and turned up the dramatics for the crowd.

"It was the talk of all of Marvel, you know," Tivan said "The most successful alliance of the Games this year – and all the members from outlier districts." Logan took a deep breath, wondering why he was dragging it out. He missed part of what the host said as he looked up at several screenshots from when the little alliance was together – looking more like moments of pure camaraderie rather than just a group of kids stumbling through a maze of death traps and murderers.

"We were all surprised when the three of you met up," Tivan said. "Though it truly seemed as if you all had an _instant_ rapport." There was no audio for the time being as they showed how Logan had met up with Kate and Kurt – and how the two of them had pushed to help him with his injury that Natasha had handed him. But as Tivan droned on, Logan noticed that they were using angles of Kate that he hadn't seen before. Out of context moments. The teasing she gave him as they patched him up – shirtless. A little bump of the shoulder as they went looking for her nest. A friendly touch on his shoulder here or there, or a moment where she held onto his arm with a laugh. Little smiles that he knew were aimed at Kurt.

Logan frowned a bit deeper at the screen. He and Kate with very subdued little smirks as they bumped shoulders side by side at the campfire. He didn't like the angle they were pushing as he started to actually_ listen_ to what Tivan was saying – right about the time that they were showing Kate celebrating with him over her new staves before they went on the hunt for spiders. "...the two of you seemed to warm right up to each other. How many other tributes do you suppose have offered their fellow competitors weapons to use?"

"Just the decent ones, I'd suppose," Logan countered quickly, wondering how much traction Tivan had made with his insinuated _relationship._

The colours backlighting the stage changed slowly from blues and purples over to reds as they brought Peter into the picture and tried to use his arrival as the beginning of the trouble between the two of them. How her attention had been split between 'her boys'.

"That's not right," Logan said with a deep frown, interrupting Tivan's monologue.

"Which part?" he asked, eyes glittering with malice as he leaned toward him again, delighted that he was halfway engaging in the conversation.

"_All of it,"_ Logan countered. "It wasn't like that."

"Of course – you were just repaying a debt when you took him in though, isn't that right?" Tivan asked as they played a snippet from the bet they'd made at the pool table before the launch.

"We would have pulled him outta there anyhow," he argued.

"But it helped his case that you owed him one, didn't it?" Logan just looked to his hands. There was no way to answer that. They'd already set it up to look the way Tivan had outlined, but he couldn't help but shake his head to himself.

The screen shifted to a few moments in the tracking – and then many moments from the little deer hunt with Kate that he'd missed entirely – too focused on the hunt to care much what she was up to as long as she crept along behind him. They showed the two of them as he taught her how to stay quiet when she walked. The barely controlled smile when they finally got to really tracking the deer in the final push. All the happy, cheerful moments the two of them had before the storm and Cletus wrecked it.

"You spent the better part of the rest of the Games trying to find her again, didn't you?" Tivan asked – the question crafted to imply something entirely different than the picture of Logan, Kurt and Peter on the screen. Logan let out a sigh.

"We all did." Logan looked a bit weary as he could see what Jubes was trying to warn him about now.

"But it was just you at the end," Tivan said. "Even if you missed finding her by such a fine margin." Logan did a double take as they showed time-stamped footage of exactly how many times between the storm and Kate's death that he had crossed her path and not caught it – tread the same streets – seen the same sights – with one or the other sometimes less than an hour between them. The Williamsburg bridge when he was tracking Cletus with Steve was the most easily recognizable. And it served as a nice little segue for Tivan to shift the focus with no warning to Steve and Kate's final fight.

Tivan let it play uninterrupted as Logan tried to keep from watching as Kate tore Steve down one chunk at a time – fiercely trying to make it further and ending with that heart-wrenching scream as she called for his help.

It didn't help his case when he just flat didn't answer anything else that Tivan tried to ask after that with anything more than to just shake his head.

"Steve Rogers was quite the popular tribute," Tivan said, knowing that Logan was just… checked out at that point. "You were an ally of his for a while. You worked well together. Hunting Carnage, saving Stark; you even followed his leadership when you helped them to defeat Ultron. But all that just… evaporated when you saw that fine, delicate, bloodied handprint on his shield. Do you_ regret_ – even a little bit – stabbing Mr. Rogers in the back like that now?" There was a long moment of silence as Logan tried to find a way around his answer, finally just giving up any attempt at trying to clear the air. It just wasn't going to happen.

"No." Logan finally looked up to meet Tivan's gaze with a fearsome scowl just moments before the anthem started to play again, and the show was wrapped up.

* * *

In spite of leaving ahead of the crowd at the interview, Logan found himself having to deal with the rest of the victors before he could get away from the public eye. A few of the younger ones approached him and gave their version of congratulations balanced carefully with sympathy before they were ushered into a group again for photos. He found himself in the most uncomfortable placement, near the centre, front row, next to a very sympathetic looking Charles Xavier. It was then that he noticed that all of the older victors were simply going through the motions, keeping their distance.

Camera bulbs flashed wildly as most of them smiled mechanically, though Logan just simply couldn't even force it or fake it at that point.

It was in that moment, just when they'd all been told they could go – and when he'd least expected it – that Ophelia Sarkissian, the Viper of Two, slid up to him. She ran her hand across his shoulders as she leaned in close and congratulated him with a broad smile before she outright kissed him.

It was such a bold move it took him a moment before he had the sense to stop her and push her away. He frowned at her and she simply beamed at him and promised to catch up to him when he had a free minute. Before he could react to anything though, Moira managed to slip in and somehow gently direct him away from her and the other victors, back toward his team, where Jubes in particular looked fit to be tied. It all just added to Logan's deteriorating mental state.

* * *

**District Seven -**** Six Months Later**

* * *

_"Don't open your eyes you won't like what you see – the blind have been blessed with security_

_Don't open your eyes take it from me I have found you can find happiness in slavery." _

_-_ Nine Inch Nails, "Happiness in Slavery"

* * *

After Logan had more or less just shut down at the interview, he simply didn't pick up again. It played well to the dramatic fictional story that the Capitol had manufactured between the members of Team Awesome – as they were now widely known. Kate would have been thrilled to hear that part. But the fact that Logan simply remained in a state of numbness after returning to Seven just added to the believability, seeing as that's more or less what he'd done after Fox had died too.

The district had welcomed him back warmly, and he'd spent all of ten minutes after the crowd cleared out in the big log cabin assigned to him in the Victors' Village before he flat out just headed back to the woods in search of his old tent home, where he spent the next few months just drinking and trying to forget.

Naturally, his solitude and relative peace was interrupted regularly once Creed figured out where he had gone, and the two of them fought – usually with Logan ending up with the short end of the stick, bloodied and bruised.

But as the time came around for Logan to have to prepare for the upcoming Victory Tour, it was no big surprise that the Capitol had sent someone out well ahead of schedule to pull him back in from the woods. It had taken some work, but they'd gotten him to take up residence in his victor's cabin, though being indoors did nothing to ease the same nightmares he'd been plagued with all that time.

Sleep, for one, had not come easy. But when it did finally come …

_"_It's alright, Logan_," _Kurt's voice echoed in Logan's head as the worst of his nightmares sparked up again. He winced in his sleep as he anticipated the last words that he'd been seeing every night for months. "It's not your fault, _mein Freund_." He shoved himself away from the rapidly bleeding boy in front of him, hoping that this time – _this time_ he wouldn't see Kurt in the parade outfit, minus the blue fuzz and tail, but no luck.

His eyes popped open as he sucked in a deep breath in a panic. Panic at the contents of the recurring nightmare. Panic at the fact that again his legs were tangled up in a blanket, and the unsettling confusion of waking up somewhere unfamiliar.

It took him a solid five minutes to realize where he was and then drop his head back heavily against the solid wood floor. How he'd ended up on the floor was anyone's guess. He scrubbed his hands on his face and tried to get his bearings about him before he let out a growl of displeasure.

A glance out the window from where he lay was a solid reminder that he had nothing to do and nowhere to go – and that the Victory Tour was looming overhead.

"Gonna go crazy being cooped up like this," he grumbled to himself as he stared at the ceiling. He pulled himself together and headed off to investigate his accommodations again, wondering to himself what the chances were that he could have slipped off into the woods and over the fence if he'd been smarter to start with and just stayed there for a month or two.

He stood at the window and shook his head as he spotted what he knew was Creed's place, not quite out of easy viewing distance.

_Nope,_ he thought to himself. _Only reason we're both still breathin' is because I was in the woods for this long. _

When he made to step outside, he realized why he hadn't been bothered yet by his neighbour. Just outside his door was a Sentinel, armed and guarding.

"The hell're you doin' here?" Logan grumbled out as he took in the guard.

"Keeping the peace in case you try to start something you can't finish," was the dry reply. Logan bristled at the insinuation and just turned toward the young man slowly, but before he could retort, the guard broke his composure. "For…for the record…I think you could win. My orders are to act as a deterrent."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"No," the young man agreed quickly. "But Creed does, and I don't want to get in trouble because he's too stupid to be a human being." Logan smirked and nodded his head.

"You gonna arrest me if I leave?"

"No," the young Sentinel replied. Logan let out a breath and took a step outside. "But … I do have to follow you." Logan turned and looked him in the eyes, causing him to take a step back. "I really don't want to. If that matters?" Logan grit his teeth and stomped off, shoulders bunched up and a scowl firmly in place.

He stole a glance at his keeper, and he very nearly smirked. The guy looked scared half to death that he'd have to try and stop him on his own should something come up.

Still. There wasn't much he could do around town until the tour was over – and there weren't many that would talk to him while he had the law followin' him around.

"Just gotta get through this stupid thing," he grumbled to himself.

* * *

By the time Jubilee and her crew had finally showed up the following week, Logan was almost glad to see her. Almost.

"Don't you know how to shave?" Jubilee asked with a scowl on her face as she accosted him. "You're in the same shape as when I met you – Gah. what a mess."

"Lay off, Jubes. I'm in no mood." But she just waved her hand at him and gestured for her assistants to ambush him as she took it on herself to nose around the place.

"Whatever. I doubt you'd know what to do with yourself if you ever got happy. And besides, I have like … an hour to clean you up. Don't make this hard on both of us."

Her assistants looked nervous, but they followed her instructions, and they started their mission as Jubes had directed from three rooms over... "Pretty him up, girls. We want him to look good."

She'd left them, trusting them to attack him with the same vigour as they did the first that they'd met in the Capitol, but it seemed that they'd grown a bit more cautious. When she re-entered the room, they had him all but cornered, but no progress had been made.

"Call 'em off," Logan directed roughly. "Before I hurt one of 'em." But Jubilee just gave him a very unamused look.

"Don't let him scare you. He won't hurt you. No matter what he threatens, he's nothing like that Neanderthal across the way. I promise." The two women shared a look, seemed to weigh it out, and dove into their work. Just as Jubilee said, at least in this case – his bark was much worse than his bite.

* * *

The train ride to the start of the tour was long and tightly guarded. The feud between Logan and Creed was well known – and the Capitol had prepared for it with what Logan had guessed was a larger number of Sentinels and S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel.

He made his way from one car to another in a blatant attempt to avoid Creed. When he took a seat in the last car, he was taken a bit off-guard when ten minutes after he'd settled in, a middle-aged gentleman in a suit that screamed S.H.I.E.L.D. agent stepped into the car and sat at the opposite end from him.

He didn't say a word, but he did watch him in a dry, tight way the few times that they made eye contact. The man's presence seemed to act as an effective deterrent for everyone, and Logan had to wonder why, though he wasn't about to move on anyone's account just yet.

Maybe it was the agent's presence or something else, but whatever it was, he was surprised by the long, peaceful ride – all the way up until Jubilee came to prep him as the train pulled in to the first district stop. Logan barely heard what Moira was trying to tell him as Jubilee fussed over him and they prepared to step out in front of the crowd in Twelve.

"It's traditional tae gie a brief eulogy fur th' fallen tributes," she had said when Logan cut across her.

"I can't do that."

"Well you hav tae," Moira insisted. "It does'nae hav tae be much. Jist a few words." She fixed him with a look as he went a shade paler. His mouth felt dry.

What the hell could he possibly say about Kate that wouldn't sound false to the people that knew her and loved her best? He couldn't think of a thing, and 'sorry' didn't seem to even begin to cover it.

Moira and Jubilee ushered him through a maze of corridors in the town hall as the mayor began his speech on the platform outside. His heart was racing as they announced their arrival.

They stepped out into the light, and Logan was struck by how small the district's population was. How raggedy they were. He couldn't help but notice the two platforms raised up in the centre of the crowd. One was empty, but the other – he wasn't going to look at the platforms.

He kept his gaze downward and tried to avoid looking at anything but the stage and attempted to block out everything. But very suddenly, Logan was aware of Moira saying something that sounded suspiciously like the end of an introduction – and then his name.

It was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the guy three rows in from the back cough, and he realized now that they were waiting for him to say something. He still had no flamin' clue what to do about it, though. Jubilee gave him a nudge, and he took a step forward.

He'd just gotten to the microphone and was looking at his shoes when someone in the front row cleared their throat, and his gaze automatically found the frizzy-haired girl just in front of him.

She had her arms crossed over her chest and her chin tipped up defiantly when Logan met her gaze. There was a small knot of boys around her, all of whom seemed to be in solidarity with her, though in varying stages of grief. She seemed to be taking him in – her expression sceptical, though after a moment, her shoulders relaxed the slightest and she gave him a little nod as if she had decided she'd allow him to join them in their loss.

At the evidence that Logan simply wasn't going to speak, the mayor started in again in an overly cheerful tone as he tried to redirect their attention to the generic tribute they had created for Kate and Loki.

A familiar sob echoed over the crowd and drew Logan's attention to the platform raised above the crowd. There were only three people on the platform; one of the two men who stood there had Kate's dark hair and brilliant eyes – but he had none of her smile as he posed on the platform with a frown. He was better-dressed than just about everyone in the district, except perhaps the mayor, and Logan gathered from the looks he was getting from the nearby crowd members that he simply wasn't one of the more well-liked in Twelve. From his annoyed expression, it wasn't hard to see why.

But it wasn't the men standing there that had his attention. He was focused on the young woman between the two men that looked as if she could have _been_ Kate, if not a few years older.

"Och, th' poor lass," Moira said with a tut under her breath. "She was blonde in th' family interviews, she must ha' dyed 'er hair as a nod tae 'er sister."

Now Logan could see it – the colouring wasn't quite right for the jet black long locks that were pulled back into a pink headband that looked nearly identical to the purple one that Kate had worn when he knew her.

This young woman – Kate's sister – she was an absolute mess. Sobbing and shaking as her husband or fiancé or whatever held her up. She had a handkerchief clutched to her chest as the tears streamed down her face, and Logan couldn't take his eyes off of her, though in his mind he was watching Kate.

Kate – bloodied and screaming for him as tears rolled down her face. Kate – pushing back against a shield and a boy far too big for her to fight back against.

He could see her arms trembling to push Steve away … the desperation in her features. And the inevitable as she gasped, her chest trying to heave before she let loose that soul-rending scream, begging for help that would never come.

The lump in his throat tightened as he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the images at the forefront of his mind.

For the most part, the remainder of the tour was blurred together after that. Logan managed to keep a chin up since, at the very least, when he got to Eleven, he felt as if his little crew had done right avenging Ro, since they couldn't save her. But as the tour went on, the passage of time and districts was marked really only by the addition of the other victors on their way closer and closer to the Capitol.

Ten was significant in that Charles Xavier seemed to be the one that had taken it on himself to watch over the new victor, and he made sure to stick close as he predicted that Nine would prove to be especially difficult for the young man. The nightmares hadn't ebbed in the least.

"It'll be fine, Logan," Charles tried to reassure him. But Logan didn't acknowledge him as Jubilee stepped in and started her last minute primping. His ears were ringing as Moira went through her usual prep.

Jubilee never took her hands off him. If she wasn't readjusting a stray lock of hair or fiddling with his collar, she was smoothing out the fabric as it lay across his shoulders with a worried look on her face. But through it all, he just stared forward blankly.

Every footstep he took echoed in his ears as the mayor of Nine went through his long, wandering speech. When Logan stepped out, he tried to make a point not to look at the families. Or the crowd. Moira pinched him lightly, her little cue to get him to look up, but Logan turned his head toward the previous victors of Nine. And quickly realized he'd missed something vitally important.

Erik Lensherr, the second victor, looked as if his whole world had just been ripped from him.

His face was the picture of perfect agony, and without thinking about it, Logan followed his gaze into the crowd, only to frown deeply at the scene unfolding before him. The woman on the platform for Wanda had her hand clamped over her mouth and her gaze firmly locked onto Erik. Both of them looked to be on the brink of a breakdown. It didn't make sense. Until he saw the boy next to her.

He was tall and had almost white hair that looked swept back… and nearly every feature on his face was identical to Erik's. He looked between the Victor and the boy quickly and made the connection as Erik's whole posture seemed to just… melt a bit. A sob tore itself from the woman's throat, and Logan turned away from what he felt should have been a private moment. He hadn't thought about what he'd see when he once again looked up.

The woman on the other podium had the same mask of grief that Logan had already come to recognize. They called it a Victory Tour, but in every weeping mother's face, he saw what it really was. A chance to torture the families – and make the murderer face their other victims.

Logan locked eyes with her and tried to form the words… even if no one heard them… but he just couldn't. Not when his attention was drawn by a young girl that suddenly buried her face in the woman's side. He glanced at the boy on her opposite side that stood there bravely with tears streaming down his cheeks as he just stared back at Logan.

But then the wind caught the blue satin ribbon in the girl's hair, and something in him just …

He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't feel it as Jubilee and Moira ushered him off. All he could see was that little girl with the ribbon that matched the ones he'd tied to Kurt's wrists.

Jubilee and Charles had each tried to talk to him, but it just didn't register.

Logan thought he'd have been alright at the next stop, but he still had to turn away from Peter Parker's aunt and her quiet strength. She was the calmest of the family members in any of the districts. Everything about how she held herself showed true strength. Upright, bold… steady.

Though her cheeks were wet, May had managed to muster up a sad, tight smile with tears brimming in her eyes. Almost as if she knew that he hadn't lied about trying to keep Pete safe outside of the bounds of their bet. Like she knew the _truth._ And somehow, that hit him harder than the lies that they'd shoved into his face at every stop.

Right after they'd boarded the train, Charles had tried to tell him that it was her thanks for taking care of Peter in the Games, but … he really felt as if he hadn't, and Logan had refused to watch the videos to see how Peter had finally died, even though several had tried to show him.

Jubilee was particularly concerned because of his reluctance to speak – especially after he'd walked in on her assistants in the middle of re-watching him kill Banner as the broadcast prepared for the stop at Six. He didn't seem to react to them, though, and instead of acknowledging anything that was going on around him, he simply found a quiet place to break out the liquor and began to drink.

Jubes and Moira watched him from a distance as he just stared straight ahead and proceeded to get drunk. Neither of them knew what to do, but they were incredibly grateful that Creed was nowhere to be seen.

For over an hour, Jessica Drew and Sam Wilson had just hung around. They weren't even talking to each other, let alone him, though Sam looked like he really wanted to. When they'd tried to open up the lines of communication with a well-veiled attempt to draw him into their conversation, he'd told them to take their tea party elsewhere.

But where Sam looked guarded about Logan slowly draining a bottle of whiskey, Jess tried to use it. She crossed the car, and Logan watched her without turning his head. She took a seat right next to him on the little couch and poured herself a measure before crossing her legs and leaning back. He ignored her and drained the little bit that was left in his glass, continuing to stare at nothing until Jess moved to pick up the bottle again.

Logan watched her curiously when she started pouring more in his glass. When it was nearly half full, he tipped his head to her a hair before simply drinking again in silence.

Everything after that was a numb blur. Other victors joined the tour with them at every stop. Several of them tried to make friendly with him and a few, like Xavier and Jessica Drew, made a point to stick close, even though he hadn't really given them more than a fleeting glance and a nod of his head.

Even after Charles found a way to slow down the booze, Logan couldn't remember arriving in the Capitol, or how upset Jubes got when she realized he wasn't fighting her on anything at all as she prepped him for the stupid party.

The real trigger that got him to start to pay attention, though, was in the middle of the party, after having navigated through droves of Capitolites pressing in to make friendly, Logan suddenly realized where he was as the sound of liquor cascaded over ice that Creed was pouring into his glass.

The monster was simply pouring them another round of booze and looking perfectly relaxed and at ease. Logan frowned to himself, staring at the amber liquid and then around at the surreal gathering. After a few moments, he set the glass down and pushed away from his old mentor.

"Where the hell're you goin', Runt?" Creed rumbled.

"Air," he replied.

"Don't get no bright ideas. Keep away from Jessica Drew. You're stuck with _me."_ He chuckled when he saw Logan pause for a moment then silently continue on his way.

He needed space. Time to think – and he sure as hell couldn't get it around Creed or in the middle of this stupid soiree.

He wove his way through the crowd, pulling at his tie and trying to breathe a little easier as he did his best to just try and slip past everyone.

When he reached the outskirts of the crowd, he headed for the stairs, hoping that moving might make him feel better. He hadn't overlooked the fact that he didn't seem to be allowed even a moment alone. In addition to Moira and Jubes, there were several other previous victors that had found a way to float nearby him ever since the train. As if they were waiting for him to do something. He wasn't used to having so many strangers acting so much like they _knew_ him.

He made it out of the lights and to a balcony that overlooked a sheer drop off of the mountain – as if the balcony was simply built into the mountain itself rather than being a part of the palace. As he took a few deep, centering breaths, trying to drive the panic away, a woman slipped up behind him and slid her arms around his waist.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" she asked, her tone silky. He turned his head to see that it was Ophelia Sarkissian, and she was wearing a smug smile as she tossed her dark hair out of her face and over her shoulder before she rested her chin on his shoulder.

Logan shook his head the slightest as she released him then took his arm to lean in closer to him. "People might get the wrong idea if they find you looking out over the abyss." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I want a dance before the night is out." He watched her as she smiled and strutted back to the rest of the party, though it didn't seem as though anyone else had noticed his absence yet.

He stepped a little further down the railing – away from the party, to the far end of the balcony well out of the light – and stared downward. The noise of the party faded away as he tried to clear his head. He stood there, his hands on the stone ledge as he tried to decide how much of his vertigo was from the height and how much was from the booze.

With his eyes closed, he just took some time to breathe slowly, and still, he couldn't find that quiet stillness in the back of his mind that had always helped him to cope.

He let out a steady breath and looked down at the rocks below and tried to guess how high up he was. Couple hundred feet.

The sounds of the party faded off, and he found himself leaning forward. Staring at the darkness below. All the craziness started to fade away – all the horrible things he'd done. It all just started to slide into the background. The more he stared, the more everything blurred together, and he found himself more and more calm.

The impact should be more than enough… he shifted his weight the slightest, and his pulse was increasingly all he could hear as he shifted closer to his decision. It should be quick, much quicker than he deserved.

"That's really not a smart move," Jessica Drew said suddenly as she approached him with a cautious look on her face. "What are you thinking, exactly?"

He blinked hard a few times and stood up straighter, his heart racing and his hearing snapping back to reality. "Nothing." Logan muttered almost breathlessly, and Jess just watched him for a few moments before reaching out to take his arm.

"Nothing. Right. I know what you're thinking. And I know what you've been through since you got back to the Capitol. You're very_ popular _right now." He gave her an odd look, and she pulled him from the railing, closer to the noise of the party – but still well hidden in the dark shadows.

"You are not the first to want to get out of this _arrangement._" He refused to meet her gaze, and she tipped her head to try to catch his attention. "Are you alright, Logan?" She waited for a while as he stared over the edge in silence.

"No," he admitted quietly.

She let out a tired kind of sigh. "I'd have called you a liar if you said otherwise," she told him frankly before she waited for him to look at her. "There's not a lot we can do about our station in life at this point. But – I'm sure someone with your keen eye has noticed that many of the victors have friends here – even your awful mentor. You do _not_ have to be alone in this. You shouldn't."

He let out a ragged breath, and she squeezed his arm. "What did Sarkissian want anyhow? I saw her smirking to herself." Jess had a concerned look on her face as she waited for his answer.

"I don't know. She's been… well, I guess you'd call it friendly," Logan replied with a little shrug. Jess smirked at him and shook her head.

"Well at least you didn't buy her bull," she said with a pleased look on her face. "Alright. I think maybe you need to say hello to a few of the people that keep me sane. Just… don't get thinking too many warm thoughts about those rocks."

She made a point to check that he was still presentable before she took him by the arm and led him back toward the lights and noise of the party. He began to tense up the closer they got, and he clenched his jaw as the first little group of grinning Capitolites waved their way. He stopped, and she tugged at him for just an instant before she turned to look at him with a sigh.

"We're all watching you, Logan – some of us in a good way. It sucks to be in this little club – but … you're not alone. We're very loyal to each other," Jess promised. "Don't get stuck in your own head. You have more people that care about you than you realize."

She pulled on his arm again, and he resisted to take a moment to himself.

Breathing deeply once again, eyes closed, he rested his hand over Jess' on his arm. After a few deep, centering breaths, he finally opened his eyes and nodded to her. She gave him a small smile, and as they reached the crowd, a worried face caught his attention and proved what Jess had been trying to tell him. He was thankful suddenly that Jess had been watching so closely, because his firecracker of a stylist looked half-scared until she finally saw him, and her shoulders dropped.

"I've been looking all over for you," Jubilee said with a shake of her head. She didn't even try to fake a smile, and Jess squeezed Logan's arm, finally letting him go.

"I'll see you later. Keep moving. Keep occupied. Stay with people you can trust," she advised at a whisper, all to which Logan nodded in agreement before Jubes reached them and started to fuss over him – again. "I'll see you around."

"Slipping off," Jubilee muttered as Jess walked off, smirking to herself. "Like no one would notice." Logan leaned back, away from her hands, as she reached up to fuss over his hair.

"Jubes, stop. Just..." he let out a sigh and tried again as he considered what Jess had said. "Dance with me," Logan said, stopping Jubilee cold.

"What?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Do you even know how—"

"I'm going to have to do it anyhow, so I'd rather start with someone I trust," he told her. She paused for a second and beamed at him.

"Well, duh. Took you long enough to figure it out," she teased before she pulled him out onto the dance floor. As they started to move through the crowd, Logan looked toward Jess where she was watching with a handful of other victors – who all seemed to be watching him closely as he tried to step into his new role in life. He gave her a little nod and took another deep breath, focusing on the moment at hand and trying to keep moving away from the past and the damage it and he had done.

* * *

The parties of the Capitol were hard to handle. The afterparties even more so. There were more issues that no one had warned him about – more ways the Capitol had in place to degrade and abuse them that he frankly didn't have the patience for. So it should have come as a shock to no one when Logan found a bar after that first night of parties that was open early.

There was more merrymaking to be had later that night, and the night following, but in the meantime — there was drinking to be done and numbness to be sought out.

He had gotten a fairly good buzz in a dark corner booth where he could easily watch the door when a wave of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swept into the bar and cleared it of all of its patrons and the bartender too.

The same middle-aged man that Logan had seen on the train entered after the initial sweep, confirming his suspicions that this man had some clout, though it wasn't until the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. himself swept in that Logan realized exactly how much clout he had.

"All clear, sir!" the middle-aged man informed the Director, snapping off a crisp salute, and Logan rolled his eyes.

"Very good, Agent Stryker," the Director replied wryly, moving past him. "Your enthusiasm is commendable."

With a little scoff, Logan poured himself another few shots over the half-melted ice cubes and chuckled to himself as the Director made his way over to him.

"You're a crap interview — you know that, right?" Director Fury said as he invited himself to Logan's booth, sliding in across from him so he could watch the young man properly. "For as creative as you are, I was sure you'd have come up with something better to say to Tivan."

Logan glared up at him as he turned the glass in his hands, otherwise ignoring the man in front of him.

Fury let out a sigh and tipped his head to one side. "Figured you'd be more creative in ways of coping than just bein' a drunk too."

"You got tips for me, _Nicholas J. Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D._? Or you just wanna be a pain in my ass?" Logan leaned forward just a bit. "Hate to be the one to break it to you, but I've been drinkin' since I was about fifteen. This ain't a new development."

Fury smirked the slightest and inclined his head slightly. "You think I don't know that?"

That got Logan to stop what he was doing for just a second, going so far as half-holding his breath as he more carefully took in the man before him. "What do you want anyhow?" Logan said finally.

"What I _want_ is for you to pull yourself together," Fury said with a little frown. "I want you to fly right and stop acting like every worthless drunk we've had come through here. What I don't want is for you to slip into that same wasted space that I had to drag Drax and Grimm out of — the space best left to Creed and his kind. Unless you just want to prove that's _exactly_ who you are deep down."

At that, Logan openly glared hard at him. "Go fuck yourself," he snarled out with a venom that Fury was glad to see still existed in spite of the numbing effects of the booze.

"And I was worried you might be easing up a little on your stance on Creed. You know, seeing how you spent a fair amount of time at the bar with him last night." Logan's glare only intensified, and a moment later, he almost grudgingly set his glass down and leaned back to cross his arms and watch Fury with the same intensity he himself was being watched.

"All the new guys warrant a heart to heart like this?" Logan asked after some time had passed. "Am I supposed to just forget you're the asshole that arranged all that misery? The one that set monsters out on innocent kids? That supposed to just — what? Not matter anymore?"

"Of course it _matters_," Fury said. "But there are things that matter more. There's a greater purpose to the Avenger Games, kid. Your friends — their suffering_ wasn't_ meaningless. What we put you through – what we put _all _of you through... there's a reason for it."

"Right. I forgot how important entertaining your masses of assholes in the Capitol is. My mistake," Logan half growled out. "You got some new and excitin' way of screwing with me that I haven't figured out yet? Because so far, I'm not sure what's left."

"You'd be surprised," Fury replied with his arms crossed the slightest bit as he sized up the newest Victor for a moment. "There's a whole new game this side of the one the Capitol watched, and the rules aren't nearly so pleasant."

"I've heard it already. But I don't have any family for you to screw with – just me, so whatever you have to say — spit it out already. I'm not in the mood for half assed riddles," Logan replied.

"You'd better get used to them while you're here in the Capitol," Fury replied with a bit of heat. "Because what we're doing here — it runs right under the surface of this cesspool, and it's gotta _stay _under the surface, got that?" He gave him a significant glare as he tipped his head at the agents around the place. "Like this meeting here — never happened."

"You can always just tell 'em I was wasted if it were to ever come up. I'm sure no one gives a damn what I got to say anyhow." Logan gave him a little smirk.

"You're a Victor, Logan. Of course they care what you have to say. Or at least they think they do," Fury said with a smirk to match.

"Well you did one helluva job paintin' me out to look like Creed, I don't know why the hell anyone'd listen to a word I said," he replied. "Thanks for that, by the way. That… that was _real_ nice. And what you did with Kate and me. _Special._" He was scowling at Fury hard. "She was a friend. You had to do some serious digging to make it look like anything else."

"Believe it or not, that one wasn't my idea," Fury said, tipping his head the slightest.

"No reason for me to believe that or any other damn thing you have to say. Your show after all," Logan said. "Or you approved of it. Either way — it's on you."

Fury just shook his head for a second. "Believe what you want," he said, waving a hand. "But I'm gonna ask you to trust me on this — _and_ going forward — or we're gonna have one helluva hard time for the rest of your Capitol visits." He leaned forward with something like a weary sigh. "I need your help, frankly, or I wouldn't be in this…" He gestured to the seedy bar and let the surroundings speak for him.

Logan gave him a look, his eyes narrowed before he looked Fury over quickly and reached across the table.

In a heartbeat a dozen guns were trained on him and Fury himself looked a bit wary, though Logan only paused a moment to glance around at the nervous S.H.I.E.L.D. agents then back to look Fury in the eye.

"_Trust_, Nick – it's a two way street," Logan said before he reached a bit further to pull a cigar out of Fury's front pocket. As soon as he had it in his hand, Fury raised a hand to tell his men to stand down.

"Give me a reason to trust you," Logan said as he leaned back and lit the cigar only to blow smoke right at him. "Something that might make me want to betray my friends' memories in exchange for sidin' with the guy that made sure they died painfully."

Fury seemed to be chewing on his next words for a second before he smirked the slightest bit. "This job — you travel the districts, hear the stories they tell. The different traditions they have," he said as he pulled a cigar of his own. "I've got a favourite, from District Eleven."

Logan paused a moment before he handed his lighter to Fury so he could light his cigar. The two men sat there for a moment simply smoking and watching each other. "Eleven, huh. Got a lotta nerve leaning into one of their sayings. Doubt ya even get the accent close," Logan said as he took a drag and squinted Fury's way.

"Maybe that's true," Fury allowed. "But it's a good saying." He paused to lean forward and blow smoke back at Logan for a moment before he gave the new Victor the most intense look Logan had seen from him yet.

"You asked me what I could say about your friends' memories that might win you over, and all I can tell you right now? In the Capitol — in a _public _bar? Well, Logan, as I said – they have a saying in District Eleven." His smirk faded as his face took on a graver look, and his voice fell to just above a whisper.

_"__Death is not the end.__"_

* * *

**Fatalities (In Order)**

**24: T'Challa, District Eleven Male – Killed by Thor Odinson.**

**23: Anna Marie Adler, District Eight Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**22: Raven Darkholme, District Ten Female – Killed by James Howlett.**

**21: Pepper Potts, District Three Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**20: Wade Wilson, District One Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**19: Wanda Maximoff, District Nine Female – Killed by Tony Stark.**

**18: Carol Danvers, District Five Female – Killed by Natasha Romanoff.**

**17: Benedetta Gaetani, District Seven Female – Killed by Brunhilde.**

**16: Sinthea Schmidt, District Six Female – Killed by Gamemakers, code U.L.T.R.O.N.**

**15: Natasha Romanoff, District Two Female – Killed by Clint Barton.**

**14: Thor Odinson, District Four Male – Killed by Ororo Munroe.**

**13: Brunhilde, District Four Female – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**12: Clint Barton, District Two Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Chitauri.**

**11: Ororo Munroe, District Eleven Female – Killed by Cletus Kasady.**

**10: Cletus Kasady, District Ten Male – Killed by Peter Parker.**

**9: Kurt Wagner, District Nine Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**8: Loki Odinson, District Twelve Male – Killed by Elektra Natchios.**

**7: Peter Parker, District Eight Male – Killed by Gamemakers, code Carnage.**

**6: Elektra Natchios, District One Female – Killed by Kate Bishop.**

**5: Tony Stark, District Three Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**4: Bruce Banner, District Six Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**3: Kate Bishop, District Twelve Female – Killed by Steve Rogers.**

**2: Steve Rogers, District Five Male – Killed by James Howlett.**

**1: James Howlett - Victor.**


	107. Epilogue

**(A/N) Hey guys, we're finally here with the update that both ends ITEYAK and opens applications for the sequel, though I'll get on to that at the bottom of the page.**

**A big thanks to Purpleread, Eryniel Alasse, GeekyComicBookGuy, Ashes Floating, griezz, Bookcrazysongbird, Lizzy-Reedus-MacManus-Dixon and TheTzip for their reviews, and to all those who are reading this here, finishing the fic with us.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

**Director Nick Fury, Skye, [Redacted] &amp; Agent Phil Coulson**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

**Director Nick Fury **

**Turn Not a Blind Eye**

* * *

"_I__t's the action, not the fruit of the action, that's important. You have to do the right thing. It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there'll be any fruit. But that doesn't mean you stop doing the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result."_

― Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

Fury waited for the president to speak, his mind already on other things, steeling his resolve for what was yet to come. The Games had been finished a day now, the celebrations still underway. James Howlett had yet to be officially announced as the Victor – he was still recovering the Medical Wing of the Triskelion, and still had his interview with Tivan, his meeting with Thanos and everything else to come. And yet, Fury had to begin preparations for the next year's Games.

_No rest for the wicked, _he thought to himself, with a wry smile.

Thanos sat at his desk – a huge, mahogany abomination – staring down at a golden paperweight, seemingly lost in thought, just as Fury was. As to what he was thinking, Fury couldn't even begin to guess, and that troubled him.

"I hear your son returned from the border this morning, Director" the president eventually murmured, looking up at Fury, an unknown emotion flaring in his eyes. "Does he have any news of mine?"

Fury stirred, bringing himself back to the present. This was an easy one, at least. "We've had no sightings of E– of the Exile since his banishment, sir," he replied. No news, in other words. _Just like every time you've asked over the past ten years._ "You'd be the first to know if we did."

"I see," Thanos rumbled in return, though Fury he detected a slight note of dissatisfaction. "Then that's one thing off my mind. Family, Fury…family is a dangerous and precarious thing. I learnt that a long, long time ago."

Fury nodded, not trusting himself to reply. In any case, it seemed like Thanos had spoken mostly for his own benefit – his eyes had a heavy, lidded look to the them, suggesting that he, like Fury, wasn't entirely occupied by their current meeting.

Thanos glanced up at Fury, and his eyes widened slightly, as if only now registering his presence. "You're here to make your end-of-Games report, I believe," he said, his voice clearer now. "The Wolverine was a worthy Victor. A young man of untapped rage and an impressive propensity for violence – I can only look forward with great anticipation to his future as a mentor, and I'm looking forward to meeting him, when he's recovered."

"It'll certainly be interesting to see how District Seven mentor their tributes next year," Fury agreed. "With Creed on one shoulder and Howlett on the other, District Seven will be the ones to watch. Groot probably won't get much of look in, unfortunately."

"No great loss," Thanos replied. "Of all the Victors, that one has always lacked a certain…charisma."

Fury smiled. "He's never really been one for interviews, but they do say actions speak louder than words."

Thanos snorted dismissively, but allowed the point to stand. "Very well, Director. I assume you have a proposal ready for next year's Games?"

"Next year's Games will need to be bigger than before, in just about every way," Fury said, having run through this talk with Hill about a dozen times over the past few days. "A quarter of a century will have passed since their conception, since the rebellion. I'm of the opinion that something…special should be done, to commemorate this event."

Thanos nodded, something akin to interest flaring in his eyes. Relieved, Fury continued, "We're planning to suspend the lottery aspect to the Reaping for next year's Games – to remove the random element of it all. It just seems too…easy on the districts, and next year must serve as a reminder, above all the Games of the past, of where their place is."

"What would you suggest instead?" Thanos asked, his attention now firmly focused on Fury, his earlier thoughts for the moment.

"We spent weeks discussing just that. Something to make viewers sit up and take notice, to increase the emotional connection they have with the tributes. Eventually, we stumbled on a simple, but effective, solution. We make the Victors choose," Fury replied, with a slight flourish. "We get them to pick the tributes, and have them announce their selection come Reaping Day."

"And if they refuse?" Thanos asked.

"They won't refuse," Fury said, with confidence. "Getting people to act against their own self-interest is something of my speciality, sir. I haven't let you down yet."

"No," Thanos replied, sounding thoughtful. "No, you haven't. You have my attention, Director. Continue."

"You expressed concerns at the lack of…well, more _villainous _tributes in this year's Games. We're of the opinion that this will go some way towards rectifying this. Some mentors – particularly the Career districts – will no doubt pick their district's best, those they believe best equipped to survive in the arena. Others will pick the most the expendable – the criminals, the insane, those with no family left to object to their reaping. We'll see a pool of tributes different to anything we've encountered before."

"I see. You would fill the arena with killers, lunatics and monsters…" the president murmured, musing on this idea for a moment or two before his face split into a wide grin. "I can't think of a better way to honour Death, Director. Once again, you impress."

"Only doing my job, sir," Fury replied smoothly, relieved. "However, I do have _some _bad news. Deputy Hill will be taking a leave of absence from her Gamemaker duties for the foreseeable future, sir. Recent hostilities in the districts require closer attention, and we need someone of her experience out there."

"Fools taking up arms against omnipotence," Thanos growled, his hands seizing the ends of the armrests of his chair, his knuckles whitening as they strained against the wood. "They rush head-on into Armageddon, and so we shall provide them with a most glorious doomsday. The heavens will run red with blood, but in the end, as always, I will stand triumphant."

"Of course, sir," Fury replied, the president's words ringing in his ears. _I'm looking at a man perched right on the edge of sanity_, he thought, and swallowed. "Hill has been given full authority to carry out whatever actions she sees fit. Those that seek to oppose you will face justice."

"All who oppose me must _die, _Director."

"Is that not justice, Mr President? It's what our laws demand."

Thanos nodded, satisfied. "See that it's done, then. Let no barrier stand in her way. The districts are parasites, Director. A necessary evil that must be borne, but they must also never forget their place. Your father convinced me that the Avenger Games would remind them of this."

"Then let the very first Quarter Quell cement that idea in their heads," Fury replied, eager to move back to the Games, a safer topic.

"I trust you're working on more than just the selection to make next year's Games stand out?"

"I've drafted in a replacement for Hill with that very purpose in mind, and I think you'll like him, sir," Fury replied truthfully, though he still harboured some doubts of his own about the man. "He's considered something of an…enigma. We'll have plenty of surprises in store."

"Send me on his credentials, and I'll approve his appointment and forward on the paperwork, Director. I look forward to seeing what he'll come up with."

Fury thanked him, and Thanos waved him off, glancing over at the clock on his wall. He smiled, stood up, and brushed the lint off his suit jacket, before glancing back at Fury.

"Now, I'm afraid you must excuse me, Director," he said, a hint of regret in his voice. "I have a meeting with an old friend of mine, and she waits for no man. Not even one who has brought the world to its knees."

"Of course, sir," Fury replied, as Thanos made his way towards his office's balcony. However, even as he made his way out of the president's office, he couldn't help but overhear Thanos as the president began to speak.

"The entire world stands in great peril, my lady," Thanos rumbled, though to who, Fury could only speculate. "There are many actors in this grand drama, and I, Thanos, appear to be the only participant with a full grasp on the situation. But do not fear; all shall bow before us. Those that would oppose me shall reap the consequences of their actions, and the loyal shall be rewarded…"

Fury paused, closed his eyes for a moment, and then stepped out of the room.

_When your orders were handed to you by a madman, how could any sane man follow them?_

_No sane man could._

* * *

**Skye **

**Stranger Things**

* * *

"_Albert grunted. 'Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?'_

_Mort thought for a moment._

'_No,' he said eventually, 'what?'_

_There was silence._

_Then Albert straightened up and said, 'Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve 'em right.'" _

― Terry Pratchett,_ Mort_

* * *

The night after the Victory celebrations, buoyed on by the alcohol within her, Skye final decided to confront Raina, no longer able to act as if nothing had happened. She made her way to Raina's lab, knowing that she'd find the scientist there, having hacked into her personal schedule ever since she had linked Raina to Po.

"Raina, we need to talk," Skye announced as she made her way into the lab, swaying tipsily, and Raina glanced up from her work, looking confused. Unsurprisingly, no one else was around – most people in the Capitol would be off celebrating for days to come, even those that worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. Well, except for the security, of course.

Skye pitied them, and their alcohol-free lives.

"Skye, you should probably wait until morning," Raina said, looking wary and confused. "You've been drinking."

"Only a little," Skye lied, before stumbling and catching the end of a nearby desk to right herself. "Okay, maybe more than a little. But we're gonna do this now, okay? I'll only psyche myself out of it in the morning."

"Do what, Skye?" Raina asked impatiently, clearly anxious to return to her work, and something about the way she spoke sobered Skye up. That she could be irritated by Skye's presence, after betraying S.H.I.E.L.D., ignited a spark of anger within her.

"I _know_, Raina," Skye said, her voice no longer slurred but even, and she stared at the other woman, waiting for a reaction.

"What?" Raina asked, her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, Skye?"

Skye shook her head and chuckled bitterly. "You're really going to stand there and lie to my face, are you? You know _exactly _what I'm talking about. I know about you and _Po,_ Raina. I know you met with him just before he died."

Raina stared at her, her thoughts hidden behind a face devoid of any emotion or tell. "How?" she asked at last and Skye laughed again, but this time there was anger behind it.

"Coulson had me go through the security footage," she explained. "I followed everyone Po spoke with or even went near that night, so we could track them down and see if they were working with him. Everyone checked out, though. Everyone except _you_, Raina."

"What makes you think I was working with him?"

"You knew we were looking for him," Skye replied. "And don't try and tell me that you didn't recognise him under his mask – you're too smart for that."

"He could have threatened to kill me if I exposed him?" Raina offered, looking thoughtful.

"Then you would have come forward after finding out he had died."

"That might have hurt my position at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Not likely," Skye said, dismissing the notion. "You're a _scientist_, not a field agent. In any case, not coming forward could hurt your position a whole lot more. And there's still the whole question of what you were doing at that ball in the first place. Plus, I then started checking up on you, looking up every time you left the Triskelion. It's pretty hard to keep anything a secret in this city – we've got cameras everywhere. That wasn't the first time you met Po, not by a long shot."

Raina nodded, and deflated, as if all the fight had suddenly been knocked out of her. "You're right," she said sadly. "I was working with Edison Po before his death. I met with him the night he died, to warn him that S.H.I.E.L.D. were closing in on him. But it's not what you think, Skye. Really, it isn't."

"Okay, I'll bite," Skye said, crossing her arms. "What _is _it, Raina? Treason? Because it sure as hell looks a lot like it."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Raina said regretfully, and then hesitated, as though a new idea has just occurred to her. "There's nothing I can say that would convince you…but I _can _show you."

"Why shouldn't I just turn you in right now?" Skye asked, an edge to her voice. "You can't expect me to trust you anymore. You've burnt that bridge."

"I know," Raina said quietly, looking away. "And I'm sorry, Skye. Truly. But if you turn me in, you'll never find the answers you've been searching for ever since you rescued that man in District Eleven. We might even find answers to the questions you had before that."

"And what's stopping me from turning you in after?" Skye asked, finally, rolling Raina's words around in her head. _What did she mean, about questions I had before?_

"Nothing," Raina replied, shrugging. "But I don't care about after, because I have questions I want answers for too."

"Then what have you been waiting for?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Raina asked with a small smile. "I need your help."

* * *

"Okay, we're on Basement Seven," Raina told Skye as they made their way through the labs, Skye now wearing one of Raina's spare labcoats in an effort to look inconspicuous, and holding an I.D. card that Raina had passed to her, telling her not to worry about where it had come from. "This is the last one you're cleared for."

"I know – Fitz and Simmons work on this level, I've been down here plenty of times," Skye replied roughly, not mentioning that she had wound up lost on most of those occasions.

"Well, we're going further than this. You still got your I.D.?"

"Sure," Skye said, holding it up so Raina could see. "Is someone going to get in trouble over this?"

"Not if we don't get caught," Raina said, flashing a smile, and walked over to the Sentinels on guard by the nest set of elevators.

_When did I become the responsible one? _Skye thought wearily, ignoring the fact that she had, only moments earlier, agreed to assist a known traitor in breaking into a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. She pushed aside her misgivings and followed, flashing her I.D. to the Sentinels, and felt a rush of relieve flow through her as she was waved in without a second glance.

"Going down," Raina announced when Skye had entered the elevator. "Three stops."

The lift whirred to life, and Skye's heart lurched as they began their descent, feeling the air grow perceptibly colder – though it might just have been her imagination – as they sank deeper into the earth.

The doors opened only a handful of seconds later, and Skye realised that she had no real way of telling how deep they had travelled. The list had been moving fast, and there was no reason to suspect that each level down here would be built directly on top of each other. Given the kind of projects rumoured to take place this deep, she'd want as much space between each level as possible, in the event that something broke out.

"Where are we, Raina?" she asked at last, knowing that she was well and truly out of her depth.

"In the underbelly of the Capitol, of course," Raina replied coyly, and Skye bit back her initial response.

"A little more specificity would be great, thanks?" she said at last, trying to keep the bite out of her voice.

"Basement Ten."

"Yeah, I know that," Skye replied ,rolling her eyes. "I can count."

"Then why are you asking?"

"_Because I thought Basement Ten was where the generators were kept," _Skye hissed. "Unless I'm missing something, that doesn't seem to be the case."

"Oh, there are some generators down here," Raina replied offhand. "Most of our power comes from District Five, though – the generators are just kept in reserve."

"So what happens if the power's cut off from Five? Can we power the entire city?" Skye asked, sceptically.

"There are contingencies in place, but it's really not my department," Raina admitted, clearly unwilling to admit a lack of knowledge on her part. "Enough to keep us going until Five would be retaken – there weren't any shortages during the rebellion twenty-five years ago, so I imagine they've got things in hand."

Skye wasn't entirely convinced, but before she could voice her doubts Raina suddenly held up her hand, silencing her. The scientist cocked her head to the side, her eyes darting from side to side, and then swore, grabbing Skye and moving towards a nearby door.

They burst through it, into an empty and unlit medbay, and collapsed against the door as it shut.

"What's going on?" Skye asked, but Raina held a finger up to her lips, just as her ears began to pick up the noise of muffled voices and rapidly-approaching footsteps. Skye couldn't help but stretch upwards to peek through the door's glass panel despite Raina's hushed objections.

A moment later, a team of men and women in labcoats burst into the corridor pushing along a gurney, trying to restrain the thrashing figure bound to the bed. Behind them, a stern-faced man in a suit yelled instructions, clearly in charge of proceedings.

"Be careful with him, he's just been taken out from storage!" the man in the suit ordered. "This one's got claws!"

"Goddammit, Stryker, he's broken one of his restraints!" one of the labcoats yelled, grabbing the offending arm and trying, and failing, to pin it back against the gurney.

"Then hold him down!" Stryker snarled. "The adrenaline should wear off any second now and he'll go right back to sleep! Look, he's settling down already!"

Skye slowly lowered herself back to the floor, her eyes wide, and glanced over at Raina. "Do I want to know what that was all about?" she asked quietly, her breath coming out as plumes of white vapour.

Raina smiled thinly. "It'll all make sense soon enough. Trust me."

Trust would be hard to come by, in light of everything, but Skye waited with Raina until the yelling had died away before leaving their hiding spot. Raina poked her head out the door, and signalled for Skye to follow her. The pair slowly made their way down the endless corridors, their ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Where are we going?" Skye hissed, but Raina simply waved her question away.

"Almost there," she whispered, scanning the rows of doors ahead of them, picking up her pace before halting in her tracks. "Wait, we're here. Okay, this is where you take over?"

"What am I looking at?" Skye asked, and she caught up with Raina.

"The lock's protected by a biometric scanner. I need you to bypass it, so that we can see what's inside. This is it, Skye. This is the answer to all of our questions," Raina gushed, almost vibrating in place.

"Do you even know how much trouble we could get into for doing this?" Skye asked, but moved towards the scanner anyway, deftly popping open the security board at the foot of the door.

"A lot, probably," Raina hazarded, still grinning. "I won't know _exactly _how much until I see what's inside."

"This shouldn't take too long," Skye said, removing her data-pad from her satchel, and connecting it to the terminal behind the security board with a long red wire. "Their security really should be tighter than this, unless we're breaking into the cafeteria."

"No, this is the room," Raina said definitively. "This is the one."

_If you say so, _Skye thought, but kept her doubts to herself, concentrating on the task at hand.

"I've got it," Skye announced at last, and the lock beeped, flashed green, and the door whooshed open.

Skye and Raina stared through the opening in shock, their jaws hanging wide open, stunned by what lay behind the doors Skye had just opened.

"What the hell am I seeing?" Skye hissed, glancing over at Raina.

Raina smiled and looked at her. "The future, Skye. The future."

* * *

**T'Challa of District Eleven**

**Death is Not the End**

* * *

"_All hope abandon, ye who enter here." _― Dante Alighieri,_ The Divine Comedy_

"_Unbeing dead isn't being alive." _― E.E. Cummings

* * *

_Death is not the end._

T'Challa opened his eyes and gasped, his lungs straining for air, his hands scrabbling over what his brain knew should be a bruised and broken chest. The image of Thor Odinson bringing his hammer down flashed across T'Challa's line of sight, as if it was engraved against his eyelids, and he screamed, emptying his lungs once more.

He screamed until his lungs ached, and then, slowly, managed to regain control over his breathing, pulling himself into a foetal position and shivering. When his brain finally satisfied itself that he wasn't, contrary to all common sense, dead, he was able to probe around his immediate surroundings, taking stock of where he found himself.

It took a while for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light, but he gradually became aware that he was in some sort of cell. At the moment, he was lying in a bunk, with a toilet and sink within sight, and a clearly-locked door sealed the door. The only thing out of the ordinary was the wide glass window next to the door, which stretched across about two-thirds of the far wall.

Gauging his body's capabilities, he swung his legs off the bunk and got to his feet, using the wall for support. His legs shaking beneath him, he managed to make it across the room – perhaps all of ten feet – and pressed himself up against the window, trying to peer out.

Unfortunately, all he could see was a long line of cell blocks similar to his on the other side of a hall, and presumably more ran along his side, out of sight.

"Where am I?" he asked weakly, resting his forehead against the comfortable chill of cool glass, feeling more alone than he ever had his entire life.

"We're in the bowels of the Capitol, kid," a voice replied, and T'Challa started, glancing up to see the outline of a figure through the window of the cell across from his.

"The Capitol?" he repeated stupidly, blinking away the pain that was settling across his temples. "How did I get here?"

"Well, two guys in labcoats brought you down on a gurney about two hours ago and dropped you off in your cell, but I don't think that's really the answer you're looking for, is it?"

"No, it's not…" T'Challa murmured, before frowning. "Do I know you?" he asked, confused, finding something in the speaker's voice oddly familiar.

"It's enough that I know _you, _Black Panther," the man replied, for the voice _was_ definitely male. "You may have seen me before, but I doubt you'd recognise me now."

"I never forget a face," T'Challa argued, thinking back to all the people he had known back at home in District Eleven. It had been something that Shuri had never mastered, but T'Challa has always been gifted with a meticulous memory.

The figure, still obscured by shadow, made his way right up to his cell's window. Hating himself even as he did it, T'Challa gasped as the man came into the light, his features hidden no more.

"You might've forgotten this one," the man replied, the light gleaming off the metal half of his skull, his left eye glowing a menacing red. His right arm was pressed up against the glass, and had also been replaced with a robotic prosthetic, and T'Challa could only assume that what he was seeing was only a fraction of what had been done. "Hell, I doubt my own mother would recognise me."

"Hell indeed," T'Challa murmured weakly, glancing away from the patchwork man in front of him and taking a long look at his surroundings. "Your voice is familiar," he said, when he recovered from his initial shock, and his brain had taken over and pointed out the shade of the man's skin – what little of it there was, anyway. "Are you from District Eleven?"

The man laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Born and bred, 'til the Reaping Day came. This cell has been home for the last few years, though."

"You were a tribute?"

"Mike Peterson," the man replied. "But I'll forgive you for not remembering, given the circumstances."

T'Challa whistled, getting this straight in his head. "But you died, Mr Peterson. _I_ died. How can we be here?"

"Just Mike, kid. If you're down here, odds are we'll be spending a fair bit of time together. As for how we're here…well, that's not really my tale to tell," Mike conceded reluctantly. "The Warden will be down here soon to catch you up with things. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Dying," T'Challa replied bluntly. "Thor Odinson crushed my chest with his hammer."

"Yeah, the Capitol loved that," Mike said, emotionlessly. T'Challa wondered if that was an aspect of the modifications that had been made to the man, or if he had just been worn down from exposure to the Games. "Sacrificing yourself to save your district partner. Being the one to provide the Captain with his shield. No wonder they decided to bring you back so quick. Sometimes it takes months for them to green light a tribute."

_My district partner, _he thought, a flood of memories rushing through his skull like a flood of ice-cold water. _Ororo._

"Ororo…" he began, stammering. "Did she..." He trailed off even before he voiced the question, seeing Peterson's face grow sombre, and his heart dropped to floor.

"How did she die?" he asked quietly, and Peterson hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Cletus Kasady," he said at last, and if it was possible for T'Challa's heart to sink any lower, it would have. As it was, it just shrivelled. "She left Cap a couple of days in, after the Careers killed Carol Danvers from District Five. They had allied with her, briefly."

_Steve's district partner, _T'Challa thought, and nodded.

"She set a trap for Thor, and electrocuted him," Mike continued, to T'Challa's surprise. "Damn, you should have seen how that went down. Shock of the Games, perhaps _any _of the Games. But then she nursed Loki back to health after finding him half-drowned, and he sold her out to Cletus in exchange for her own life."

A single, solitary tear trickled down the left side of T'Challa's face, but he remained silent. "What happened to Cletus and Loki?" he croaked out.

"Kasady was tracked down by Rogers, James Howlett, Peter Parker and Kurt Wagner," Mike said, with evident relish, but something about his tone made T'Challa think he was holding a detail back. "Parker got the killing blow, I think. Loki was almost beaten to death by Bruce Banner – guy was going through some sort of mental breakdown or something – but Banner stopped short of killing him. Looked like he was going to survive another day, but after Banner left Elektra found Loki and killed him."

"Good," T'Challa replied, and fell silent for a moment. "And the Captain?"

"Runner-up. Killed Kate Bishop – that was hard to watch, to be honest – and then faced the Wolverine. Logan had already ratcheted up the most kills, Rogers went the same way."

"So they are all dead," T'Challa murmured, struggling to wrap his mind around this concept, having been the first to die. "And, somehow, they are also all alive."

"You're taking this pretty well," Mike commented, his red eye flaring for a second for some unknown reason.

"I must confess, part of me is insisting that this all must be some form of hallucination, brought on by my injuries," T'Challa confessed. "But…it is also not all that hard to believe. It all makes a certain kind of sense."

"Well, there's some other stuff that might interest you. You managed to take one of the Careers down with you," Peterson informed him. "The wounds you gave Wilson got infected. The Careers didn't treat them properly, and they went septic. Elektra Natchios put him out of his misery a few days later."

"I see," T'Challa replied, unsure of how to react. So there was blood on his hands after all.

"You did yourself no favours there," Mike added grimly. "Lotta people down won't look on that too kindly."

"Tributes from District One?"

"Just the one. But he'll be the cause of any ill will you find down here. Well, that and who your father was, of course."

T'Challa started. "There are more than just you and I from Eleven down here?"

"You'll always find Elevens in places like this, kid," Mike said darkly. "Waist deep in the shit, in the deepest and darkest places. It's what we were born for. It's what we were _bred _for."

The two former tributes fell silent, and T'Challa spent the time readjusting his mental image of the world around what he had just learned. So much to take in in such a short time, and so much that he would once have dismissed as impossible. Half an hour or so had passed before he looked back over at Peterson, his eyes transfixed by the man's mechanical parts.

"Did…this…happen to you in the arena?" he said, softly, tapping the left side of his own face.

Mike shook his head slowly, his jaw setting slightly. "No."

A moment of silence passed, before he spoke up again. "They brought us back, T'Challa. I don't know how, not really, but the Warden'll give you the 'approved version of events'. We died, and somehow, someway, the bastards brought us back. But it's not easy to do, or that's what they told me. I was caught up in an explosion, almost died – _should've _died – but I held on long enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. to pick me up."

He trailed off again, and T'Challa waited patiently in silence, allowing Peterson to speak in his own time.

"It was…_cheaper _to patch me up and put me back together than to rebuild me from scratch, they told me," Mike said, bitterly. "After they had already done all of this, of course," he added, pointing to the metal half of his face, with a gleaming robotic hand.

_It appears we have found the next step to annually rounding up children to fight to the death, _T'Challa thought. _We imprison people and turn them into cyborgs against their will._

"What do you mean, cheaper to patch you together than to rebuild you?" he asked, unable to shake that one line.

"You ever work in the mines, T'Challa? Or the fields? Any kind of heavy labour."

"Everywhere," he replied, crushing a twinge of anger that had risen up within him. "My father insisted on it – how else could we understand our people unless we worked alongside them? Every day after school I would go to work – in the mines, mostly, as my father wouldn't let my sister work there. Said it was no place for a girl, and kept her to the farms."

"He wasn't wrong," Mike mused. "Sorry to ask, but it's hard to think of people voluntarily signing up for that kind of work."

"People will surprise you," T'Challa replied. "And Shuri never saw things that way. First real fight she and father ever had, but he stood firm."

"Did you agree with him?"

"Those mines were no place for men _or _women. It is not my place to question the words of my father, but I do know that Shuri is stronger and more determined than most of the men I have known, and she's not the only one," he replied, thinking of Ororo. "As I said, people will surprise you. I have found that it is never worth writing someone off."

"Well, the Capitol obviously think along the same lines," Mike said, but with no animosity in his voice. "Back home, when a machine breaks down you fix it, right? We don't have the resources the Capitol has – we can't just send off for a new one. You do whatever you can to patch it back up and get it working again, taking good parts from other broken machines, whatever. Well, that's what they did with me. I was broken, and they fixed me. But I don't have to be grateful."

Mike fell silent, and T'Challa waited a few minutes, realising how difficult it must have been for man to open up about what had happened to him, being made into a cyborg. He still had questions though, and Mike seemed like the only one around to answer them.

"What were you doing to get caught up in an explosion?" T'Challa asked. "Why are we down here?"

Peterson looked up at T'Challa, and smiled, utterly without mirth. "Because they need soldiers, T'Challa. And what better soldiers are out there than ones that everyone thinks are dead? We're S.H.I.E.L.D.'s black-ops crew, the ones they send in when they have no options left. Welcome to Task Force X."

A loud snort came from the cell left of Peterson's, and T'Challa eyes widened as a new figure came into sight, one that took him a moment to place for reasons back similar and yet completely different than what had happened with Mike Peterson.

"Give me a break, cyborg. This ain't no _task force_. Let's call it like it is," Wade Wilson said, his face normal, unscarred and almost unrecognisable. He snorted and threw his arms out theatrically, looking at T'Challa. "Welcome to the Suicide Squad!"

"Wade?" T'Challa asked weakly.

"The one and only, unless they've cloned more of me!" Wade exclaimed, before frowning. "They haven't cloned more of me, have they?"

"We can only hope," Mike muttered, placing his head in his hands. "Dear god, we can only hope."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson **

**A Many Headed Demon Stirs**

* * *

"_Criminals do not die by the hands of the law. They die by the hands of other men." _

― George Bernard Shaw,_ Man and Superman_

"_Beware the fury of a patient man." _

― John Dryden

* * *

Coulson made his way up to Garrett's office, smiling and nodding to various acquaintances and colleagues as he navigated his way through the Triskelion. In the background, television monitors were still replying the Wolverine's victory over Captain America, and no doubt would be for days yet.

Finally reaching his destination, Coulson burst through the doors and was faced with a very surprised-looking John Garrett. "John, I need your help. Can we talk?"

Garrett looked around pointedly, and Coulson realised that the two of them were the only people present. "Sure, Phil, what's up?" Garrett said, sounding more than a little bemused. "You know I've always got time for you."

Coulson sat up against the front of the desk across from Garrett's, looking serious. "I received a tip off on the guy who attacked me at Tivan's party," he said. "The guy who killed Po."

"The man in the owl mask?" Garrett asked, intrigued. "Seriously, you've got a lead on him?"

Coulson nodded. "I was told to talk to Leland Owlsley Junior."

Garrett whistled. "Damn, Phil. Owlsley's not gonna like that. You know how much swing he's got in this city?"

"I've met him a couple of times," Coulson replied, picturing the man who served as one of the Jacques Duquesne's many financial backers. "But the tips good, John. If Owlsley's son killed a man, we've gotta bring him in."

"And if he didn't?"

"Then there's a good chance he'll know who did. Either way, we can't just pass this up."

Garrett stood up, smiling. "I wouldn't pass this up for the world. _You_ were always the one obsessed with following the rules – I'll jump at any chance to thumb my nose at those rich bastards up in the Heights. You're sure the intel's good, though?"

"I've held off for a couple of days, sending out some feelers. Owlsley Junior was spotted leaving his house that night, with plenty of time to make it to Tivan's party. Given his family's connections, getting an invite wouldn't have been difficult. His build, height and hair colour are all a match. And the man was wearing an goddamn _owl mask_, John. There's nothing concrete, but more than enough to bring him in for questioning."

"Still, nothing saying the kid did it."

"The kid's in his late thirties, but no, I guess not," Coulson replied, not sure what Garrett was getting at.

Garrett stood up, and placed a reassuring hand on Coulson's shoulder. "I'm just saying, Phil, are you sure you want to be the guy to bring him in? You always died that night – are you sure you're gonna be able to keep your cool?"

"Trust me, I've got this," Coulson said, trying to sound confident, but in his heart he couldn't help but wonder if Garrett maybe had a point.

"Then that's good enough for me," Garrett replied, smiling. "Who else is on this?"

"Just me, you and Ward. I want to keep the team small, bring him in quiet."

Garrett frowned. "Wait, you're not bringing May in on this?"

"She'd only try to stop me," Coulson said with a wry smile, shrugging. It was the truth, after all.

"How'd you know I wouldn't?"

Coulson simply stared at Garrett, an eyebrow raised, and his friend broke off, laughing.

"Okay, okay, you got me," Garrett said when he finally regained his breath. "I guess I'm just an open book. But you make sure you explain everything to May when we bring this S.O.B. in – I don't want to get on her bad side."

"I'll handle May," Coulson promised, but in his mind they had already left that topic far behind. May would understand, later, and if she didn't…well, then she had never known Coulson at all. He was too close to back down now.

* * *

Coulson couldn't help but whistle as the trio made their way up the stairs to Owlsley Senior's home, admiring the old-American style of the building. He could only imagine how much the place had cost – when most of the city consisted of skyscrapers and highrises, being able to afford a mere three-storey building almost beyond belief. The air tax alone probably cost more, yearly, than his department's entire budget.

"Do you want to knock, or should I?" Garrett asked, leaning over as they reached the door.

Coulson huffed, and glanced over at his friend. "Are you kidding me? This is my mission – you've just been drafted in as backup. I do the talking; you're just here to look pretty."

"Then what am I here for?" Ward asked, and Coulson and Garrett glanced at each other.

"You're the dumb muscle," they replied in unison, and Ward's face fell.

Coulson's knuckles had barely brushed the door when it swung open, and he suddenly found himself face to face with Leland Owlsley Senior, one of the richest – and by all accounts, meanest – men in the Capitol.

"Mr Owlsley," he began, a self-conscious smile appearing on his face. "My name is Agent Coulson, I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. We've actually met a couple of time bef-"

"I know who you are," Owlsley replied guardedly, the impatience in his voice clear. "What do you want?"

Coulson glanced over at Garrett, coughing awkwardly. "Actually, sir, we're here to talk to your son, Leland Junior. Is he home?"

"What do you want with Lee?" Owlsley asked suspiciously. "He hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Unfortunately, sir, we have reason to believe that might not be the case," Garrett said, breaking in. "For now, we just want to talk with him."

"I'm sorry, he isn't home," Owlsley replied, his mouth setting in a firm, grim line.

"Do you know where he is now?" Coulson asked, knowing that this conversation was bust already. But he couldn't prove Owlsley was lying, and without that, there wasn't really much he could do.

"He's a grown man, Agent Coulson. I don't keep track of his whereabouts at all times."

"A grown man who lives with his father," Garrett pointed out. "A man who finds it difficult to interact with society, who has psychiatrist that he's require _by law _to visit three times a week. I find it hard to believe that you'd just let him roam around."

"He's not an animal," Owlsley replied, gritting his teeth.

"And we're not saying he is," Coulson cut in. "But we are saying that he's a man with a troubled past, who needs help to function. And when a man's down, his family pick him back up again. You're his father, Mr Owlsley. Your son very well might be in trouble. We're going to have to take him in for questioning, and when that happens you'll want to make sure he cooperates."

Owlsley silently mouthed the word 'trouble', and Coulson, taking this as a promising sign, attempted to capitalise on it.

"Mr Owlsley, we want to bring him in peacefully. It's in the best interests of everyone involved. But if you don't help us, if stop us from doing our jobs, things mightn't go so smoothly."

"A man was killed in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody," Ward added. "A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was almost killed trying to track down the murderer. Someone's got to pay for this, and if your son is involved, don't make him pay any more than he has to."

"I'm warning you against going after my family," Owlsley said, steel in his voice, recovering from his moment of hesitation. "Wind blows the hardest the closer you get to the mountain top. If you want to talk to my son, it won't until you've got hard evidence on him."

"People are _dead_, Mr Owlsley," Coulson countered. "And I haven't gotten as far as I have in life by backing off when people threaten me."

"I…" Owlsley began, before removing his pocket handkerchief and dabbing the sweat off his brow. "I…I don't know what to… He's…"

Owlsley froze mid-stammer, his eyes locking on to something behind the three agents. Coulson glanced over his shoulder, and his heart leapt as he saw a man standing on the corner of the street, staring right at them with a look of petrification on his face.

"Leland Owlsley?" Coulson called out, his hand falling to the reassuring weight of the icer at his waist. "Leland Owlsley Junior? Sir, I need you to come with me."

The figure started, shook out of his stupor by either by Coulson's words or the sight of the agent descending the steps of his family home. Glancing up, briefly, at his father, Leland Junior spun around and fled past the corner he had just appeared from.

"I hate it when they run," Coulson groaned, and the trio set off in pursuit.

Tearing through the city streets, the agents struggled to keep up with their target. Coulson had never seen half of the backstreets and alleys Owlsley Junior ducked through in an attempt to shake them, and he was beginning to understand how they had lost track of his two attackers on the night of Tivan's masquerade. S.H.I.E.L.D. were rarely required to venture out far into the Capitol – a light Sentinel patrol was considered more than sufficient to keep the peace – and Coulson had just realised exactly how much of a disadvantage that was.

A brief moment of panic occurred a moment later, with both Coulson and Garrett losing sight of Owlsley Junior. Ward, however, had caught just caught sight of him before he has disappeared through a door built into an old, granite monument.

Coulson stared at it as they caught up with Ward, something about it seeming familiar. **"The World Will Thank Us Someday,"** the letters imprinted on the side read, though you had to come right up to the twenty-foot monolith in order to make them out.

"What was this built for?" Coulson asked, hesitating at the door, but Garrett simply past him and barged through, removing a flashlight from his pocket.

"Who cares?" he called back, beginning to descend down the flight of steps that light within. "The past's the past. Come on, we've got a bad guy to catch."

Despite knowing that Garrett was right, Coulson couldn't help but linger for a moment, his eyes tracing the words, trying to discern the meaning behind them. He shook his head just as Ward walked past him, and followed the younger agent through the threshold, the door closing shut with a creak behind him.

"Damn, it's dark," he said, taking out a flashlight of his own, and he and Ward increased their pace a little, seeing Garrett's light up in the distance.

It didn't take long to catch up as Garrett had stopped to wait for them once he had come to the end of the stairs. Coulson was surprised to see, by the combined light of their flashlights, just how far the room at the end of the stairs stretched – too far, in fact, for it to be called a room. Another word came to mind in its place.

"Tunnels under the city…" Coulson murmured, a touch of awe in his voice. "I wonder if Fury knows about this?" he asked, and then snorted. _Of course he does._

"Well, we know why we haven't been able to track these guys," Garrett noted glumly, peering into the gloom in front of them. "You really want to follow him down there?" he asked, suddenly reluctant. "This reeks of a trap."

Coulson glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised. "What happened to the whole 'We've got a bad guy to catch' spiel? You really want to stop here and head back to fill out a report? 'He ran down an underground tunnel, it got dark and we got scared, so we came back?' Yeah, Fury'd just _love _that."

"Point made," Garrett growled, and began moving forward, his flashlight providing some small illumination as to what lay ahead.

"How far do you think this goes?" Ward asked, and Coulson and Garrett could only shrug.

"I've never heard of underground tunnels in the city," Coulson said, looking at the stonework around them. "They're old, though. I wouldn't be surprised if we end up in the president's bed chamber."

"Let's hope not," Garrett replied. "I'd like my head to remain attached to my body. I've grown quite fond of it, over the years."

Wherever the tunnels led, there seemed to be no immediate end in sight, and Coulson was thankful that they come across any forks. Owlsley had a head start, and was obviously familiar with this tunnel, but if it didn't branch off they still had a chance to catch up with him. And, unlike them, he wouldn't have had the time to bring a light source with him. Parts of the tunnel were taken over by rows of pipes, delivering water to different parts of the Capitol, forcing the agents to squeeze past or carefully pick their way across. If they were finding it hard to navigate around them, Owlsley would have run into them a dozen times or more.

"Hey, Ward?" Coulson called out to the agent in front of him, the silence of the tunnels – broken only by the sound of water dripping from pipes in an irregular pattern – starting to get to him. "You remember earlier, when you spoke to Owlsley about a man being killed in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody?"

"Yeah?" Ward ventured, confused.

"Do you also remember that you were to be the dumb muscle?"

"I…vaguely recall something like that being said," Ward replied hesitantly.

"The dumb muscle isn't supposed to talk. Just something to remember for next time," Coulson told him, as he stepped in a puddle and grimaced as the water splashed on the bottom of his trousers. His palms were starting to itch, just like they always did when he was trapped underground for too long. Nothing like full blown claustrophobia, but a sense of unease that grew the longer he remained trapped in a confined space – probably just down to the senses he had honed as an agent, as an area like this, as Garrett had said, really was the prime place for an ambush.

"When we find this guy, Phil, we need to put him down," Garrett growled a few minutes later, after tripping over something in the dark. Ward murmured something from his position ahead of them, but Coulson wasn't sure if he was agreeing or disagreeing with Garrett.

"Without questioning?" Coulson asked in disbelief, glancing over at his friend.

Garrett looked over at him, his eyes hard and unforgiving. "Questioning what?" he replied. "Whether he wants to kill us fast or slow?"

"We don't know if he's our killer yet, John," Coulson reminded him, but Garrett wasn't having any of it.

"Innocent men don't run, Phil!"

"That doesn't mean he's guilty of killing Quinn and Po. He's got psychiatric problems – who knows what's going through his head right now?"

"I know a bullet'll be going through it if he tries anything," Garrett growled, but let the argument go. Coulson was beginning to regret asking him along, but they were too deep into this to change things. He'd just have to hope that Garrett would see sense, when the time came.

"We're coming up to an opening," Ward warned from the front, and Coulson peered through the darkness, the end of corridor before them just slightly more illuminated.

They came out into a chamber – a huge, open-floored room with a glass ceiling, the cause of the slight increase in light.

"What the hell…" Garrett murmured, and three agents jumped as the room was suddenly bathed in light. A wrought iron brazier hung on each of the twelve walls, and in the light Coulson could see that an image had been engraved on each wall. The first one he saw sent a sudden jolt of dread through him – a red right hand. That, at least, wasn't entirely surprising, but the other images felt less connected – an owl, a series of interconnected hexagons, the letter 'H' bisected by a trident, and others Coulson couldn't make head or tails of.

A sudden whimper drew his attention away from the symbols on the walls. Leland Owlsley Junior lay in one of the room's twelve corners, between the symbol of the Hand and that of the owl. As Coulson approached, he could hear the man sobbing as he muttered feverishly to himself, rocking to and fro from where he lay huddled on the floor.

"Mr Owlsley, are you injured?" Coulson asked, his hand falling to his icer as he approached their target. Now he could just about make out the words Owlsley Junior was muttering, and what he heard chilled him.

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time," Owlsley rasped, his eyes rolling back into his skull. "Ruling Marvel from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime."

"_Beware…they watch…they watch…"_

Coulson started, remembering Po's last words and finally understanding why they had stuck with him, why something about them had felt so familiar. "They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed," he continued, in a hushed whisper. "Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Garrett asked, bewildered.

"It's an old nursery rhyme," Coulson replied, surprised at Garrett's lack of knowledge. "My grandmother used to sing it to me."

"Seems a little screwed up for a nursery rhyme," Ward said.

Coulson smiled grimly. "Oh, you should have met Grammy. She was old school – terrify the children into acting good."

"Did it work?" Ward asked.

"Of course it did," Garrett replied, answering before Coulson could himself. "Have you never met Coulson before? So what's it got to do with Po and Quinn and the Clairvoyant." Garrett hunkered down to Owlsley's eye level, and stared him down. "Why'd you kill Edison Po, you son of a bitch?"

"The Court…" Leland wailed. "They watch us even now. Speak not a whispered word-"

"They were worried Po and Quinn would talk, is that it?" Coulson asked, interrupting. "So they sent someone to kill them?"

"I…I can't say. Please stop asking me," Owlsley begged, gripping his head with his hands as if to stop it from bursting.

"So that's what you think you are?" Garrett asked, disgust evident in his voice. "A Talon? You killed them because some secret society ordered you to? Do you expect us to believe this bullshit?"

"It's not all bullshit," Coulson pointed out. "This room definitely raises some red flags."

Garrett snorted. "This room looks like it hasn't been used in _decades, _Phil. Yeah, maybe some people organised some shady stuff down here back before the rebellion – hell, maybe this was an old Hydra meeting place. But for all we know this psycho was listening to the voices in his head."

Coulson looked around to room again, and saw the Garrett was probably right. It had seen a long, long period of disuse, though there were signs that it had been visited regularly of late, though by no more than a person or two.

"Just give me a minute with him," Coulson said, pleading, and Garrett shrugged, getting back to his feet and walking away to inspect the symbols on the walls.

"Who are the Court of Owls, Leland?" Coulson asked, kindly, turning back to the suspect. "Are they working with the Hand? Did they tell you to kill Edison Po?"

The man looked up and met Coulson's eyes.

"In this court – presided over by the Owl – we make our own laws," he whispered, but something in his voice told Coulson that this was less of a reply and more of a recitation, a repetition of something that Leland Junior had been told in the past.

"There's only one law, Lee," Coulson replied softly, and acting on impulse, reached out a placed a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder. "It's not always just, or fair, but it's what we have."

Owlsley's eyes narrowed, and his face contorted into one of rage. "Spoken by a man who the law's always protected. Where was your law when my mother died? If it's not just, or fair, then how can it be the law?"

"And how is murder just? How is it fair? What did Ian Quinn and Edison Po do to deserve death?"

Owlsley looked up at him, the anger draining from his face. "They got caught. They knew the risks."

"What were they doing?"

Owlsley recoiled as if he had been slapped. "I can't talk about that," he stammered, his eyes darting around the room wildly. "I can't – I _won't! _No!_ You can't make me!"_

"We're with S.H.I.E.L.D., Lee. No one here's going to hurt you," Coulson pleaded, ignoring Garrett's dismissive snort behind him.

"It has been whispered in the darkest places for twenty years that a cartel of criminals has slowly sucked its way into the rich veins of the Earth," Owlsley muttered feverishly, rocking to-and-fro once again as he relapsed into a world only he could see. "Many are its names spit from the mouths of men, but most often it is cursed only as The Demon. It has a leader. A Head."

"There's no point in trying to question him, Phil," Garrett said wearily, returning. "He's clearly insane."

"We know he had an accomplice, John," Coulson replied. "Someone's been manipulating him, using him. I _need _to know who."

"I don't need him to tell me he thinks he's an owl to know he's cuckoo," Ward broke in, having looked on in silence this whole time. "Let's bring him back to the Triskelion. Fury can deal with him."

"The last man I brought into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody ended up dead, as did the last man I tried to bring in," Coulson reminded them. "Have you considered what will happen to him? Can we protect him from whoever he's working with?"

"You mean, have I considered the fact that he's a mad dog that needs to be put down?" Garrett shot back. "That his friends, whoever they may be, may well be able to break him out after we bring him in? If this Clairvoyant _is _real, then the last thing we want is Owlsley getting to tell him who brought him in. And all we've got on that is the word of a handful of nutjobs and a wounded and probably delirious Weapon X agent, I'm still not willing to take that risk. Oh, I've considered it plenty, my friend."

"He's unarmed," Ward argued. "We can't just…shoot him."

"Just being realistic, kid."

Coulson frowned, no longer following the conversation, stopped in his tracks by something Garrett had just let slip. "I never mentioned that," he whispered to himself.

"I'm telling you, killing him quick would be a mercy," Garrett argued, not hearing him.

Coulson spoke louder. "I never said…that a Weapon X agent was the one who told us about the Clairvoyant. I never told you."

Garrett shrugged. "I must have read it in the report then."

_What report? _"You weren't with us."

Garrett ignored Coulson's muttering, trying to change the topic of conversation. "The point is, how many more have to suffer before he gets his?"

"You joined up right after…"

"What are you talking about?" Garrett asked in exasperation.

"The Weapon X agent told Skye that his squad had been compromised. By the Clairvoyant," Coulson said, struggling to get the words out. "It wasn't in the report, John. Only five people knew who told Skye about the Clairvoyant: me, Skye, Maria Hill Director Fury, and the agent himself. I'd know if you heard from the first four, and there's no way you got it through the last guy. There's only one way you could have known."

"Phil, look, it's been a rough day. Take a second," Garrett said, an exasperated smile forming on his lips.

Coulson met his eyes and dared him to argue.

Garret sighed. "Dammit," he said, before glancing at Owlsley. "You just couldn't keep your mouth shut like you were supposed to, could you?" He shook his head wearily, and then drew his gun, shooting Owlsley in the head in one smooth motion. Coulson, stunned, whipped out his icer, and he heard Ward follow suit behind him as Owlsley's body slumped to the floor.

"Put the gun down, John," Coulson said, struggling to keep his voice even, watching Owlsley's blood seep onto the stone floor through the corner of his eye.

"Really, Phil? That's what you're going to lead with?" Garrett asked, sounding amused. "You're pointing icers at me, while I'm holding a gun filled with _real _ammunition. I think I'll take my chances."

"This one's not an icer," Ward muttered darkly, and Coulson, surprised, glanced over his shoulder and found that Ward wasn't lying. Like Garrett, he was holding one of the few makes of semi-automatic pistols that S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't switched to icer rounds.

"Well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a bit of an impasse, then," Garrett replied, but a hint of unease had crept into his voice.

"You're the Clairvoyant," Coulson said, with something akin to wonder in his voice. "All this time, you've been steering us wrong, manipulating us, laughing at us…"

Garrett laughed. "Wait a second, Phil. You think _I'm _the Clairvoyant?"

"You just killed Owlsley, John. You're goddamn right I do!"

"Phil, you know I've never been the 'big picture' kind of guy. You've stumbled into something much bigger than you can hope to understand."

"I've had enough of your lies, John," Coulson spat. "We're bringing you in, you son of a bitch, and you're gonna answer for what you've done."

"You still don't get it, Phil," Garrett replied, almost pityingly. "I'm. Not. The. Clairvoyant."

"_Then who is?!" _Coulson yelled, spittle flying from his lips as he shook his icer in Garrett's direction.

No sooner had he yelled that than a slow handclap began to ring out from the back of the room, surprising all three agents. Coulson slowly turned around, moving to the right in order to keep Garrett in his line of sight, his heart hammering in his chest.

A figure entered the room through an entrance across the hall from the one they had entered in, momentarily masked by the gloom upon reaching the threshold.

"That appears to be my cue," said a voice that Coulson recognised instantly, and Jacques Duquesne – the Swordsman – stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

"Ah, Mr Coulson," he said, his teeth gleaming as he smiled. "It's been a while."

"Duquesne?" Coulson asked, stunned. "What…what are you doing here?"

"Cleaning up another man's mess, it seems," Duquesne said regretfully. "I'm disappointed in you, John. You told me Coulson would be dealt with."

"The situation was under control," Garrett replied, grimly.

"That's not how I saw it. Which is why I called in a favour the Grandmaster had owed me for quite some time. He was more than happy to oblige."

"You…you lead me to Owlsley?" Coulson asked, confused.

Duquesne shrugged. "Well, it didn't look like you were going to stop hunting for the truth. I just…expedited things a little. Leland was a good soldier, but unfortunately he had outlived his usefulness. His father will be vexed, but failure cannot be tolerated."

"But he succeeded. He killed Po," Coulson replied, feeling out of step.

"His mission that night wasn't just to kill Edison Po, but also you, Coulson. In surviving that night you all but signed Leland's death warrant."

"What, why?"

"Because you stumbled across another of our failures," Duquesne replied. "Mike Peterson survived an explosion that should have killed him. As a result, our operations in District Eleven were exposed. Fury isn't the only one who can send men and women out into the districts. You aren't the kind of man to leave a mystery unsolved, Coulson. Your death became an unfortunate necessity."

"I don't understand," Coulson said weakly, a wave of exhaustion suddenly spreading over him. "Why do all this? Why have Quinn and Po killed? Why expose Task Force X in District Eleven? _Why betray Fury?_ When Thanos ordered your execution, he _saved_ you. Gave you a new name. A new _life_."

"And I'm grateful for it, I truly am," Duquesne replied. "But I knew the risks when I chose to defy Thanos the first time round. Fury gave me a second chance, and I used it. This time however, I had learned my lesson. I was less rash, less hasty, less _foolish_. My agenda, however, has never wavered."

"Let me guess, you want me to say 'And what agenda might that be?'"

"I'm so glad you asked," Duquesne replied dryly. "Before Leland Junior met his…unfortunate demise, he spoke of an organisation that has shaped the politics of the Capitol. It goes by many names: the Hand and the Court of Owls, the League of Assassins and the League of Shadows, the Hellfire Club, the Shadow Council, H.I.V.E., the Syndicate…the list goes on and on."

"The Demon," Coulson whispered, remembering Owlsley's ranting.

Duquesne inclined his head. "As good a name as any. And the demon of which we speak, Coulson, is a many-headed hydra."

_Hydra, _Coulson thought, the word reverberating through his head. "Hydra died," he replied eventually, his voice shaking. "All of its heads were cut off in the war."

"Hydra is a _name_, Coulson," Duquesne explained. "A set of ideas and ideals, nothing more. And those, my friend, are immortal."

Coulson grit his teeth, his anger returning now that the shock was wearing off. "A name that spits in the face of everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for, Duquesne," he argued. "Or should I go back to calling you Henri Ducard?"

He delivered it as though dropping a bombshell, but Duquesne, or Ducard, only smiled. "It's a name I've worn before, but it's not who I am any more than Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman. One was the name I was born with, the other was the name I've hidden behind for years. Operating in plain sight, yet hidden from those who would do me harm. And when I needed to act from the shadows, other names found use. The Clairvoyant, for example."

"Then what do I call you?"

"Indeed, that _is _the question, isn't it? What's in a name, Agent Coulson? A man can hide behind a hundred names, and be thought of as a hundred men. A group of men can do the same. Hydra grew as I grew, buried beneath as many names as it needed to hide itself. Its actions were obscured by myth, legend, rumour…cheap parlour tricks to conceal its true identity."

"So what is your true identity?" Coulson asked through gritted teeth, knowing that it was expected of him, yet furious with himself for playing along.

"I am Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head," the other man said simply. "And I am here to save the world from destruction."

* * *

**Director Nick Fury**

* * *

He met Hill outside their meeting room, in a building built on the very edge of the Capitol. It had taken a lot of effort to organise this meeting, to subtly change S.H.I.E.L.D.'s rosters so that none of those waiting for him in the next room would be missed until their business had concluded, but it had been worth it.

"Is everyone inside?" he asked, nodding towards the doors, but from Hill's demeanour he knew something must be up.

Hill frowned, shaking her head. "Amanda hasn't arrived yet."

"Amanda won't be making it tonight – she has a new recruit to prep," Fury replied, relaxing. "I'll have her sworn in at the next possible opportunity."

Hill nodded, but the frown remained. "Coulson's not here either. I tried to get in touch with him, but he's not picking up. May didn't know where he was either – she seemed a little concerned. She's worried he might have found a lead on his attacker."

_Damn, _Fury thought, but held his tongue. "We'll have to go ahead without him. We can swear him in too once he turns up, but once we're finished here I want you to prep a team and start searching likely areas. Let's hope he hasn't bitten off more than he can chew."

"I could go now, sir-" Hill began, but Fury cut her off with a shake of his head.

"No, what we're about to do is more important. Coulson's a big boy – he can handle himself for an hour or two. How do I look?"

"Sir?" Hill asked, blinking at the change of topic, before catching herself. "Very good, sir. Very…leaderly."

"Leaderly?" Fury asked drolly. "Is that even a real word?"

Hill paused. "I actually have no idea," she confessed. "How about 'authoritative'?"

"Authoritative will do," Fury allowed, and moved past her, entering the meeting hall.

The room fell silent as he entered, the fifty or so people gathered there turning to face him, their curiosity plain to see. They all knew, more or less, why they were gathered here tonight, but the exact details had yet to be revealed.

_So few, to stand against so many, _Fury couldn't help thinking, as he glanced around the room. But perhaps quantity mattered less than quality, and his heart surged to see so many familiar faces – men and women he knew he could depend on, when the chips were down.

Irani Rael and Karima Shapandar. Clay Quartermain and Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan. Abigail Brand and Gabe Jones. Hill, of course, and in the far corner of the room, the son he hadn't seen in about three years, since John's last return to the Capitol from the border.

Others, he recognised but didn't know beyond the work they did for S.H.I.E.L.D., but that was of little importance. Everyone here had been vouched for by another, starting with the handful he had picked, and then those they had selected, and so on. Everyone here had come with the same goal in mind. Everyone here could be trusted.

A plain wooden chest stood on a pillar in the front of the room, and had been attracting significant attention by those in attendance, but they had kept a respectful distance. Now, as Fury approached the chest, the crowd began moving closer to get a better look, and a buzzing noise sounded out as those gathered began holding hushed conversations with one another.

Allowing a moment for the crowd to come to rest, Fury placed his hands on the chest and opened it, before delicately removing one of the many emerald-coloured rings that lay within, holding it up above his head for all to see.

"These rings shall serve as a symbol of our unity," he explained, his voice carrying throughout the room. "A symbol of our desire to see justice done and peace established across all of Marvel – not just Capitol, but in each district as well. Where men and women, no matter their caste, colour or creed, could be judged equal, and not have to live in fear. What's more, they symbolise our will to achieve these goals, our undying oath to one another to see an end to Thanos' reign of terror."

He waited for the murmuring among the crowd to settle down, and smiled, glancing over at his son.

"There's an oath that goes with these things, you know?" he said softly, his eyes returning to the ring in his hand. "None of us are strangers to oaths – we all swore one when we joined S.H.I.E.L.D. And just as every one of us has sworn an oath, every one of us has broken one. What did we swear?"

"To uphold the law," the crowd said in unison, reciting words learned long ago. "To serve the public trust and defend the subjects of the state, without fear, favour or thought of personal safety. To pursue evildoers and protect the innocent, laying down my life if necessary in the cause of said duty."

"Good words," Fury said, nodding approvingly. "_Just _words. But what happens when the law acts against the public trust, and the man who dictates it marks his subjects as his enemies? When the law protects evildoers and punishes the weak and the innocent? Which do we lay our lives down for: upholding an unjust law, or protecting the innocent from evil?"

The crowd began to murmur in approval once more, and Fury nodded to Hill, who began passing the rings out to those in attendance.

"Tonight, each of you will swear a new oath. A simpler oath. Do good, and turn not a blind eye to evil. More simply put: protect and serve," Fury informed them, before gesturing over to his son. "You all know my son, John Stewart, who has spent the last ten years of his life defending our borders against threats that would collapse our country into chaos. He's returned home, tonight, to look inward, to help us defeating the threat that has been allowed to exist within our borders for too long. He will recite our new oath. Please, follow his lead."

Fury glanced over at his son, and John nodded in understanding, stepping forward and, with a certain degree of ceremony, placing his ring on the finger of his right hand. His deep, solemn voice echoed throughout the small chamber, and those present were stilled to silence.

"In blackest day, in darkest night…"

* * *

**Skye**

* * *

"That's…that's impossible," Skye breathed, staring in disbelief at the contents of the room in front of her. "What…what is this? _How _is this? Hell, _why _is this?"

She turned to Raina, who was gazing around with a similar look of rapture, and reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "Raina," she said, her voice wobbling slightly. "What's going on?"

"You keep asking me questions I don't have answers to, Skye," the other woman replied, her own voice trembling slightly. "I'm seeing all of this for the first time, just like you."

Skye's hand dropped from Raina's shoulder, and she turned back to one of the many glass cylinders mounted on the walls of the room, each about eight feet high and four in width, filled with some sort of bluish fluid.

That wasn't the strange part, though. The strange part where the people floating inside the tubes, or containers, or whatever the hell they were. Stranger still, Skye _recognised_ some of them. At least, she recognised those who were in a fit state to _be _recognised.

"That's Sinthea Schmidt," she murmured, reaching out and touching the cool glass of the container Schmidt lay in, the vibrant red of her hair dulled slightly through the glass. Skye turned, and looked at the tubes to the girl's left, her eyes widening further, if such a thing was still possible. "And that's Kurt Wagner! And Pepper Potts! And…is that…is that Benedetta Gaetani?"

"Her scars are gone," Raina said, nodding, as they both stared at the girl's flawless features, remembering the stunt the Collector had pulled during the interviews, exposing the girl's then-mutilated face to the world. "You'd barely recognise her."

There were containers that Skye found harder to look at, bodies in various stage of development, some little more than circulatory system, some muscle tissue and a heartbeat. She turned away from those, her stomach churning, wondering for a moment what they were, and then who they would grow into.

"We need to get out of her," she managed, quashing the feeling of nausea. "We can't be found here, Raina."

"We've got enough answers for one day," Raina agreed, the look of awe draining from her face as the ramifications of what they had just discovered suddenly registering.

"All I've got are more questions," Skye grumbled, but followed Raina out the door and back towards the elevator they had come down in, the faces of the dead tributes flashing before her eyes.

* * *

No further words were exchanged until they returned to Basement Seven, and Skye felt some of the tension that had built up within her release as they passed through security without issue once more. That was, at least, until a man's voice suddenly called out behind them, stopping them in their tracks.

"A moment, Raina, if you would," the man said, and the pair turned around to face a bald man with a tinted glasses and a ridiculous-looking chinstrap beard. Skye had never been formally introduced to him, but Dr Strange was notorious enough within S.H.I.E.L.D. to warrant no introduction. He dealt with the bodies of the dead tributes when they returned to the Capitol, she remembered, and for the first time wondered exactly what it was he 'dealt' with.

"Agent…Skye, isn't it?" he asked, turning his attention to her. "You're one of Coulson's, I believe?"

"I am indeed," she replied, forcing a smile. Something about the man made her skin crawl, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "He's got me on decryption, mostly."

"Well, I've no doubt in your abilities," he replied, smiling back. "Philip Coulson is an incredible agent, and I'd expect no less from his team. Was Raina showing you around our humble abode?"

"Skye's already been down here once or twice," Raina said, cutting in. "But I felt she should get a better feel for what we do here, and I've spent plenty of time in her office, it only seemed fair to show her around my own."

"Indeed," Strange murmured understandingly. "Well, I won't interrupt further. It was nothing important in any case, Raina – nothing that can't wait a day or two, at least. Message me when you can spare the time."

"I will, sir," Raina replied, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Please, call me Hugo," Strange said, admonishingly. "The work you've been doing has been nothing short of miraculous. No need for false modesty in the laboratory."

"Of course…Hugo," Raina said, struggling for a moment. "In that case, could I ask you a question that's been bothering me for a while?

"Ask away," Strange replied, motioning for her to continue..

"Well…Hugo, I've always wondered if that Strange boy from the Games, a couple of years back, was any relation of yours – a distant cousin, perhaps?"

Strange offered a tight-lipped smile. "A different branch of the name, I believe."

_A different tree, _Skye thought, but kept her words to herself, and joined Raina in bidding him farewell. However, she caught sight of him again out of the corner of her eye as they turned the corner, and couldn't help but notice how Strange's gaze lingered on the two of them, following them until they disappeared from sight.

* * *

**T'Challa of District Eleven**

* * *

Two men in labcoats bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo accompanied a white man and a black woman into T'Challa's cell, and, ignoring his protests, forced him onto a chair they had brought in with them, locking his arms, legs and neck into built-in restraints.

"Is this really necessary," he asked the man in the suit, assuming that the labcoats were just there as extra muscle. "I have no intention of attacking anyone, I promise you."

"You think _that _bozo's in charge?" Wade crowed from across the way. "If he had his way, my mouth'd be sown up, swords'd be implanted in my freakin' arms and I'd have goddamn laser eyes."

The man frowned, but ignored Wade's taunts, stepping outside for a moment and disappearing from sight with his colleague and the two men in labcoats. As they left, T'Challa took a good look at the woman, and even with a quick glance he could see that his first assumption had been wrong and Wade, in fact, had been right – she was the real power here.

"And I mean, the teleportation part would be sweet and all," Wade continued, babbling away to himself. "And who _wouldn't _like to be able to shoot death beam from their eyes at will, but I just like talking too much. It'd also be so goddamn unfaithful to canon. Fucking Stryker."

"Do you know what he's talking about?" T'Challa asked Peterson, nodding towards Wade, or at least, as close to a nod as he could manage while in these restraints.

Mike simply shook his head, and rolled his eyes. "The only good part about having half my body replaced with cybernetics is that I can turn my ears off at will. Pretty sure half the guys on this block would kill for that since he got here. I've never seen a guy rolled out as quickly after dying in the Games - bet they regret that now."

"Hey, guys, I'm right here," Wade called over to them, sounding hurt. "I can hear you, you know?"

"I imagine I am not going to enjoy the next bit, am I?" T'Challa asked, his eyes flicking downwards to draw attention his restraints.

"No, you won't," Mike replied, sadly, and then disappeared from sight, presumably lying down on his bunk.

A few minutes passed, before the dark-skinned woman finally returned, this time unaccompanied. She glanced over at Wade's cell, but Wade had also made himself scarce, perhaps having said all that he was willing to risk for the time being. She leant against the window, staring at T'Challa for a moment as if she wasn't quite sure what to make of him, before finally speaking.

"T'Challa, my name is Amanda Waller. I'm the warden of this facility," she began, but T'Challa could only raise an eyebrow.

"Is that supposed to mean anything to me?" he asked.

Waller smiled, or at least, her lips parted and teeth were shown. T'Challa was put more in mind of the hyenas that lurked around the boundaries of District Eleven, and how they bared their teeth just before they lunged.

"No, but you've probably heard of my father – Director Nicholas Fury," she replied, and T'Challa blinked, surprised. The little he knew of the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't make him sound like a family man. "I run this department of S.H.I.E.L.D., Task Force X. This may surprise you, but right now you're one of the mostly tightly-kept secrets S.H.I.E.L.D. has."

"Ah, so you are the one who is going to tell me why we are here," T'Challa said with a certain degree of satisfaction. "Well, I have a few questions."

"You mean, why you're not dead?" Waller asked.

"That is top of my list of questions, certainly."

"I can't get too deep into that, I'm afraid – I don't understand most of it, but I can give you a quick summary. The tracker that we implanted you with, before you entered the arena, also monitored and recorded your blood. Tell me, are you familiar with the concept of genetic memory?"

"Let us pretend that I am not," T'Challa replied.

"Most of your DNA consists of what was once termed 'junk DNA'," Waller explained. "However, among other things, that DNA stores the memories you create as you live your life. Twenty-five years ago, a team of Capitol scientists discovered a method that allowed us to clone subjects, complete with the memories they had collected prior to the sample of DNA being taken. That, T'Challa, is how you're here today."

"And why is that?"

Waller laughed. "Cutting right to it. Very well. From the very beginnings of the Games, my father and grandfather saw an opportunity to recruit individuals who were more than human. Superhuman, I'd guess you'd call them. People with abilities that reached beyond the scope of mortal men. The Capitol demanded that the districts be punished for their role in Hydra's rebellion, and so my father and his father and their friends devised a way to punish the districts while also searching for men and women to lead Marvel to a new future."

"And then you kill them," T'Challa said, interrupting. "Yes. I can see why this is a good plan."

"And then we _bring them back," _Waller countered. "You were the son of your district's mayor, T'Challa. Your entire life you spent training to serve and protect your people. I'm here to tell you both of us want the same thing here."

"I sincerely doubt that," he replied, clenching his fists. "Your kind forced my people to send their children out to kill and die, for your own entertainment. There is nothing that you can offer me that will make you think we could ever be on the same side."

"What about Ororo?"

T'Challa's heart leapt, but he kept his face free of emotion. "What about her?"

"We're bringing her back too, T'Challa. There are many roles we ask the tributes we revive to fill. If you work with me, I can guarantee that she'll have an easy life, until the time comes where both of you can return to your district. But…that's only if you agree to work with me. You'll find what I want you to do unpleasant, but that's compared to what we could force on her."

"You…you monster," T'Challa replied, after struggling with his emotions for a moment. "Killing her once was not enough for you?"

"Like I said, T'Challa, the decision is yours. The ball's in your court."

"And I am just meant to trust you? That you will keep your promise, and protect Ororo while I…what? Kill in your name? What happens if I say 'No'?"

Waller met his eyes, and T'Challa, despite his anger, felt himself looking away.

"You rot in in here, or you work for me," Waller told him. "But we have people who specialise in getting your cooperation. We've broken stronger men and women than you in the past, T'Challa. One way or another, we'll break you too."

She glanced over her shoulder, and signalled to someone before facing T'Challa once more. "Call me whatever you like, but I'm not a monster. I just employ them. I'll give you twenty-four hours to think on it. Until then, I'll be leaving this one in Mr Killgrave's hands."

With that, she left the room, but only a moment passed before a man walked into T'Challa's cell – one he hadn't seen before – his skin the same colour as the president's, dressed impeccably yet entirely in different shades of purple. His violet suit jacket matched his skin tone, with a magenta tie placed over a lilac shirt. He carried a steel briefcase in one hand, which he carefully sat down on T'Challa's bunk.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man began, smiling. "My name is Zebediah Killgrave, and you can consider me your…recruitment officer. Ms Waller has assigned me to ensure your full cooperation with Task Force X, and achieving that goal is in both of our best interests."

"I have already heard the threats," T'Challa replied, uninterested. "What do you have to offer me, Mr Killgrave?"

"Clarity, T'Challa. I'm here to help you understand your role in all of this."

Killgrave stood up, patted T'Challa on the shoulder, and walked over to his suitcase, deftly popping it open. He withdrew something small from the case, and moved back towards T'Challa, before burying the small syringe into the tribute's neck, unloading its contents into his bloodstream.

T'Challa tried to recoil, but this proved all-but-impossible due to his restraints.

"What did you just do to me?!" he yelled, his neck throbbing as the serum began to spread through him.

"What, this little thing?" Killgrave asked innocently, holding up the syringe. "Just a little formula designed to help your compliance along. It's derived from tracker-jacker venom. Standard issue, really."

He bent down, moving his face to within only a few inches of T'Challa's. "Make no mistake, you _will _comply."

"Hey, don't take any shit from him, T'Chally!" Wade yelled from the other room, surprising both T'Challa and Killgrave, reappearing at the window of his cell now that Waller had left. "How tough can he be anyway, with a name like _Kevin?"_

"Kevin?" T'Challa asked woozily.

"That's his legal name," Wade replied gleefully, pressing right up against his window. "Killgrave, sheesh, talk about obvious! Was Murdercorpse already taken?"

Killgrave sighed, and pulled his chair up closer to T'Challa.

"Ignore the idiot," he said, dismissing Wade with a wave of his hand. "We have more pressing matters to attend to."

"K – E – V – I – N," Wade chanted, raising his voice, if such a thing was still possible. "Oops! Snagged the dry cleaning tag from your labcoat!"

Killgrave stood up and turned to face Wade, waving his finger admonishingly. "Mr Wilson, if you don't shut up, I _will_ file a request to have your mouth permanently sealed shut. Agent Stryker has already given his approval, and I'm sure I can convince Ms Waller of the benefits."

"_I will bite the needle out of your goddamn hands!"_ Wade spat back, thumping the glass window with the palm of his hand.

Sighing once again, Killgrave removed a small, angular device from the inside pocket of his suit, pointed it towards Wilson, and pressed a button. The glass window to Wade's cell suddenly clouded up and turned opaque, silencing whatever curses the young man from District One was currently hurling.

"Mr Wilson has proved very resilient against our traditional methods of conditioning, but thankfully there are other ways to control a man's actions," Killgrave regretfully informed him, watching T'Challa with a keen eye. "For you, however, the old fashioned methods should suffice. You're starting to feel tired, now, aren't you?"

"You won't c-control m-me," T'Challa replied, his words slurring as the drugs began to take effect, his arms suddenly feeling heavy.

"Are you sitting comfortably, T'Challa?" Kilgrave asked, his voice dropping to a whisper as he moved closer, while T'Challa's eyelids began to droop. "Let's start…now."

* * *

**Agent Phil Coulson**

* * *

Coulson stared in silence, looking at the man he had considered a friend, and the man Fury had considered the same, stunned by their betrayal.

"I know this is a lot to take," Duquesne – Ducard – _Ra's _continued. "But surely you see the need for salvation. You see the need for change. Our society is _dying_, Coulson. Propped up by weak leaders, who play the system to satisfy their own flawed natures – their gluttony, their avarice, their sloth. Their desire for power for power's sake. I know Fury sees things the same way."

"Then why do all this? Why go behind Fury's back?"

Ra's sighed. "Nicholas and I see things the same way on many things, but on the important points, we differ. You, of all people, know I long I've worked with him, how far I've been prepared to help him along. Now, however, our paths are beginning to diverge. We're reaching the beginning of our endgame, Coulson. But make no mistake; the endgame that plays out will be _mine, _not Fury's."

"You're insane," Coulson said wonderingly. "Both of you. This is all insane."

"Phil, don't be like that," Garrett replied, smiling. "Owlsley…well, yeah. _He _was insane. That's what made him so useful. The rest of us, however…we're just doing what needs to be done."

"From the shadows," Ward noted, the distaste evident in his voice. "Hiding from the light."

"But of course," Ra's exclaimed, looking at Ward. "The shadows are where we thrive. Men fear most what they cannot see, Agent Ward. One need look no further than our own dear president for proof. Since he quelled Hydra's first rebellion and seized power, his degeneration has been clear to all. His paranoia knows no bounds, seeing enemies where there are none, marks his allies as spies and assassins, his people as conspirators against his rule. And in doing this, he has made his fictions a reality. The ease at which I was able to garner support would shock you."

"And how many know your _real_ plan?" Coulson asked, seeing through Ra's rhetoric. "How many support you thinking all you want is to remove Thanos from power, when really you just want to wash this all away."

Ra's smiled. "Once again, Agent Coulson, you see to the truth behind the fiction. Men believe what they want to believe, and I tell them only what they want to hear. Many who have supported me do so only out of greed, out of the desire to improve their standing and power. If they truly knew what kind of future their money had been building towards, they turn on me in an instant. And yet, there are those who see things as I do. The other heads, if you will. Those who see the need to…how did you put it, 'wash this all away'."

"It's easy to see the truth when you remember the past. Hydra didn't just want to replace those in charge, they wanted to replace the system altogether. So that _they _could control it," Coulson replied. "But there can't be that many supporting you. Last time round, Hydra roused the districts, but they failed because they never gained support within the Capitol."

"More than you would expect," Ra's replied softly. "As I said, Thanos made himself many enemies. Some have nothing left to lose, others have sympathy for the plight of those in the districts, and disdain for their fellow Capitolites."

"But _why?" _Coulson repeated. "Why do all this?"

Ra's hesitated and looked away for a moment, a strange expression coming across his face for a moment. The expression was fleeting, though, and he shrugged a moment later. "Once I had a wife… My great love," he began, his voice distant. "She was…taken from me. I was forced to learn that there are those without decency, who must be fought without hesitation, without pity. I was weak back then, Coulson. I raged against Thanos for what he had done without any thought of self-protection. Nick Fury saved me from certain destruction, and reminded me of the daughter my love had left behind. Since then, I have been blessed with another daughter, and it is for my children that I do this. So that they will not suffer the same fate as their mother. So that _none _will suffer, as she suffered."

"So this is all about T.A.H.I.T.I., isn't it?" Coulson asked, understanding suddenly dawning.

"That's not the name I've come to call it, but yes, Coulson, this is about T.A.H.I.T.I. As Hydra has hidden, so too did I convince Fury to conceal our undertaking from Thanos' sight. By cloaking it under a thousand names we have given brilliant men and women the opportunity to achieve something…miraculous. We have conquered death itself."

"You won't be able to bring your wife back," Coulson told him, but Ra's only nodded sadly.

"Alas, even miracles have their limits," he conceded. "However, I _can _protect my children. And beyond that, the possibilities remain almost endless. Imagine, Coulson, an army of soldiers, each learning from the mistakes of their past lives. Put through hell time and time again, broken each time, and reforged anew."

"And you would use them to…what? Overthrow Thanos?"

"I would _lead _them," Ra's insisted, growing grave. "I know what it's like to be in their shoes. I was eleven years old when I killed my first man, Coulson. I remember the look in his face when the light went out behind his eyes. Such a sudden change, almost imperceptible, between life and death. And I felt ashamed. I had stolen from that man the most precious gift of all – life. But I also felt something else – pride, because I had taken up arms against someone who sought to do ill against my family. And I realized what I had done was necessary. You see... I have replaced evil with death. And that... is what Hydra exists to do. I have killed many more men since then, and the world is better for it."

"And how many people are you planning on killing to make the world a better place?"

Ra's straightened up, growing sombre. "The Capitol's time has come, Coulson. Like Rome, Constantinople and Washington of old, the city has become a breeding ground for suffering and injustice. It is beyond saving and must be allowed to die. This is the most important function of Hydra. We were foiled before, but now we have returned. The Capitol... must be destroyed."

"There are good people here," Coulson argued, shaking his head. "I won't deny that there's evil here, but there's good beneath it. You can't condemn a city for the actions of those in charge."

"Yesterday a child killed another, and became the sole survivor of a tournament that had already claimed the lives of twenty-two others. The moment was greeted with a roar of triumph that echoed down every street of this city. And this has been going on for twenty-four years. Five hundred and fifty-two lives lost, for _entertainment._"

"I was under the impression that was why T.A.H.I.T.I. was started," Coulson replied. "So that those lives were never lost."

"When you experience death yourself, Coulson, as those tributes have, then you have the right to determine whether or not a life was lost. They may still live, but that doesn't mean they didn't die. The streets are seeped in the blood of the districts' children, and their blood calls for blood to be spilled in return."

"Fury doesn't trust you, you know that, right?" Coulson asked, changing tact. "That's why he's been keeping you away from T.A.H.I.T.I. He knows you're planning something."

"Nicholas Fury has a suspicious and untrusting mind," Ra's replied. "It has served him well, but in the new world there will be no place for men like him. Too willing to compromise, rather than to see things through. He saved my life once, but even he will not keep me from Lazarus. Are you like him, Coulson?"

"What?"

"Agent Garrett has heaped praise upon you in the past," Ra's informed him. "A glowing recommendation, really, and one that has been corroborated with our other members within S.H.I.E.L.D. He believed that you'd make a fine addition to Hydra, if you were willing to swallow your pride."

"Phil, think about this," Garrett warned. "This isn't the kind of offer you get twice. We're on the right side, here. You've seen the way power is abused in the Capitol. You've been out to the districts, and you've seen what goes on out there. We're going to fix that. We're going to make things right."

"By killing millions of people," Coulson said, hollowly.

"You must be prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil," Ra's chided gently, and Coulson raised his eyes and met the Demon's Head's.

"I'd die before serving Hydra, you sick son of a bitch," he spat.

Ra's stared at him for a moment, his face impassive, and sighed. "I'm disappointed, Agent Coulson," he said regretfully. "But I am not surprised. Your loyalty to Director Fury does you credit. It's just a pity that, like him, you're too blind to see the world for what it is."

"Jacques Duquesne, or Henri Ducard, or whatever the hell you want to be called, you're under arrest. You too, John. You both have the right to remain silent – I'd recommend that you make use of it. My trigger finger's getting jumpy."

Garrett glanced over at Ra's, who shrugged, and lowered his weapon.

"You won't be arresting us today, I'm afraid," Ra's replied.

"Ward," Garret called out, and Coulson felt the air behind him shift subtly.

Coulson glanced over his shoulder, his brow knotted in confusion. "Ward?" he asked, suddenly nervous and yet not quite knowing why.

Ward reached behind his back with his left hand, his right still pointing his gun in their direction, and when his left withdrew it came out holding a grey object. He tossed it towards Coulson, and it clattered off the paved floor, skidding the last few meters before coming to a rest just a yard or so from Coulson's feet.

Coulson recognised the octopus mask immediately, worn by the second attacker at Tivan's masquerade. Horrified, he looked up from it and met Ward's eyes, the younger agent's face blank and emotionless.

"Hail Hydra," Ward said, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

**(A/N) And that's it for In the End, You Always Kneel, a little over two years since we started taking applications for it! I know some of these twists and turns will surprise people, but they've all been in the works for a long, long time now. I'd like to take this moment to announce the opening of applications for our sequel, When Blood Calls for Blood, and anyone interested in applying can head on over to our new forum, also called When Blood Calls for Blood. It can be found under "Books" and then "Hunger Games". After reading this chapter, I'm sure it'll be no surprise to learn that we'll be mixing it up in the sequel, with our cast of tributes coming from DC Comics, Marvel's Distinguished Competition.**

**Just to be clear, this has been the plan from the very beginning of the fic, and I'll be posting a list of easter eggs that I've been hiding in my chapters pointing towards this on our new forum. Combining the two franchises (well, three cos Hunger Games) is something I'm very excited for, and leaves us with almost limitless possibilities that I can't wait to explore.**

**I'd like to thank all of writers who've contributed to our fics, especially those who took on extra work to help get us here, but in particular I have to pay special thanks to Robbie and CC, who essentially took on moderator roles over the course of this fic. They really went above and beyond over the call of duty, and this really could not have happened without them. And, of course, I'd like to thank you, the reader, for sticking with us the whole way through.**

**So, please, let us know what you thought of our fic, and if you're interested in applying for our sequel head on over to our new forum, When Blood Calls for Blood! We'll be back with WBCFB in the New Year!**

* * *

**Credits**

* * *

**Founder**

**NicKenny**

* * *

**Moderators**

**InDeepDarkWood and zxskunkmuffinxz**

* * *

**Cast**

**Director Nick Fury – NicKenny**

**Agent Phil Coulson – NicKenny**

**Wade Wilson – Canucklehead Cowgirl**

**Elektra Natchios – Jgrayzz**

**Natasha Romanoff – GeekyChic123 and DeadWoman**

**Clint Barton – DeadWoman**

**Tony Stark – Taila-tai, abrokencastiel, Canucklehead Cowgirl and robbiepoo2341**

**Pepper Potts – XxBrendaMichelexX**

**Brunhilde – WargishBoromirFan, Canucklehead Cowgirl, robbiepoo2341 and Miran Anders**

**Thor Odinson – kittehkatkakes**

**Carol Danvers – ThatOneAwkwardGeekInTheCorner**

**Steve Rogers – Lili-Hunter**

**Sinthea Schmidt – Silzmarilz1701**

**Bruce Banner – Miran Anders**

**James "Logan" Howlett – Canucklehead Cowgirl**

**Benedetta Gaetani – XxHerefor NowxX**

**Peter Parker – abrokencastiel**

**Anna Marie Adler – bloodbaby1**

**Kurt Wagner – Ophelia Claire**

**Wanda Maximoff – Tando**

**Cletus Kasady – Gumby1011**

**Raven Darkholme – DarknessSeeps**

**Ororo Munroe – InDeepDarkWood**

**T'Challa – NicKenny**

**Kate Bishop – robbiepoo2341**

**Loki Odinson – Taila-tai and NicKenny**

**Skye – NicKenny**

**Raina – NicKenny**

**Agent Grant Ward – NicKenny**

**Agent Leo Fitz – NicKenny**

**Patricia Walker – abrokencastiel**


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